The Case of the Invisible Dog (13 page)

“No,” I said. “I mean, I was just in a bad mood. That happens to most people, you know. They have moods. Good moods and bad moods.” I was troubled that my carefully composed imitation of a healthy, happy person did not seem to be holding up to Shirley's scrutiny. And if I couldn't even fool Shirley, then what must the rest of the world think?

“Ah,” Shirley said. “I suppose that is true. I am fortunate in that respect, being ruled primarily by my brain rather than the roller coaster of emotions that seems to make life so difficult for others. We shall move on to another topic: the case at hand. The first step, as soon as we've finished eating, will be a return where we left off for a thorough search of Matt Peterman's house.”

“Could I make a suggestion?” Shirley nodded her head. “I was thinking maybe we should hold off on that.”

“And why were you thinking that?” Shirley asked with a shade of impatience as she took her tea bag out of the mug and folded it into her napkin.

“I was thinking, on the way here, about what you said today. About going with your gut.”

“Going with your
gut
?” Shirley repeated with a look of distaste. “I don't recall saying any such thing.”

“Sure you did. It had something to do with the French, and Sherlock Holmes using more than his brain, and—”

“Yes, yes, yes. I recollect that conversation now. Perhaps if you had worded it with more finesse my memory would have made the connection. But what is your point?” Shirley took a small sip of her tea, frowned, and set the mug back down on top of the saucer.

“I think, maybe, the Browns, well…”

“Well what? Be precise, Tammy. We were given the gift of language in order to communicate with each other. Use it wisely.”

“Even though I can't come up with a reason for them to be involved, my gut is telling me that something is off about the two of them. It could be that I just don't like them…but remember what Matt told us? That the Browns talked about having him over for dinner one night? But
Chuck
made it sound as if they invited him but he always turned them down. And Nancy's story about wanting to set him up with someone? I didn't buy it. He said they were nice and friendly, but they made it sound as if they were
friends,
and there's a big difference. And you met Matt. Why would the Browns be so interested in pursuing a friendship with him?”

“Because they are nice and friendly? And capable of compassion?” Shirley asked, cocking her head and giving me a superior smile. “That is one of the most difficult parts of an investigation, Tammy, sorting through everyone's stories. They never match up entirely. And beware the pitfalls of letting your personal likes and dislikes color the nature of what you observe. The murder of Matt Peterman was a crude affair, not likely the work of someone with the artistic refinement that enabled them to appreciate the craftsmanship of an antique cane.”

“Er, maybe, but…there's something else. When you broke Matt's door last night, Chuck Brown looked out from
his
window. He saw me. He's the one who called the police.”

“My dear, there you go again, making assumptions. Simply because Chuck Brown looked out the window and saw you does not mean that the subsequent arrival of two members of the Springville Police Department were a direct result of his actions. I think the more likely explanation was the one I gave you that night: the murderer, identity unknown at this point, was attempting to frame
us
for his evil deed.”

“Chuck Brown looked right at me and said
I'm calling the police.
”

“I see,” Shirley said, narrowing her eyes. “And why is it that you did not share that information with me earlier?”

“Well, there was a lot going on at the time. You
screamed—sorry,
shouted—and Matt was supposedly dead. And then we were running from the police, and then this morning there was a detective waiting in your office…it was a lot to take in.” Shirley took a long, slow sip of tea, wrinkled her nose, and set the mug back down. “Sorry,” I added as she simply stared at me without speaking, the look in her eye reminding me a little bit of my Aunt Ilene the night I tried to sneak in after curfew. “Anyway, I know I didn't like them, and I know I have a hat on tonight and it was dark, so maybe I look different, but the more I think about it, the more I think he recognized me. It was something about the expression on his face. I think he was just pretending not to.”

“For what reason?” she snapped.

“I don't know. I'm not saying any of this makes sense yet. I'm just telling you what my gut is saying. And another thing. Don't you think it's weird that they got a dog? After all the complaining that Matt did about hearing a dog barking, and them always denying having a dog, and then, the very same day that he's killed the Browns suddenly decide to buy a dog for themselves?”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps it came about just the way they said.”

