The Case of the Invisible Dog (19 page)

“Yes,” Shirley said with a knowing nod. “This is the stage in the process that my great-great-grandfather found the most trying. We have hints, clues, pieces of the puzzle…but we haven't quite fit them all together. Do not despair, Tammy, or give in to impatience. I have taken you this far, and I will see you through to the end!”

When we turned onto Matt's cul-de-sac I turned off my headlights and cruised slowly down the street. I looked carefully over at the Browns' home. There were no lights on. I drove into the Pittfords' driveway so we could park around back. I felt funny doing that—using their driveway when they were in the hospital. But I hoped that if we could figure out what was going on it would help the police discover who had made them sick. That would be a good-karma thing. I need to keep my karma as positive as possible this year, and every little bit helps.

We made it out of the car and over to Matt Peterman's without any sort of disaster. I walked behind Shirley; she likes to lead the way. I kept my eyes on the ground ahead of me. I didn't want to have to look at that ridiculous nurse's uniform any more than necessary. Her pointed white cap was like a little beacon bobbing across the road. I was starting to hate the nursing cap almost as much as I hate
that other hat.

The board at the end of the back window was still right where I'd placed it, and still loose. As soon as we were inside I pulled the flashlight out of my pocket and walked over to the little alcove underneath the stairs. Shining my flashlight, I saw that there were no longer any wires running up the wall. I turned around and looked over at the spot where the carpet had been cut. Getting down on my knees and setting the flashlight next to me, I tried to lift up the small square of carpet, but it had been glued back together. I ran my hands over the spot. It was smooth and flat. There was nothing underneath—no metal box—nothing at all. And the hole in the wood must have been filled back in.

We were too late.

And suddenly I experienced something that I hadn't felt for a very long time: pure outrage. The last time had been when I discovered that Mark—no. I did not want to go there. What I wanted was to figure this thing out. One man had been tormented for weeks, then been killed, and two elderly people were sick in the hospital and would probably never be healthy enough to return home. I wanted someone to pay for everything they had done, including the way they had tortured Matt, but the evidence was gone. The anger I felt was like a double jolt of espresso. I could feel the energy surging through me, lighting up every cell in my body.

Phil McGuire: How do you deal with anger?

Me: I'm not really angry at anybody. Not anymore, I mean.

Phil McGuire (with skepticism; I can tell by the way he raises his left eyebrow): Really? You've worked through all your anger issues?

Me: I wouldn't say that I had anger
issues.
I just had a couple of people that I was mad at.

Phil McGuire: And now you're not mad at them?

Me: Nope.

Phil McGuire: Not even your parents?

Me: That would be a little difficult since they're dead. Dead people are very easy to get along with.

(Considering all the depressing stuff that he must have to listen to every day, I thought Phil McGuire might appreciate my attempt to lighten the mood. But Phil McGuire does not laugh.)

I couldn't stop staring at that spot in the carpet. I couldn't believe all the evidence was gone. “Damn,” I exclaimed as I picked up my flashlight and got to my feet. “They can't get away with this.”

“They will not get away with this,” Shirley said, leaning on her cane and staring at the same spot on the floor.

“We need to think.”

“That is my full-time occupation, Tammy.”

“If the wires were in that wall, and we didn't find anything in his bedroom, and the kitchen is right there, right next to the walls where the wires used to be, then I would guess that…hmmmm…” I waited. “Hmmmm,” I said a second time, looking intently at Shirley.

“They ran the wires through the kitchen!” Shirley exclaimed. “But not a guess, Tammy. A logical conclusion that I'm sure you would have achieved if we had time. But I suppose I cannot expect your mind to work at the same speed that mine does! Come. Let's move into the kitchen and see what we can discover.”

Shirley's nursing cap bobbed along as she stepped around me and headed to the kitchen. I turned the corner as she opened the door to the small pantry on the other side of the wall.

“Look,” she said, pointing her cane toward the top of the pantry. “That shelf is new. I believe there was a wire running through the old one, and now it has been replaced so that there is no evidence it was ever there.”

I ran the beam of my flashlight across the kitchen. Shirley walked over to the cupboard next to the stove and opened the two wooden doors. She set her cane aside, got down on her knees, and craned her neck as she aimed her flashlight so that she was looking up at the bottom of the top board where the cupboard joined the counter.

