The Case of the Invisible Dog (14 page)

“Thank you.”

I followed her down the steps in front of the police station, and we walked over to the small flower garden on the corner where there were two benches surrounded by a bed of pansies still left from winter. I guess the town hadn't been any more anxious to get to their spring planting than I'd been. Dr. Morgan sat down on the bench to the right; I sat down on the one to the left.

“So,” she said. “Allow me to clarify. Myra does not know about me. Her relationship with her sister is…strained. Shirley has moved several times to pursue various interests, and Myra always follows. She says it is because she needs to keep an eye on Shirley. But Shirley does not appreciate Myra's concern. There is money involved, you know. They both have large trust funds. Shirley once accused Myra of plotting to try and have the courts declare her incompetent and appoint Myra as Shirley's guardian so that she could control all the money. Their relationship has never fully recovered from that ugly accusation.”

An elderly woman wearing a flowered dress underneath a white cardigan sweater came walking slowly down the sidewalk. Dr. Morgan shifted on the bench and stopped speaking until the woman went by, smiling at us as she passed. I smiled back, noticing the smell of lilacs that lingered in the air for a minute or two after she was gone.

“So you don't think there's any truth to her accusation about Myra?” I asked.

“No. I think Myra can be a
little…overbearing.
A bit controlling when it comes to Shirley. And Myra may be worried that Shirley will go through all her money on these little projects of hers. And then what would become of her? Shirley, I mean. With her…rather quirky personality, it's hard to imagine how she would find a way to support herself.

“But ever since then Shirley has kept a wall between the two of them. And that is why she did not want Myra to know about me. That is one of the reasons why she doesn't want you or anyone else to know about me, either, her fear that Myra would find out and try to use it against her. A baseless fear, I believe, but very real to her.”

“I see,” I said, not sure what to believe or who to trust anymore.

“And even if her accusations were true, it isn't easy to have someone declared incompetent,” Dr. Morgan continued. “But if this fantasy of Shirley's about being the great-great-granddaughter of Sherlock Holmes gets out of hand…What do you think? Is it getting out of hand?”

“I'm not sure how to answer that.”

“Tell me what's been going on, then. Does she still have that client you told me about? Is she making any progress on the case? Is she putting herself in any danger?” There was a hint of eagerness in her eyes as she peered at me intently.

“I don't see why this is any of your business. She fired you, right?”

“That is a harsh way to put it. She felt that she had made enough progress to function on her own, and that remains to be seen. I have known Shirley for years. I may not be her psychiatrist any longer, but I am still concerned about her welfare.”

“Then why don't you go see her?”

“When I saw her recently she was very clear that…she didn't need me anymore.”

“I'm not going to spy on her. But I will say that I'm beginning to think that she's not completely crazy. But then again I can't say for sure that she's completely sane, either. What I can say is that in some weird way her game, or whatever you want to call it, well, it's kind of working. We still have our case, and it's a real case. The police won't listen to us even though we have all this information. They just blow us off. But Shirley is the only one who took Matt Peterman seriously.”

“The client?”

“What makes you think that?” I asked, immediately suspicious. All this talk of nefarious schemes was beginning to show.

“I believe you mentioned his name the first time we talked.” A slight crease appeared in her otherwise unlined forehead.

“No. I don't think I did.” I just wasn't one hundred percent sure.

“I'm sure you did. I was sitting on your couch and…Does it matter? Matt Peterman's death has been all over the news.” She waved her manicured hand in the air between us, the pale pink polish sparkling in the sun as her nails flashed past her face. Had I mentioned a murder? “I can see that you don't trust me. We are strangers, and Shirley and Myra both deny my existence. I know you probably won't believe me, but I am just trying to keep Shirley safe.” Dr. Morgan stood up. “Here is my card again. Call me if you change your mind.”

I took the card she thrust at me and then watched as Dr. Morgan walked to the street and turned right at the intersection. Was it that I didn't believe her? Or that I didn't
want
to believe her? All these perfect-looking people. Well, I knew all too well how much mess you can hide behind a clean face. Once she was out of sight I threw her card into my purse, where it joined the first one she'd given me, and stood up to go to work.

When I opened the door to the office around eleven I saw that Shirley's door sat open again. I was still debating whether or not to tell her about my latest encounter with Dr. Morgan. But as soon as the overhead bells signaled my arrival, Shirley called out my name.

“Yes,” I said, shutting the door. “It's me.”

“We have a visitor,” she called out. “Come join us.”

I set my purse down on my desk, took off my coat, and walked into Shirley's office. Angie Berger sat opposite her, looking frazzled and upset, her blond curls lank and deflated, her right fingers twitching toward the pack of Marlboros protruding from her beat-up brown purse.

