The Case of the Invisible Dog (16 page)

“Hmmm,” Shirley said, nodding her head slightly. “That is very illuminating, Casey. Very illuminating, indeed.”

“That's all I really know. I'm not all that invested in what goes on around here, to tell you the truth. It's just a paycheck. My band has a gig in Asheville this weekend, and it could be our big break. Hopefully I won't have to go work at corporate with all the mindless drones. Oh, wow, I just thought of something. Do you think I should call the police and tell them about Patty? And about what she said?”

“No, no,” Shirley assured her with a smile. “Not yet.” Shirley glanced around the office and then leaned back down toward Casey. “We don't want to tip our hand,” she whispered. “Or let Patty know that we're on to her. When the time is right, the proper authorities shall be notified.”

I wondered just what Shirley meant by
when the time is right.
Since Detective Owen seemed pretty fed up with us, and Detective Addams was almost itching for a reason to arrest us, I didn't like the idea of sitting on this information. What if they decided to charge us with withholding evidence? Or hindering their investigation? The danger of which I was well informed due to repeated viewings of
Law & Order,
which I had consumed during those first horrendous weeks when I returned to Springville from L.A. There is something oddly comforting about that show, and fortunately for me, it was on virtually twenty-four hours a day.

“But rest assured, Casey,” Shirley proclaimed, her voice rising as she waved her right arm toward the sky. “Shirley Homes will not rest until Matt Peterman's killer is brought to justice.”

Shirley was quiet and deep in thought as we walked toward my car. Once I got inside I toyed, again, with the idea of getting her to clarify what she planned on doing from here. But as I glanced over in her direction I saw that her shoulders were rigid, her lips were pursed, and she stared out the window with a preoccupied expression, all of which I knew by now meant that attempting conversation with her would be pointless. I quietly backed out of our spot and headed toward the exit while Shirley drummed her fingertips against the dashboard. Tom and Brenda gave us a friendly wave as we drove past. It wasn't until we had pulled out onto the street and made it to the first stoplight that Shirley finally decided to speak.

“Tammy,” she said, staring straight ahead. “Having taken a few moments to reflect upon the status of our case, I am now, as you may or may not have noticed, feeling a sudden and profound sense of disappointment and ennui. Or, in terms that you might be more familiar with, I am on a bit of a downer. I think when we return to the office I shall call Matt Peterman's secretary and inform her that she is free to contact the police and tell them all she knows about Matt Peterman's ex-wife.”

“Oh?” I asked casually, feeling profoundly relieved.

“Yes,” she replied after another prolonged sigh. “It came to me the moment we left Matt's office that I am deluding myself. We have nothing to offer the police that they will not eventually discover for themselves. The Case of the Invisible Dog was my first professional venture into the world of private detection and my hopes were high for a mystery of the first order. However, with the information that we have learned today, the resolution of the mystery looms near. Matt was undoubtedly killed by his ex-wife, the greedy, grasping, unsavory Patty. And I regret that our case, which once seemed so baffling and complex, has turned out to be merely mundane,” she finished with a deep sigh.

“Yeah,” I said halfheartedly, suddenly realizing I was disappointed, too. Part of me wished that I had never heard the story about Matt giving away his lunch to a hungry stranger. Until now I'd felt bad that he'd been killed, but there hadn't been anything personal in it. But after hearing Tom's story, that changed. Poor Matt. He hadn't had much going for him, but he did what he could. I thought again of his fake tan and comb-over. He'd tried. And now he was dead, and he wouldn't ever have a chance to make anything better of his life. And I wouldn't have had anything to do with solving his murder.

I guess I was feeling let down, too, that it had all turned out to be so simple. I'd been running around with Shirley, thinking we had a real mystery on our hands. But in the end it was nothing more than a spouse killing her ex. Nothing exotic or mysterious there. The police would figure it out with no help necessary from Shirley and me. I'd probably read in the paper any day now that his ex-wife—the logical suspect, the one we hadn't even known about—had been arrested for his murder.

Except…they still didn't know about the invisible dog.

“But is it?” I asked Shirley as we pulled onto Broad Street and began driving past the Merilee campus. “Is it just mundane?”

“Yes, my dear,” Shirley said quietly. “It is.”

“The shooting part is. Matt's ex-wife kills him, or has someone else kill him, because she thinks she has some money or some kind of inheritance coming. Mundane, for sure. But then there's the invisible dog, and we're the only ones who know about that part of it. She must have been the person behind it. She was married to him so she would know that he's afraid of dogs and that he's a light sleeper.”