In part to avoid the view of her sparsely clad bottom bobbing up and down in her search for a better angle, my eyes kept moving. On the far right side of the kitchen was a small breakfast nook. There wasn't a cute little table with chairs in the nook; there was nothing in the nook. Like the rest of his house, Matt's kitchen was half empty. But next to the nook was a door.

“Just as I thought.” Shirley said, her voice muffled. “If you look very closely you can see two small holes on either side of this top shelf. That must have been where they tacked down the wire.”

Shirley stood up and shut the cupboard doors. “From there I would imagine that they continued it here, under the stove, and on to the next cupboard. Our Mr. Peterman, being an indifferent housekeeper, at best, never would have noticed. But from there…” Shirley walked over to the cupboard on the other side of the stove and pointed her cane. “…it would obviously go through here. But to what purpose?”

“They ran it outside,” I said. “That's how they did it.”

I ran over to the door and pulled on the handle. It was locked.

“Tammy, no one ever heard that dog barking except Matt Peterman. It is, therefore, illogical to suppose that the barking came from outside.”

“No,” I said, turning the button in the middle of the door handle. “The barking came through that metal box underneath the carpet on the inside. The noise, I mean. But think about it. Whatever set it off couldn't be in the house itself. They couldn't take the chance that Matt would discover them.”

“That dilemma would be solved by a timer.”

“That's what I thought at first. But that would be risky, too. I think whoever did this had to have some way to make sure that Matt Peterman was asleep in his bed whenever they made the barking sounds happen. What if he stayed up late one night watching T.V.? Or what if he had someone over?”

“The odds that Matt Peterman had someone over, as you put it, would have been, I believe, extremely remote.”

“But I don't think they wanted to take any chances.”

I unlocked the door, pushed it open, stuck my head out to make sure that I didn't hear anything, looked across to the Browns' to make sure we weren't being watched, and stepped outside. There was a small set of wooden steps that went down to the grass. They had been painted white, but the paint was chipped and peeling. I walked slowly down the steps, but I didn't see any sign that the steps had been drilled through at some spot. There were no fresh splashes of paint, either.

“Tammy,” Shirley hissed behind me. “This is a dead end.”

I ignored her and concentrated on my surroundings. I saw old steps, an uncared-for yard, a few scraggly plants in the dirt next to the wall. I bent down, and shined my flashlight through the plants. In the very back, stuck in the middle of the shrubbery next to the wall, was one beautiful plant. I stepped over and examined it. The plant wasn't real; it was plastic. Why would Matt go to the trouble of planting a fake plant next to the
house—especially
when it couldn't be seen?

I bent down farther and separated the leaves. There was one spot in the dirt behind the plant that looked as if it had been recently dug up. And a small square of paint on the side of the house that was chipped away.

“Tammy, I do not want to have to repeat myself—”

“It's just as you suspected,” I said, standing up and turning around. “There's a spot out here where it looks like the dirt has been dug up. And a square area of chipped paint on the wall, hidden from view by a plastic plant. I think you were absolutely right. I think they wired some kind of device to make barking sounds inside the house. The barking sound was created by something out here. The wire probably ran through the kitchen, and then outside where it could be activated.

“And you're absolutely right again that someone came over after we left and took all the equipment apart. The first thing we need to do is see if we can figure out how they kept an eye on him. Like you said—how did they know when to trigger the barks? I know what you're thinking. They must have had a camera of some kind. Now, if it always happened when he was
sleeping…hmmm…”
I waited. And then her eyes grew wide, and Shirley smiled.

“The bedroom, Tammy! How much more obvious could it be? Come. The game's afoot. The threads are unraveling. The mystery of the invisible dog shall not be mysterious for very much longer!”

Shirley turned around and raced back up the wooden steps. I followed her into the house. She ran up the stairs to Matt's bedroom, that ridiculous nurses' cap bobbing up and down as she ran. When we got to his bedroom Shirley began feeling along the walls.

“You take that side,” she ordered. “And I will start on this side. The camera must be hidden somewhere no one can see it. My guess would be that it is hidden inside one of the walls.”

I walked over to the opposite wall, running my hands along its surface the way that Shirley was. But I looked around the room, too. Something was nagging at me. Something like that plastic plant; something that didn't belong. And then I spotted it. The beer stein sitting on the side of the dresser. It was personal; a memento; the only item in his entire house that expressed anything individual about Matt Peterman. He wouldn't move it out of here; it meant something to him. He wanted to see it there on his dresser. It would stay put.

And they wouldn't remove it the way they had everything else in case the police came back to take another look around. It might be noticed if it was missing.