“And what about Nancy's comment about Matt not liking dogs? How would she know that?”

“He no doubt would have mentioned it when he went to complain about the barking. Tammy, I am pleased to see that you are attempting to observe your surroundings, take note of details, and trying to formulate theories, however wrongheaded they may be due to your lack of experience. For example, Mr. Brown's decision to call the police actually argues
against
him and his wife as suspects. Much easier to pretend they haven't noticed a thing, don't you think? Why on earth get the police involved?”

“I don't know,” I admitted somewhat begrudgingly. I didn't have an answer for that, either. “But when we left I could have sworn one of them was watching us through their curtains.”

“That may be because we looked just as suspicious to them as they look to you. Perhaps once they had time to think about Angie's story they started to question it. Matt's murder must be quite distressing to them. And that street is in their neighborhood after all. We are the intruders, Tammy, not they, regardless of the worthiness of our motives.” Shirley picked up her mug, lifted it toward her mouth, took one tiny sip, and then set it back down with a look of disgust.

“Maybe I'm wrong,” I said. Maybe I wasn't being fair, and was reading something into every little thing that Chuck and Nancy did because I couldn't stand them. It might be as simple as the fact that the Browns reminded me of too many people I'd known in Hollywood—all surface and mannerisms and false friendliness, with nothing real underneath. “But I still don't think we should go back over there tonight.”

“Ah,” Shirley said, as Cora suddenly appeared beside our table carrying three full plates of food. “Our feast has arrived.”

“Here you go,” Cora said, setting down the plates in front of Shirley. “Can I get you anything else? More coffee? More hot water for your tea?”

“In order to have
more
hot water for my tea, I would have already enjoyed a first cup of hot water,” Shirley said, picking up her mug and handing it to Cora.

“Huh? The hot water is right here. In this mug you just handed me.”

“So it is. Never mind. I drink too much tea anyway. And this all looks delicious. Thank you, Cora. That will be all for now.”

Cora smiled at Shirley the way that I used to smile at customers who I really wanted to punch in the face, and then she beat a hasty retreat back to the kitchen.

“Next time I shall order lukewarm tea,” Shirley said. “And I shall, therefore, not be disappointed. Now, where were we?”

“I was telling you that I don't think it's a good idea to go back over to Matt Peterman's tonight.”

“I can't possibly eat all this bacon. Here. Please have a slice.”

“Even if the Browns aren't involved, they always seem to be lurking around,” I said, taking the slice of bacon Shirley had thrust toward me.

“I see,” Shirley said. “You simply must try some of these hash browns. And a bit of waffle. Let me make you up a little plate.”

Shirley slid the waffle off one of her side plates and onto the larger one. She cut it in half and then placed it back on the side plate, along with some of her hash browns, and handed it across to me. “There we go.”

“Thanks,” I said, surprised by how hungry I suddenly was. “And if the Browns spot us over there again they'll probably call the police.”

“So, in brief, you think that Mr. Brown
may
have recognized you, but you're not absolutely sure. And you think that Mr. or Mrs. Brown
may
have been watching us through their curtains, but you're also not sure. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” I managed to get out around a mouthful of potatoes. “Mmmmm.” I swallowed. “These hash browns
are
good. Are you going to eat that last slice of bacon?”

“No. Please help yourself. So, to summarize: You admit that you dislike the Browns and that this may color your observations of their behavior. It is highly probable, however, that the arrival of the invisible dog and the subsequent decision of Matt Peterman to hire us to look into the matter led to his murder. He was, after all, a none-too-successful insurance agent with no apparent social life. Ergo, the usual murderous motives of money and/or sex do not seem to apply. To say nothing of the fact that we had not even been on the job for twenty-four hours when he was killed. And due to the quite obvious ineptitude of our local police department, I do not believe that Matt Peterman's killer will ever be brought to justice unless I continue with my investigation, regardless of the risk involved. And that will necessitate a complete and thorough search of his house. You, of course, are under no obligation to put yourself in harm's way if you choose not to. Watson was never commanded to accompany my great-great-grandfather. He was always invited.”