“You remember Angie Berger, of course,” Shirley said. “Caregiver to the Pittfords. She has some very
interesting
information pertaining to the case.”

“Interesting information?” Angie repeated frantically. “Is that what you call it?”

“Angie,” Shirley said calmly, “you must maintain control of your emotions. They simply aren't helpful in situations like this. They cloud the mind and impair the judgment.”

“That's easy for you to say. You didn't have those two creepzillas showing up on
your
doorstep this morning. You didn't have to call your agency, and pretend to have a family emergency so they would send out a replacement, because you are totally freaked out. Which I am. I am totally freaked out. You're not the one who has to go back there tonight because you need the money, and you have nowhere else to stay, even though those two smiley-faced freaks could show up at any minute.”

“One problem at a time. Sit, Tammy. Angie, I think it would be a good idea for you to start at the beginning.”

“I already told you everything! What good does it do to repeat it? I need help. You got me into this mess and you need to get me back out of it!”

“There are reasons for everything I do and everything I ask,” Shirley said calmly in the face of Angie's hysteria. “A method to my madness, if you will. Please start from the beginning, and tell us both everything that happened. I value Tammy's insights on these matters.”

“Fine. I need a cigarette. I don't suppose you'd let me smoke in here?” Angie asked hopefully. Shirley shook her head firmly. “Then let's go outside. I need a cigarette if I'm gonna tell this story again.”

“Excellent idea,” Shirley said. “We can stop at Mrs. Hobson's on the way and purchase some coffee and pastry to enjoy along with the fresh air.”

We made our way downstairs. Mrs. Hobson, wearing a bright yellow ruffled apron, was at the cash register when we walked in the door. The sunny expression on her face darkened as soon as she spotted us. Angie took a cigarette out of her purse as we stopped in front of the counter to place our order.

“There is no smoking in here, young lady,” Mrs. Hobson snapped, her nostrils flaring and blue eyes flashing in irritation.

“Duh,” Angie said sarcastically with a roll of her eyes that would have done an adolescent proud. “Like, I haven't been living in a cave for the past twenty years, okay? Geez. You guys get me a coffee with cream and sugar and one of those jelly donuts. I'll be outside.” She rolled her eyes at Mrs. Hobson again, put her cigarette in her mouth, and marched over to the front door. The small cluster of bells that hung on the silver doorknob clanged noisily as she wrenched the Oakwood door open. I winced as it slammed furiously behind her, causing the large windows on either to side to rattle, while the antique photos on the adjoining wall tilted sideways. Somehow, I didn't think either Shirley's or my stock with Mrs. Hobson was climbing.

“I apologize for my young friend's rude behavior,” Shirley said merrily, looming above Mrs. Hobson, who stared straight ahead, putting her eye level with Shirley's chest. “She is under a great deal of stress.”

“There's no excuse for bad manners,” Mrs. Hobson said disdainfully, with a sniff of her slightly snub nose. “And we're all under stress of one kind or another.”

“Yes, indeed, Mrs. Hobson,” Shirley said, nodding her head. “A deceptively simple statement that holds a great deal of truth. In some ways is it not the great battle of life? To hold your head high and maintain your standards while dealing with whatever obstacles are thrown your way? Or, as we choose to put it in the modern age, while you are under
stress
? A word I despise, by the way. It lacks vitality.”

“I suppose,” Mrs. Hobson said reluctantly while Shirley peered down at her, awaiting a response. It was clear Mrs. Hobson suspected she was being condescended to, but couldn't be quite sure.

“You do much more than merely
suppose,
Mrs. Hobson,” Shirley replied with a wag of her finger. “Your wisdom may be simple, but it is true. Do not underestimate its value. I believe that we do the good and simple people such as yourself an injustice when we ignore your plain wisdom—a wisdom that is not so plain after all.”

Judging by the severity of her scowl and the glint in her narrowed eye—which stood in stark contrast above her cheery, ruffled apron—Mrs. Hobson did not appear to be flattered by what Shirley, no doubt, thought was the highest praise she could have bestowed upon her.

“You appear out of sorts,” Shirley continued without missing a beat. “Have you thought any more about my suggestion to form a bowling league? I believe the recreation and companionship of other good, simple people would do you a world of good. As well as Tammy here.”

“I told you before I don't have time for bowling.” Mrs. Hobson began tapping her fingers impatiently on top of the counter. “Now, what can I get you? I'm extremely busy. I need to get ready for the lunch crowd,” she added after I glanced around at the tables, mostly empty except for two women nursing their coffees and one man immersed in his newspaper.