“All very logical,” Shirley said indifferently. “But what does it matter?”

“It does matter,” I insisted. “Casey said that Matt wasn't seeing his ex anymore. What if Matt was the one who ended it? And that look she said Patty gave him, like she hated him…what if they had one of those love-hate/on again–off again things going on? It's hard to picture Matt inspiring that kind of passion, but it happens all the time with people just as ordinary seeming as he was. And then Matt dumps her, and this time he means it. She goes over the edge. She decides to torment him with an invisible dog, but it isn't enough, so she decides to kill him.”

“Well done,” Shirley said thoughtfully, crossing her arms over her chest. “I am delighted to see that you were able to put the pieces together for yourself after my carefully constructed interview with his secretary. No need to mention that this means the Browns were in no way involved, of course. We won't belabor the point, just consider it part of your learning process. But even Detective Owen should be able put it together eventually. The ex-spouse is always the first suspect. Matt Peterman's murder will be solved, and I am afraid we must resign ourselves to the knowledge that the story of the invisible dog will probably never see the light of day.”

“Oh, yes it will,” I hissed. “It's bad enough that she killed him. But Matt Peterman spent the last few weeks of his life being tortured by those barks. I know what it's like to have sleep deprivation, and it's no joke. She could say shooting him was a crime of passion, but this proves it was premeditated. I don't think we should let her get away with it. And I want to figure out how she did it. I say we return to his house tonight, find the evidence, and then figure out some way to get the information to the police.” I envisioned the looks on Detectives Owen and Addams' faces as we handed over our irrefutable evidence.

“Tammy Norman!” Shirley exclaimed, slapping her hands with a thud across her knees. “You have indeed put me in my place, and God bless you for it. I let my foolish pride—an unfortunate family trait—blind me from the truth. We shall leave the police to solve the mundane details of who shot Matt Peterman in the alley behind his office, and let them take their bows and bask in their glory. There is still a mystery to be solved, and justice to be served. We return this evening to solve the mystery that first brought Matt Peterman to seek the help of Shirley Homes: an invisible dog. That dog, and that dog only, shall be what drives us forward!”

I parked in front of Shirley's office at ten o'clock that night. I was dressed in black from head to toe once again, including my trusty woolen ski cap to cover my unruly hair. Since the weather had cooled down that day, I had thrown a knitted scarf around my neck and now wore a pair of woolen mittens. I was determined to stay warm and comfortable so that we could take as long as we needed to search Matt's house, from top to bottom, in order to find the evidence we needed.

I got out of my car and locked it. I was just starting around the corner toward the back of the building when I saw Shirley standing in the shadows, wearing white overalls with a striped shirt underneath that had Al's Plumbing printed on the left pocket with a black marker. Some of the letters had ink spots next to them. Her long dark hair was smoothed back and tucked underneath a white baseball cap, and she had glued on a fake beard and mustache, but it was obvious that it was her—especially since she was holding her cane. And those huge brown eyes of hers could never be mistaken for a man's.

“Evening, ma'am,” she said in a falsely gruff voice before proceeding to scratch her belly and spit a wad of gum out on the ground. “No need to be alarmed. I'm a plumber, as you can see. Heard there might be a problem with a plugged-up drain in this building. Can't let those things go. Have to take care of it right away—night or day—or the next thing you know a little problem turns into a big catastrophe.”

“Oh. I get it,” I said as the light dawned. “That's your disguise for tonight.”

“You recognized me?” Shirley asked, crestfallen.

“Uh…only because I know you. And you're standing right here at the bottom of our office. That's how I put it together. No one else would have known who you were.”

“Of course they would not,” she said, regaining her composure and confidence. “At first I toyed with the idea of impersonating an exterminator. But they don't come out in the middle of the night. And then it hit me. Plumbers! They're the ones who get the late-night calls!”

“Brilliant. It's the perfect disguise. Except…”

“Except what?” Shirley snapped.

“Well, if no one is living at Matt Peterman's house, since he's dead and all, who would have called the plumbing company?” Shirley stared at me for a moment with a frown. “Unless…the family came by earlier to get a suit for the funeral and noticed that the toilet was backed up?” I suggested.

“Why would a member of Matt Peterman's family want to wear one of his suits to the funeral?” Shirley asked haughtily.

“Not for them. For Matt—to wear in the coffin.”