“What about Detective Owen?” I asked hopefully. “Maybe if we gave him all the facts, and he knew that we had both heard a dog barking—”

“Detective Owen?” Shirley interrupted shrilly. “Hardly,” she added with a sarcastic snort. “However charming his physical attributes, I'm afraid that he does not have the imagination and wide range of skills to see what is at the root of this murder.”

“And what is at the root of this murder?” I asked.

“Something sinister that will require imagination and a wide range of skills, the likes of which Detective Owen most certainly does not possess, to uncover. I thought I just explained that. Really, Tammy, you can be of no assistance to me unless you pay attention. However, it is late, you are yawning, I myself am feeling fatigued, and I believe it would be wise to put off our search of the Peterman residence—or
my
search, as the case may be—until tomorrow evening.”

After we left the Waffle Barn, I dropped Shirley off in front of the office, per her request, and then headed home. I was sleepy from all the food I had eaten. Shirley said that I didn't need to be in until noon, but I woke up early the next morning and couldn't get back to sleep

I didn't feel like going to the donut shop, so I threw on my robe, made some coffee, and then I brought up the online version of the
Springville Voice.
There was a short article about Matt's murder on page one with very little information. He'd been shot inside his car in the alley behind his office around seven-thirty a.m. There were no witnesses, no one had heard anything, and he'd been found by the guys on the trash collection truck who had gotten out because his car was blocking their way through.

I scanned a few other
sites—apparently
there are a surprising number of female celebrities who actually used to be men—before turning off my computer. I toyed with the idea of giving my apartment a thorough cleaning, but thanks to my upbringing at the hands of Aunt Ilene, I kept the place as neat as a pin even on my worst days. It wasn't something I had to think about it; the habit was too deeply ingrained. And I had already done all the detail stuff, including under the refrigerator, before I even moved in.

So I decided, instead, to go see the woman responsible for all this disgusting self-
discipline—Aunt
Ilene.

I called first. My aunt has many rules. One of her rules is that you do not drop by her house unannounced. This rule of hers actually goes against one of the unwritten laws of Springville: if someone drops by your home
unannounced—even
if it is someone that you don't particularly like—you stop what you're doing immediately. You express your absolute delight to see them. You offer coffee in the winter and sweet tea in the summer, and something to go with their beverage, such as a slice of cake or some cookies. Best of all is if the cookies or cake are homemade.

My cousin Anna has told me that my aunt lived by the code of Springville for many years. But by the time I came along, all that had changed. After Uncle Ronny died she became this entirely different person. I don't have any way to verify this information. I don't know if Anna is remembering correctly. I didn't know her or my aunt for the first twelve years of my life. Aunt Ilene and my mother had stopped speaking to each other three years before I was born. That's the other reason why I'm so loyal to my aunt. She really did not have to take me in; there was literally no obligation for her to do that.

“Hey, Aunt Ilene. It's Tammy,” I said without thinking, and then immediately winced when I realized what I'd done: identified myself. Big mistake. I should have finished my cup of coffee before calling her.

“Of course it's Tammy. Who else calls me Aunt Ilene? I haven't lost my memory yet. Or my marbles. And the day I do, just pack me up and take me to the home.”

Aunt Ilene is a very literal person. And she takes great offense at the slightest hint that you might be doubting her mental abilities now that she's getting up in years—even when you don't mean anything of the kind. She makes a point of letting Anna and me know on a regular basis that she will never be a burden. We are under strict orders that at the first sign of old age trouble of any kind we're to pack her up and drop her off at the nearest convalescent hospital.

“I'm sorry I haven't called for the past couple of days. My new job is pretty crazy.”

“You don't need to apologize. I'm not so old that I have nothing better to do than sit around in my rocking chair, knitting shawls and waiting for my relatives to call.”

“So how are you?” I asked, ignoring her previous comments. Anna and I have both learned the hard way that this is the best way to proceed. The
worst
way is to make some sort of comment along the lines of, “Don't be silly, Aunt Ilene. I don't think of you as old.” She doesn't believe it, and then she asks you
if you could please explain just when in the hell it was that the world decided being old is something to be ashamed of!