I had an actress friend during my L.A. days who took a job as a nanny. She was out of money, and she thought she'd nanny for a year so she'd have free room and board and save her salary. The wealthy couple she worked for had cameras throughout the whole house to keep an eye on her. A nanny cam…

I walked over and picked up the Oktoberfest beer stein. There was a large blue stone in the front. That could have been easily replaced. I opened the top of the stein. Plenty of room for a camera inside. So they would watch him through the camera, and then, when they were sure he was asleep, they would activate the barking sounds. Matt would wake up in a daze, and assume the barks were coming from outdoors. He'd look around and then go back to sleep, and it would start up again. So not only did he wake up every night over and over again to a sound that scared him, he began to suffer from sleep deprivation, and nobody would believe him about the sound he was hearing: a dog. It must have driven him crazy.

“There is nothing in this wall,” Shirley said. “Tammy? Why are you just standing there holding that ridiculously large beverage container?”

“Oh. I was thinking about what you said.”

“I say many things. Which particular statement are you referring to?”

“The one where you…uh-oh.”

At first I thought I had imagined it, but when I saw the beam of light reflecting through the blinds for a second time I stepped over to the window, peering out through the blinds as I pressed myself against the wall. Someone with a large flashlight was outside, coming across the patio, toward the back window.

“Don't despair,” Shirley said. “I shall help you remember. Observation of detail is of no use whatsoever unless it is accompanied by the additional skill of an accurate and precise memory. Naturally I possess both. Do you have any idea where and when I made this particular statement?”

“No.”

“Well then—”

“No, I mean the uh-oh wasn't about that. The uh-oh was about
that.
The flashlight I see down there headed toward the back window. Shirley, I think we have company.”

My first session with Phil McGuire was worse than a first date. Actually, since I had never met Phil McGuire, and had no desire to be there, it was more like a blind date. Anna set it up. Apparently she didn't think the two hobbies I pursued when I came back—a) moping around in my room, and b) finding the biggest losers in the Springville area to sleep with—were a healthy or productive use of my time.

Anna works as an administrative assistant at Merilee Community College. She knows people. Unfortunately, one of those people is me. So when she brought up the idea of “seeing somebody to help you deal with all the changes in your life,” she knew my first argument would be the cost. She knew I wouldn't let her pay for it. Unfortunately, she had that detail covered. One of the professors she knew through the college connected her to a local agency that provides the names of therapists willing to work on a sliding scale.

At that point in time I had pretty much made a mess of my entire life. I had returned to Springville with no job, no prospects, no relationship, very little money, and no real interest in anything, including myself. It was hard to make a convincing case that I had things under control. I probably would have tried, though, if she hadn't played her final card.

“My mom is worried about you, too.”

That was bad. Aunt Ilene is a firm believer in pulling yourself up by your own bootstraps. She doesn't go for “all this talking about everything nonsense,” as she puts it. I agreed to give it a try just to keep the two of
them—especially
Aunt Ilene—from worrying about me.

Phil McGuire: So, why are you here?

Me: I've been a little down lately.

(Once I've had a few minutes to get used to the idea of being there, I notice that Phil is good-looking, kind of like a twenty-years-younger, not-so-buff version of Dennis Quaid, but with red hair instead of brown. Fortunately for me, his voice has a touch of rural southern twang that is an almost perfect match for my despised high school algebra teacher, and I don't ever have to worry about becoming attracted to him.)

Phil McGuire: In what way?

(In the not-able-to-think-of-a-good-reason-to-get-out-of-bed-in-the-morning way.)

Me: Just kind of low energy.

Phil McGuire: What else?

(My life is a total failure and I have no idea how to fix it or what to do with myself from here.)

Me: I'm probably not putting as much time and energy into looking for a job as I should.

Phil McGuire: Why do you think that is?

(Because of my low energy level. Aren't therapists supposed to have good listening skills? Also, I can't think of anything that I would be good at. Besides acting, which I guess I wasn't as good at as I thought. Not good enough to stand out from all the other people in L.A. looking for their big break.)

Me: Um, I guess because I don't have a lot of marketable skills.

Phil McGuire: Why else are you here?

Me: Honestly, my family talked me into coming.

Phil McGuire: Why do you think that is?

Me: I guess they're worried about me.

Phil McGuire: Should they be worried about you?

Me: No, not at all. This is just a temporary situation. A bump in the road.