“Excellent. I, of course, could have provided a more believable story, but I want to give you the opportunity to spread your wings. If my great-great-grandfather had perhaps given Watson a little more credit…but that is neither here nor there. If we are separated for some reason in the course of our search, and someone should ask you what a plumber is doing in Matt Peterman's house at this time of night, then that answer should do. Come along, Tammy. There is no time to waste.”

Shirley turned to head down the embankment behind our building.

“Where are you going?” I asked. “I'm parked out front,” I called out as she began plodding down the bank.

“I have obtained an alternate form of transportation for the evening,” she told me over her shoulder. “The first rule of any disguise is that the disguise must be convincing. It would be rather unrealistic for a plumber to show up in a little white car, don't you think?”

She continued on her way, using the cane to help balance her steps down the grassy incline. I sighed and started to follow her path. It took me a little longer since I didn't have a cane to aid in my descent.

I was about halfway down the embankment when Shirley reached the bottom and stepped onto the sidewalk at the edge of the street below. Suddenly a set of high beams came on, shining right in Shirley's face. She put her left hand over her eyes to shade them from the glare, and I stopped in my tracks. By the light of the headlights I saw an old battered van parked next to the sidewalk. A head popped out of the driver's-side window.

“Evening, ladies. Al's Plumbing at your service.”

It was too dark for me to make out the features of the person who owned that particular head. But I would have recognized the whiney nasal voice anywhere. It was Shirley's taxi driver from the night before: the one and only Lawrence Dunbar.

“Good evening, Mr. Dunbar,” Shirley responded, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to see him.

Since she wasn't surprised to see him, and she'd been heading right for the spot where he was parked, there was only one logical conclusion: Shirley had asked Lawrence Dunbar to be meet us here. But why? Was she out of her mind?

Yes, of course she was. That was the whole problem.

“Tammy, say hello to Mr. Dunbar,” Shirley said as I reluctantly joined them. As far as I could tell, he had on the same clothes as before and like me, he was wearing a dark woolen ski cap, which served to make his oddly spaced eyes seem even farther apart. As for Shirley herself, she seemed impervious to the cold. Maybe she had long johns on under her plumber's disguise.

“Hello. Um, Shirley—”

“You will appreciate this, Tammy, with your eye for detail. As a matter of fact I am rather surprised that you didn't bring it up earlier, as you did with that most penetrating question regarding the explanation we would offer for being at Matt Peterman's. Since he is dead and all.

“As I was researching the details of my disguise,” Shirley explained while Lawrence stared at her like every word she spoke was pure genius, “I looked through the Yellow Pages at the ads of various plumbing companies. And while doing so I noticed that many of them featured a van or a truck of some kind with a logo painted on the side.” Shirley turned and walked slowly around the van, looking it over carefully. “Mr. Dunbar,” she said once she had returned to her original spot. “I do not see a logo painted on the side of this van.”

“I ran it past my cousin, Miss Homes. But he said I couldn't go painting no logo on the side of the van. Now, don't get your panties in a twist. I came up with—”

“Mr. Dunbar! If we are to continue our association, then you will refrain from using vulgar expressions. Not only is it vulgar, it is also lacking in common sense. There is no possible way for me to ‘get my panties in a twist' while standing here on this sidewalk. And it would serve no purpose for me to ‘get my panties in a twist.' I never do anything without a specific purpose in mind. Am I clear?”

“Sure, sure. But look.” Lawrence reached over to the passenger seat and then thrust his arm out of driver's-side window with a proud smile. “See what I did here?” he asked. “I got my other cousin—he runs shifts over at the Pizza Hut—to let me borrow one of those things they put on the top of their cars when they deliver pizza. And see? I made my own logo for us. All I have to do is pop this baby on top of the van and we're ready to go.”

I stared at his creation in disbelief. He had taken a sheet of white paper, written “Al's Plumbbing” with a black Sharpie pen across it, spelled plumbing with two b's, and then used masking tape to mount the paper to the car topper.

“Very clever,” Shirley said. “Why don't you
pop that baby
on top of the van and we shall proceed.”

“Are you kidding?” I whispered as Lawrence lumbered out of the van. “That sign does not look realistic at all.”

“Fortunately, the majority of the population lacks the keen observational skills required to notice such trifling
inconsistencies
as a van without a logo. This disguise will prove most effective in concealing our identities from the scrutiny of any of our more discriminating observers.”

“But, Shirley—”

“You are good at cover stories,” Shirley said. “If you are still worried, then come up with something.”