“I'm fine,” she replied crisply. “No broken hips. I haven't set the house on fire or spent the last two hours looking for my car keys. As a matter of fact I have my car keys right here in my hand.”

“You do?” I asked. “Why?”

“Because I'm getting ready to go somewhere in my car. Why else would I have them in my hand?”

“Well…” I said, stalling for time. It was just a casual question. Really. “Because you just came
back
from going somewhere in your car?”

“No. And now I must be going. I have an engagement.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Good-bye.”

Aunt Ilene never waits for the other person to say good-bye. Once she's done speaking, she hangs up. Our conversations are frequently abrupt. If she has something else to do she doesn't make small talk or ask how you are. I would never in a million years think of confiding in her about anything too personal. I haven't told her anything much about what actually happened out in Los Angeles when my life crashed in on itself. But I would walk through a burning desert for that woman.

Since my aunt was busy I gave some thought to doing something else useful. I even got so far as opening my front door and looking at the patch of dirt around the tree outside my apartment. It was too late to plant any bulbs, but I'd seen some trays of spring flowers in front of the garden section at my local Walmart the last time I drove past. (My grocery shopping tends to consist of short trips to the local market when I need something. My current state of mind does not give me sufficient motivation or willpower to tackle the many aisles of Walmart.) I could have gotten some mulch and planting soil and a few trays of flowers to plant. Thanks, once again, to Aunt Ilene, I knew the basics of gardening.

But it was a cloudy day, I spotted a couple of bees hovering nearby who looked like trouble, and before I knew it I was back on my couch in front of my television, and scrolling down my viewer guide, where I had the good fortune to spot a serial killer movie that was so bad you rooted for the killer to go free. The whole thing was so embarrassing that everyone involved should have gone home and never come back outside for the rest of their lives. Including the female lead, who used to make the extras stop talking whenever she was within twenty feet. I got a warm feeling inside when I pictured how ridiculous she had looked trying to play the part of a streetwise homicide detective.

But then another idea popped into my head. Maybe I should go see Detective Owen by myself. I could dress in my really good Anne Taylor suit, put on my best normal act, and see if he would believe that Shirley and I had both heard a dog's bark when we'd been inside Matt Peterman's house. I would fill him in on what else we had discovered, and see if he would at least take a look at the Browns, still my primary suspects despite their love of old canes.

Maybe without Shirley there Detective Owen would take me seriously. Maybe if he did, I could talk him into paying Shirley another visit, so he could let her know he was investigating our information. Maybe then Shirley would stay out of it. That way she wouldn't need to run around trying to solve Matt Peterman's murder, and I wouldn't need to go back to his house again. And since it didn't seem likely that another client would make the mistake of hiring Shirley Homes, maybe she would manage to stay out of trouble, I could keep my job for a while until I figured something else out, with nothing more to worry about than watering a fern, paying off some bills, and learning to live with boredom. That was a lot of maybes, but I figured it was worth a shot. After the events of the past few days, boredom was starting to look better and better.

They kept me waiting out in the lobby for over twenty minutes after I asked to speak to Detective Owen. I told the guy at the front desk that it was regarding the murder of Matt Peterman. He didn't look as impressed as I thought he would. I guess murder is more of an everyday thing inside a police station.

I was starting to feel foolish—and having flashbacks of waiting to be interviewed by Shirley Homes—when Detective Owen finally came out to the lobby. I stood up to greet him, and as I did, I saw that Detective Addams was following right behind.

“Ms. Norman,” Detective Owen said. “You have some information for us? About the murder of Matt Peterman?”

“Um, yes, well, kind of.” God, I sounded like an idiot. Now that he was standing right in front of me, I suddenly realized that I had been kidding myself and
underestimating
just what a bad impression Shirley and I had both made on him. Detective Owen didn't look as if he was at all curious to hear what I had to tell him. He looked suspicious and leery. And then, to make matters worse, he glanced down at his watch. But I had to at least make an effort. “Here's the thing. I think there's someone that you should investigate. Those next-door neighbors…the Browns…Chuck and Nancy Brown?”