We placed our order and a few minutes later stepped outside with our coffees and donuts.

“Where could she be?” Shirley asked after we stood there a moment looking around without seeing any sign of Angie.

“Maybe she went into that alley next to the building to have her cigarette?” I suggested.

“I see no smoke. But perhaps she has just put out her cigarette.”

We waited for a couple of minutes, but Angie did not reappear. We walked over to the alley, but she wasn't there.

“How very odd,” Shirley mused. “She seemed quite interested in the prospect of enjoying one of these jelly donuts.”

“Maybe she got bored and went into one of the shops,” I said, looking around at the possibilities. There were two antique stores, a used bookstore, a trophy shop, a property management business, a flower store, and a consignment shop featuring vintage shoes, clothing, and home furnishings.

“Quite possibly,” Shirley replied. “Angie has her strengths, but prominent among them is not, I believe, a long attention span. I will take this side of the street and you take the other, and we shall meet back here in front of Hobson's Bakery.”

Half an hour later, after going into every business on my side of the street, I returned to find Shirley waiting for me, tapping her right foot impatiently on the sidewalk.

“No luck,” I said, stopping next to Shirley as a young couple walked around us and then made their way to the door of Hobson's Bakery. “No one has seen her.”

“I had already deduced that from the slump in your shoulders as you crossed the street,” Shirley snapped. “And then there is, of course, the quite obvious fact that neither of us has Angie Berger by our side. Hence, the results of our search have been fruitless.”

“Sorry,” I snapped back sarcastically. “I never claimed to be a world-class detective.”

“No,” Shirley said after a moment, looking up and down the street. “It is I who should apologize. I have developed a fondness for that rather rude young woman. And I took my worry out on you.” Shirley turned toward me abruptly and snapped her fingers. “Come! Standing here worrying is doing neither Angie nor us any good. Let us expand our search down to the next block.”

We spent another hour searching—each of us taking opposite sides of the street—until we had covered a three-block radius. But Angie was nowhere to be found.

When we returned to the office after our fruitless search for Angie, Shirley and I retreated to her office with our coffee and pastry.

“I was in the middle of scanning this morning's edition of the
Springville Voice,
” she told me as I sat down in one of the chairs across from her desk, “to ascertain what information I could find regarding Matt Peterman's murder, when Angie made her appearance. It was a front-page story, but the information is sketchy at best.”

“I read it, too,” I said. The story that morning hadn't added any new details from what I'd read in the online edition the day before. “The police probably know a lot more than they're saying.”

“Hmph!” Shirley snorted with disdain. “I have my doubts. But to return to the subject at hand, Angie, looking quite distraught, then told me that the Browns came to the Pittfords' house around eight-thirty this morning. At first they behaved much as they had during our last encounter: smiling and asking about the Pittfords, etc. Angie told them she was busy trying to cook the Pittfords' breakfast and attempted to shut the door, and that's when things,
according to Angie
, took an ominous turn.”

“According to Angie?” I asked, noting how she had emphasized that phrase.

“Yes. Please keep in mind, Tammy, that when conducting an investigation one has to rely on an assortment of stories, and that each story is no more than an individual's version of events. That version will be colored by that individual's personal biases and self-interest. To say nothing of the people who simply lie. I do not believe that Angie is lying, mind you. But rather, that her version of this morning's events are colored by her mysterious hostility for the Browns. To continue,
according to Angie,
Chuck Brown then put his foot on the doorstep to hold the door open and told her that smoking wasn't good for her health. Angie said that he kept smiling like a Muppet on speed—she has a way with words, don't you think? Very descriptive in her own way.”

“Yes. Very descriptive,” I agreed, still amazed that Shirley had taken such a shine to Angie, even if she did question the veracity of her story.

“And then he said it was especially dangerous to smoke at night by herself. She might want to watch herself since her new friends wouldn't always be around. It might be better to quit smoking. At which point,
according to Angie,
he asked her if she knew the best way to quit smoking. By this time she claims that she was terrified and all she could do was stand there. ‘By keeping your mouth shut,' Mr. Brown supposedly told her.”

“Keeping her mouth shut?” I asked. “About what?”

“An excellent question, Tammy, and one that Angie herself could not answer. After this threat was made,
according to Angie,
Chuck Brown smiled, removed his foot from the door, and left with his wife, who called out a cheerful good-bye.”

I shivered at that picture and took a sip of my coffee. Something about the story was nagging at me—something didn't fit—but I couldn't put my finger on it.

“I guess we better call the police,” I said, thinking we had no choice.