“But—”

“Got her!” Lawrence proclaimed proudly. I looked over my shoulder and saw him standing behind the van with his homemade sign firmly in place on the back of the van's roof. It was situated at an extremely crooked angle, and he had torn one edge of the paper, so now it flapped in the breeze. Even if someone believed that this was the actual van of Al's Plumbing, that topper made it obvious that no one should let Al or any of his employees within two hundred feet of their pipes or drains.

“Stay in the van?” Lawrence whined as we made our way to Matt Peterman's house. I kept my hands gripped firmly on the dashboard since Lawrence drove as if he'd taken taxi lessons in New York City. So far we had screeched through three yellow lights that were turning red, rounded every corner we came to as if we were on our way to fight a fire, and tailgated each and every car unfortunate enough to find themselves in front of us. Shirley appeared oblivious to Lawrence's driving style, and had just informed him that he would not be coming inside to help us in the search. “The only reason I agreed to get this van for you was so I could be a part of things. Not just sit outside twiddling my thumbs. I'm never going to learn anything that way.”

“You will be a part of things,” Shirley informed him as we screeched around the corner that led into the neighborhood adjoining Matt Peterman's cul-de-sac. “And your part will be very important. We need someone to keep an eye out and inform us if anyone should show up.”

“Like who?”

“Like anyone. Including the police, I'm afraid. Technically speaking, the search we will be conducting is not strictly within the letter of the law.”

“And be sure to keep an eye on the house next door,” I told him.

“Got it. Uh, keep an eye out for what?”

“The Browns live there,” I said. “And they look out their windows a lot.”

“Look out their windows a lot,” Lawrence repeated, nodding his head. “Wonder why. What's their game?”

“There is no game, Mr. Dunbar,” Shirley said peevishly with a quick glance my way. “The Browns are a delightful couple with an appreciation for craftsmanship, and have nothing to do with this case, although
Tammy
found them quite suspicious during the initial phase of our investigation due to a personal bias that she was unable to overcome. At one point she believed that they not only had something to do with Matt Peterman's murder, but also with Angie Berger's disappearance. They do, however, take an interest regarding the goings-on in their neighborhood, as all concerned citizens should. If you see them looking out their window, please let us know.”

“Got it,” Lawrence said as we rounded another corner on two wheels. “Uh, who's Angie Berger?”

“Mr. Dunbar,” Shirley said severely, “we went through the history and particulars of this case when I called you earlier.”

“Yeah, yeah, I have the basics. Like with the invisible dog. I'm just trying to refresh my memory on some things. And I've never been good with names.”

“Angie Berger is the caregiver for the Pittfords, who live across the street. You met her last night. Like Tammy, she has an inexplicable dislike for the Browns, and came to see me about them and what she perceived as threats made against her personal safety. During the course of our conversation she went outside to have a cigarette and never returned. But what is this?” Shirley exclaimed as we pulled into Matt Peterman's cul-de-sac, Lawrence finally tapping the brakes and slowing down a little. “I see smoke curls blowing off that front porch,” Shirley said, pointing at the Pittfords' home. “Pull into that driveway, Mr. Dunbar. I have some questions for that young woman regarding her rude and distressing behavior, and I believe we can spare a couple minutes in order for me to teach Angie Berger a few of the basic rules of common courtesy!”

Lawrence did as instructed, and when he came to a stop, Shirley opened her door and leaped out of the van. I got out after her as she marched toward the Pittfords' porch in great loping strides.

“Who the hell are you?” I heard a woman ask loudly. It wasn't Angie. “We didn't call for no damn plumber. You got the wrong address.”

As I walked up to the porch from around the van I saw an extremely thin woman in her late forties with short dark hair, wearing white nurse pants and a smock decorated with teddy bear pictures. “I am sorry to disturb you,” Shirley said, forgetting to disguise her voice. “But we are looking for a friend of ours. A Miss Angie Berger?”

“What is this?” the woman asked suspiciously. “I don't know any Angie Berger. And why are you dressed like a guy? What's with the mustache?” The woman held her cigarette out in front of her with the burning ember pointed toward Shirley. “Don't come any closer.”

“My good woman, there is no need to be alarmed.”

The woman took a quick drag on her cigarette and then held it out toward Shirley again. “Get out of here,” she said. “Before I call the cops.” She reached into the pocket of her smock with her free hand and pulled out a cell phone. “I mean it.”