“Uh-huh.”

“They got a dog.”

“A dog?” he asked.

“You didn't know that?” Detective Addams asked, deadpan. “It was the headline in this morning's paper. Local couple gets dog. The whole town is abuzz.”

My face turned red; I could feel the warmth in my cheeks; and I cursed whatever genes I had that made me blush so easily. And I cursed the day I met Shirley Homes.

“The thing is,” I forced myself to say as my cheeks continued to flame, “they got the dog on the same day that Matt Peterman was killed. And he only started hearing the invisible…a dog barking, that is, after they moved in. Which they claimed they didn't have. And now all of a sudden they decide to get a dog? Don't you think that's kind of suspicious?” All of this had made so much sense in my head, but the more I tried to explain myself, the lamer I sounded.

“I sure do,” Detective Addams said, nodding her head vigorously. “It's the break we've been looking for. I say we go over to their house right now and arrest them on one count of suspicious dog buying.”

“How did you discover this information?” Detective Owen asked. The corners of his mouth were twitching. Apparently he found Detective Addams' attempts at humor very hilarious. He obviously had no imagination and lacked a wide range of thought. “Wasn't I clear enough the last time we spoke about staying out of this case?”

“The Browns told us themselves. We were on a public street, which is not against the law, I believe. And they came over and told us about the dog. They made a point of telling us about the dog. Which I think is very strange.”

“It may be strange, but at this point in our investigation we don't believe that a dog—invisible or otherwise—is the key to Matt Peterman's murder. We are pursuing other leads.”

“Human leads,” Detective Addams added with a smirk. Apparently she found herself as hilarious as Detective Owen did.

I felt foolish and angry but forced myself to keep a neutral expression on my face. I didn't want either one of them to know that their little jokes were having any effect on me whatsoever.

“Suit yourself,” I said with an indifferent shrug, as if giving up the fight. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get to work.”

“And that work doesn't include Matt Peterman, right?” Detective Owen called after me.

I didn't say anything, just shrugged again and walked out the door. There was no point in bringing up the one quick bark that Shirley and I heard inside Matt Peterman's house; Detective Owen thought we were crazy. And no one listens to crazy people.

I was halfway down the steps of the police station when I heard her voice.

“Good morning,” she said.

“You!” I exclaimed, taken completely by surprise at the sight of the person standing there at the bottom of the steps: Dr. Morgan.

“Yes, it's me.”

I almost turned and ran back into the police station, but then I remembered that they already thought me some kind of lunatic. And what exactly did I think they would charge her with?

“How did you know I would be here?” I asked, taking a few steps back and clutching my big leather purse. I always carry way too much stuff in it, and I figured if nothing else I could use it to whack her over the head.

“I was coming to see you, but as I got out of my car I saw you come racing out of your apartment. And when I saw what a hurry you were in, I didn't want to bother you. I decided to simply follow you instead and see if an opportunity presented itself for me to speak with you.”

“I know you're a fake. I know that you were never Shirley's psychiatrist.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I told Shirley about your little visit.”

“Oh, I see,” she said, obviously taken aback. “I suppose I just assumed you would keep that confidential.”

“I was planning on it. But then Myra told me that Shirley hasn't seen a psychiatrist since she was eighteen.”

“Ah, Myra,” she said after a moment, pushing a strand of her soft brown hair behind her pearl-studded ear. “Of course. I should have explained myself more clearly, I suppose. This is a very delicate situation. There are some benches over there. Will you sit with me for a few minutes so I can explain things?”

She smiled at me warmly and I started to wonder why I thought she was so dangerous. Maybe Shirley had lied to me. Maybe Myra had lied to me, too. Maybe Myra was just as crazy as Shirley. Neither of them seemed to be playing with a full deck. Maybe they didn't want me to know that Shirley was seeing a psychiatrist. Maybe there was more going on than what they told me. Maybe I should listen to what this person had to say. She certainly didn't appear too threatening in her sky-blue pantsuit with matching pumps and small clutch purse.

“Okay,” I said hesitantly. “I'll give you five minutes.”