“And tell them what?” Shirley asked, sounding surprised.

“The Browns threatened her,” I replied, also surprised. “And now she's missing.”

“Did they? Is she? Should we take her story at face value? Angie makes no attempt to hide her dislike for the Browns, which colors her judgment. Perhaps all that happened this morning is that the Browns came by at an inopportune time. They had no more sinister design than to check in on their neighbors, and then some casual comment is made about her smoking. But in Angie's mind everything becomes ominous and within seconds she has herself believing that she was menaced and threatened. She adds details to the story without even being aware of it. I have made a rather thorough study of the manifestations of human memory, and it is, to put it mildly, not always to be trusted. To put it in layman's terms, we believe what we want to believe. I have no doubt that Angie believes every word she says; I do have doubts as to its accuracy.

“And as for your second statement, we do not know for a fact that she is missing. She may have spotted a friend. Or remembered she was late for a dental appointment. Or decided that there was nothing we could do to help her. And we certainly have no proof that the Browns had anything to do with her disappearance, and to me the idea seems rather ludicrous. As to your suggestion that we contact the police, Angie is a grown woman, free to come and go as she pleases. We have no evidence that would compel them to begin a search.”

“So you're not worried about her?”

“I…choose not to be until I have sufficient reason. There is always the possibility that the murderer, whose identity is still unknown to us, may have followed her here, and that her disappearance is a result of that visit. Therefore, keeping in mind that possibility, what is the next logical step for us?”

“Solving the case?”

“Exactly!” Shirley exclaimed, clapping her hands together twice like a schoolteacher thrilled to learn that her pupil has mastered the multiplication tables. “And what do you believe we need to do in order to solve the case?”

“Well,” I said slowly, but there was no way around it. “I guess we have to go back to Matt Peterman's house and try to find the source of the invisible dog.”

“That is true. Somewhere outside Matt Peterman's house there has to be some evidence of that infernal dog. But is that our
next
step?”

“I guess. Wait…” I paused as an idea started taking form in my head. “That's what we assumed, that dog barking had to be outside somewhere in his or someone else's yard. But what if the evidence is on the
inside?
That could be where the barking came from. And that would explain why nobody else ever heard it.”

“Of course,” Shirley said. “There were always just those two possibilities. The barking could only have come from either the outside or the inside. And since we have searched the outside, the next step must be to search the inside. That's where I tried to steer the conversation, and I am happy that you were able to reach that most obvious conclusion in such a short amount of time. Excellent, Tammy. You put Watson to shame. However,” she added, drumming her fingers on top of her desk as I took another sip of coffee, “that is not the
next
step.” A few more seconds passed silently, and I could hear the ticking of the grandfather clock.

“The office!” she exclaimed suddenly, startling me right as I went to set down my cup of coffee. I grabbed the edge of the cup just in the nick of time, only spilling a few drops on my hand instead of all over her scattered piles of papers and books. “We must go to the office!”

“Um,” I said, confused. “Isn't
this
your office?”

“Obviously this is my office,” she retorted, marching over to her bookshelf and snatching up the dreaded hat. “I refer, of course, to Matt Peterman's office, a conclusion you would have undoubtedly reached for yourself had you taken sufficient time to think about my statement. There are two crime scenes in this case, and we have, as yet, only concentrated on one of them,” she added as she plopped that ridiculous hat on top her head. “I will thoroughly examine the spot where Matt Peterman met his unfortunate demise, no doubt finding clues that have gone unnoticed by the police. From there I will proceed to his office and see what, if anything, we might discover there.”

“Okay,” I said hesitantly, as I pictured Shirley Homes marching into an insurance office with her hat, and her cane, and her way of talking to people.

“Well?” she asked, staring down at me.

“Coming,” I said with a sigh.

When Shirley gave me the address for Matt's office, I had a pretty good idea how sad it would be. It was located on the west side of Springville, which had definitely seen better days. The west side starts about two blocks beyond Merilee Community College, and has always struggled, but the recession had a devastating effect. The first time I drove through the west side after I returned from L.A. I was pretty shocked at how bad things had become. There have been a lot of foreclosures and failed businesses, so there are boarded-up windows and abandoned homes scattered all throughout that part of town. Most of the apartment complexes in the area have taken a turn for the worse, too. Blankets hang in the windows instead of blinds, and paint peels off front doors that look out onto trashy parking lots, brown grass, and dead shrubbery.