And then I tell him the basic story of the last year of my life. He agrees that I have had a lot to deal with. He agrees that it is understandable that I would be feeling somewhat depressed. He says that he will try to help me find tools to deal with the challenges that I face. But he doesn't know the real challenge that I face, and I don't intend to tell him.

From as far back as I can remember I have had to stand back and observe the people around me so I could figure out what they wanted. And how to fit in. I never felt truly at home. First with my parents; then again after they died. I got really good at it. I just wasn't a very good
participant—not
until I discovered acting. As an actress I could observe and participate at the same time. I knew what role I was supposed to play. They even told me exactly what to say and how to feel. I truly think I could have made that work. And even if I was a little bit off, it wouldn't matter. In L.A. I was surrounded by people who were a little bit off. We all took pride in the fact that we didn't fit into the regular
world—especially
Mark. It was like a badge of honor with us.

But now I have to try and fit into the regular world, without the one person I could truly be myself around, and I'm not sure that I can. Every day is hard. And the harder I try, the weirder life seems. I don't mean to offend God, or the universe, or the rest of the human race. I know most of you take the whole enterprise very seriously. But the more I look around, and observe, and try to figure out if it's worth hanging around, the more confused I become. I feel as if there's something everyone else knows that they forgot to let
me
in on. Life is work, and I don't know if it's a job that I'm qualified for. Phil McGuire can't help me figure this out. This is something I have to figure out on my own.

But no one—not even Phil McGuire—could have argued with me about how truly weird and cringeworthy life can be if they had experienced what I went through next: I spent an hour underneath Matt Peterman's bed next to porn-star-nurse Shirley Homes. Just us and the dust bunnies—lots and lots of dust bunnies. Oh. And the cane.

After I spotted the flashlight outside I knew we didn't have much time. Whoever was coming inside the house was moving fast. There were at least two of them because I could hear voices talking, and whoever it was probably wouldn't be too happy to find us there.

Shirley and I both turned off our flashlights. She pointed toward the bathroom. We started to head that way, and then we stopped when we saw that the shower had no curtain; it was surrounded by smoked glass that you could see right through. I pointed to the closet. I ran over and opened the doors, but it was very small and there were so few clothes in there that there was nothing for the two of us to hide behind.

The voices were getting closer, but they were still too far away to tell if I could recognize them. Two scenarios played through my head: 1) it was the murderers returning to make sure they hadn't left any evidence behind (Angie and Patty? Chuck and Nancy? Someone entirely different that we had never even suspected because we had no idea in hell what we were doing?), or 2) it was Detectives Owen and Addams here to do some further investigating. I honestly didn't know which scenario would be worse in terms of possible consequences.

Shirley pointed to the window and then imitated herself jumping from there to the ground. I shook my head. She repeated the gesture as if trying to get me to understand a game of charades. I then took my hand and pointed it straight overhead, then straight down, and then hung my head to the side as if I had a broken neck. Which is what would have happened if we had tried to jump out of that window onto the cement patio below.

There was only one place left. I didn't like the idea; I hated the idea, as a matter of fact. But the voices were starting up the stairs. I pointed to Matt Peterman's bed, and without waiting for her to respond, I got down on the ground and rolled underneath it. A few seconds later Shirley rolled under the bed from the other side. We definitely needed more room under there for my comfort level, but we were stuck, and there was no alternative. The voices were almost here. I was on the side closest to the door that led to the hallway. A light came on in the room across from Matt's—the one with all the junk and boxes stored in it. I saw a pair of cheap stilettos, and then a pair of cheap black boots, enter the storage room.

“I'm telling you, it's up here in one of these boxes.” That was a woman's voice. It was harsh and deep, laced with bitterness, and just a tiny bit thick but not quite slurred. “I lived with the guy for ten years, and I know how he thinks. If you could call it thinking.”

Shirley nudged me in the side. “It's Patty!” she gasped. “The ex.”

“Got it,” I whispered.

“Shhh,” she hissed. “We don't want them to hear us.”

“You sure it's still legal?” the man asked. “ 'Cause if it's not still legal then it won't hold up in court.”

That was a man's voice. He sounded about ten years younger than the woman. And also like a dumb ass: the guy in the bar who doesn't actually know anything, but thinks he knows everything, and talks the loudest, and won't shut up.

“Really, Einstein? Tell me something I don't know.”