“Very well,” Shirley said. “Come along, Tammy. We have a backed-up toilet to repair.”

“We can't go now,” I hissed as we walked away from the porch. “If she sees us over there she'll call the police.”

“I am aware of that. But she can't sit outside all night. We'll wait until she goes inside and then we'll conduct our search. I must say, though, that the high rate of cigarette smoking among our health-care provider population is rather shocking.”

Lawrence was peering out his window when we came around the corner and past the shrubbery.

“You okay?” he asked. “I heard shouting.”

“Way to have our back,” I said.

“You told me to wait in the van; I waited in the van. Now you're mad that I waited in the van? Chicks. This is why you drive us crazy.”

We drove all around Springville in that ridiculous van with that ridiculous sign for over an hour, me bored to tears as Lawrence peppered Shirley with questions.

“So, Shirley,” Lawrence said the moment we'd turned out of the cul-de-sac to wait until the coast was clear, “what do you think the most important thing is for a private detective to know?”

“That's a complicated question, Mr. Dunbar.”

“I know, I know. Everything is complicated. But if you had to pick one thing. Say you're in front of a firing squad, and the only thing that will keep the squad from filling you with bullet holes is if you answer my question, what would you say?”

“A rather farfetched situation, Mr. Dunbar,” Shirley said. “But if I had to pick that one, all-important quality that every private detective needs, I would say that it is paying attention.”

“Attention to what?”

“To everything, Mr. Dunbar. To everything.”

“And by everything do you mean every single thing? Or just some things?”

I did my best to block the two of them out, pulling off my cap occasionally to give my scalp some air—my thick hair gets scratchy when I wear hats and the cold, dry air was frizzing it completely out of control—and wishing I was somewhere else. Anywhere else. And suddenly I was remembering the sitcom that I'd been up for. The part I didn't get. The last part I tried out for. The part that was down to me and Jamie Rhinehorn. The part went to Jamie Rhinehorn. I don't know why. The woman had all the emotional range of a turtle. The show ran for three episodes before getting canceled. Thinking about that always makes me feel better.

But I could have made that show work. I knew just the twist to give that character so that even mediocre writing would have seemed funny. Or at least funnier…if the Mark thing, and the sitcom thing, and the finding-out-most-of-my-money-was-gone thing hadn't all happened at the same time, then maybe…

“Don't you agree, Tammy?” Shirley asked.

“Hmmm?” I asked, coming out of my reverie as she nudged me in the side.

“Where do you keep floating off to?” Shirley asked, turning sideways for a moment to face me.

“Nowhere,” I said with a shrug, pushing my hair back on top of my head and repositioning my cap.

“Maybe you should think about having someone work for you who
pays attention
,” Lawrence said, glancing over at Shirley. “Know what I mean?”

“Eyes on the road, Mr. Dunbar. I believe that it should now be safe to return to Matt Peterman's since we have been gone for over an hour. Tammy, do you agree? Or shall I repeat the question for a fourth time?”

“No. I agree. I agree completely.”

At that point I would have agreed to just about anything in order to get out of that van.

Shirley had Lawrence cut his lights and turn off the engine before we turned in to the cul-de-sac. We coasted down the street silently, and everything appeared to be quiet. There was a porch light on at the Pittfords', but no light or any other sign of activity over at the Browns'.

“It looks as if the coast is clear,” Shirley whispered. “Pull into Matt Peterman's driveway, Mr. Dunbar. And then park the van around the back.”

“You got it.”

Getting inside Matt Peterman's house was pretty easy. The sliding glass door that Shirley had broken that first night had been boarded up but not very well. We managed to pry off one of the side boards and stepped inside. Shirley took a flashlight out of her Al's Plumbing overalls pocket and shined it around. Fortunately, I'd remembered to bring a small one of my own tonight. I pulled it from the inside pocket of my jacket and flipped it on.

The furniture in the house was shabby, and there was a lot of empty space. In the living room there was only an old plaid couch with rips in the sides, a glass coffee table full of small nicks and scratches, and a poster of the Carolina Panthers thumbtacked to the wall. But next to the poster was a large flat-screen T.V. that looked brand new.

“I think there is one question that we need to be asking ourselves,” Shirley said as she directed the beam of her flashlight toward the kitchen.

“Which is?”

“If I were an invisible dog, where would I be hiding? Taking into account, of course, the fact that there is no such thing as an invisible dog. Since that is impossible, we need to explore all other possibilities, no matter how improbable. Any thoughts?”