Matt's office was located about three blocks west of Merilee College. There were four businesses in his small plaza, with dirty white stucco on the outside, and one small planter on the edge of the parking lot, filled with crushed beer cans, fast-food remains, and cigarette butts. Whatever plants had once lived there were long gone, leaving no trace. The business on the far left was vacant, the one on the right was a pawnshop, cash checking, and payday loan franchise, while next to Matt's small office was a Chinese takeout restaurant with cartoonish chopsticks painted on the front door.

We pulled into the back alley behind his office first so that Shirley could revisit
the scene of the crime.
It was narrow and dark, the surface filled with cracks and potholes. A tall cement and brick wall covered with graffiti bordered it on one side; the businesses in Matt's plaza bordered it on the other. Each had a large metal trash can next to their back door.

I sat in the car while Shirley walked slowly down one side of the alley and then the other, stopping every few feet to peer down at the pavement or a spot on the wall through a small magnifying glass she'd pulled from her pocket. Her head would nod frequently, and then she would resume her search.

Fifteen minutes later, apparently satisfied that there was no hidden clue waiting in the alley that would burst the case wide open, Shirley returned to my car.

“No trace of the murderer. He—or she—has covered their tracks nicely, quite like the invisible dog. We have our work cut out for us, Tammy. Yes, indeed.”

Shirley directed me to pull out to the street and around to the front. As we entered the parking lot the only place that seemed to be doing any business at all was the pawnshop. I could see a group of people inside lined up at a counter, and a young couple stood by the front door, arguing. They were both pale and skinny, with hair so blond it was almost white, wearing old sweatshirts and torn blue jeans that were falling halfway down their hips. She kept scratching one of her arms as the two of them took turns shouting at each other.

The Chinese restaurant was empty except for one skinny elderly Asian woman I could spot through the window, dressed in a red silk shirt, and sitting behind the counter, staring vacantly out the window.

In front of Matt Peterman's office sat an old beat-up gold El Camino with newspapers stuffed into the large hole in the center of the passenger-side window. I pulled up next to the El Camino, and as I did the shouting in front of the loan franchise came to a halt, and I felt the young couple following us with their eyes.

“Well,” I said, putting the car into park and shutting off the engine as Shirley sat beside me, unmoving, silent, lost in her own thoughts, as she had been for the entire journey. “Here we are.”

“Yes, indeed,” Shirley replied jauntily, sitting up straight and gazing around as she came out of her reverie. “And we are in luck. I see a young woman inside Matt's office sitting at a desk and talking on the phone. His secretary, no doubt, and, therefore, a most promising source of information.” I followed her gaze through the crooked off-white blinds hanging in the window, and saw what to me appeared to be a most unpromising source of information. The woman was young—probably no more than eighteen or nineteen—and had short purple spiked hair, wore a low-cut sweater leaving visible both her ample cleavage and her many arm tattoos, and was waving her hands back and forth wildly while she talked on the office phone with the headset cradled beside her ear on her right shoulder. I had a pretty strong feeling she wasn't discussing business; and an even stronger feeling as to how she would most likely react when her world collided with that of Shirley Homes.

“Um,” I said as Shirley went to reach for the door handle. “About the, um, hat…”

“Yes?” she asked icily, turning to face me with a hard glint in her eyes. I was treading on sacred territory now, and I knew that I would have to proceed carefully.

“It's just that…” I said slowly, stalling for a moment so that I'd put this just right. But I could feel that unhappy young couple in front of the pawnshop staring over at us, and the last thing I really wanted at that point was to call more attention to ourselves than absolutely necessary. “I'm thinking if we want to get any information out of Matt's secretary, then we probably need some kind of cover story.”

“My dear Tammy, I, of course, have already devised a cover story,” she replied frostily, her eyes unflinching. “I am here to purchase life insurance, and before doing so will have many
pointed
questions regarding the proprietor of this particular insurance firm. And when I am informed of Matt Peterman's unfortunate demise, it will naturally lead to all sorts of other pointed questions. But I fail to see what any of this has to do with my choice of apparel.”

“That
is
a brilliant plan,” I said. “And I just wanted to clarify things because I'm always anxious to learn from the master. But, that hat, well…”
It's odd? It's ridiculous? It may have looked fine on Sherlock Holmes, but on you
…“I'm just afraid that Matt's secretary might get suspicious if someone wearing a hat like that—the symbol of the greatest detective who has ever lived—started asking a lot of pointed questions.”

“Hmm,” Shirley said, finally breaking her steely gaze in my direction and peering at the woman inside Matt Peterman's office. “She does not appear to have that sort of incisive intellect, let alone an appreciation of classic literature, but best not to take any chances, I suppose.” Shirley whipped off her hat and then fluffed it up before tenderly placing it on the dashboard. One small step for me, one great leap for mankind…