“I'm just saying—”

“You're always
just saying
. Look, for the millionth time, I've got this covered. Matt was a moron, okay? And lazy as hell. I'm the one who went online and got the forms and filled them all out. All he did was sign them. The guy didn't have anything, but I always keep my bases covered. What if he won the lottery or something? You never know. But I guarantee you that it's still sitting in one of these boxes from when he moved. I'll start with this stack and you start with that one.”

“What will it look like?” the man asked as I heard the sound of tape being ripped off of a cardboard box.

“It should be in a big white envelope with Will written on the outside. W-I-L-L,” Patty spelled out, enunciating each letter with a sharp staccato. “Knowing Matt it's probably got beer and taco stains on it.”

“Why don't you have a copy?”

“ 'Why would I? When we split up he didn't have anything. Who knew he'd end up getting this house?”

“You sure he didn't change it?”

“I'm sure. Take it from me, Lou, the guy was so lazy he used to make a bowl of instant oatmeal and take it with him in the car on his way to work so he could sleep fifteen minutes longer. One time he got rear-ended, and that bowl of cereal went flying everywhere…” Patty started laughing. She sounded a little bit like a hyena.

“What?” Lou asked.

“…and…the cops showed up, and Matt had big blobs of oatmeal dripping all over him. God, I wish I could have seen that.”

“I feel kind of bad for him.”

“Don't,” Patty snapped. “The guy was just taking up space. Dammit, it's not in this one, either. I told you we should have stayed for one more drink. We're going to be here all night.”

More tape was ripped off of cardboard, and I could hear things getting thrown around. I sincerely hoped that they weren't in there all night. And not just because of the dust bunnies, and Shirley, and her porno nurse uniform. The minute we crawled under that bed my bladder started sounding the alarm.

“I still don't get it,” Lou said in between rips and tears. “One day the plan was going along great, and then all of a sudden you decide you can't go through with it. All you had to do was get him drunk and fly to Vegas and find one of those Elvis guys,” Lou whined. “Then you would have been married to him and sitting pretty now.”

“Look, I tried. But just the few dates we had were the longest nights of my life. He thought I'd be thrilled to sit out on his stupid patio and grill hamburgers, like that was really living. When we first met he used to be kind of cute at least. But now…God, the gut on him. And then when he started going to that tanning salon…It was all I could do not to laugh in his face the first time he kissed me. Having to sleep with him…ugh. Not enough margaritas in the world. Even for half of the house I couldn't go through with it. And I would have had to stay for a while before I filed for divorce, to make it look real.”

“Yeah, but we knew that going in. Then all of a sudden you change your mind and—”

“I said drop it! I told you, if I had to live with the guy, I would have been puking all the time, I swear to God. And it all worked out anyway, right? Matty dying is the best thing he ever did for me.”

“Yeah. You keep saying that.”

“So?”

“Nothing.”

“I told you I didn't have anything to do with it.”

Shirley let out a little snort then, and I held my breath, hoping the sagging mattress that wasn't more than an inch or two above our heads had muffled the sound.

“Okay, okay,” Lou muttered. “So you're sure it's here?”

“Yes, I'm sure. After we had both signed that will he stuffed it in the desk with all the rest of his
quote–important
papers–unquote.
Every year when he did his taxes it took him forever to find what he needed. So trust me, when it came time to leave that dump he used to live in and move over to this place, he opened the desk drawers and dumped all his papers into boxes. And since we already checked the desk and all the drawers are empty, I guarantee you he never unpacked those papers. It's got to be here. And once we find it then I get the title to the house.
And
I can go back to his office and show it to that bitch of a secretary of his, the part where it says that I get everything, and then she can't stop me from looking through all his stuff. Who knows what I might find.”

“Like what?” Lou asked.

“Matt was always buying lottery tickets. And every year there's, like, twenty million dollars in winning lottery tickets that go unclaimed. What do you want to bet one of them was his? That's the kind of loser he was.”

The sounds grew more frantic as the minutes passed. I could hear tape and cardboard ripping and things being dumped onto the floor. Then papers and whatever else was in those boxes would get tossed and thrown around. Some of the stuff they threw ended up out in the hallway. I was growing hot under the bed, and I was convinced that Shirley's squirming and heavy breathing would be our undoing.

Patty began to sound more frantic, too. She kept saying that it had to be there. It had to.

“Damn him,” she shouted after another round of ripping and tearing, and I heard something thrown against the wall. “That stupid son of a bitch. That was my last box. I can't believe he even managed to screw me over from the grave. Without that will I won't get nothing.”