The Case of the Invisible Dog (21 page)

“I have wondered the same thing myself,” Shirley said after a moment. “I should have mentioned it earlier, but I was certain that you would have questions about that part of Angie's story sooner or later. And as you know, I don't like to coddle you, but prefer that you learn these things through your own diligent efforts.”

“Of course,” I said. “Now, it could have just been a slip of the tongue, I suppose. But, just for argument's sake, let's say Angie was telling us the truth about the Browns threatening her and what he said. That means he did recognize me. Maybe even saw us talking to Angie over on the Pittfords' porch before we went to Matt's. So why pretend not to? And when he saw us in the neighborhood again talking to Angie, why not call the police?”

“So we are back to the Browns, even though they have no discernible motive?” Shirley asked with a frown before covering her mouth and trying unsuccessfully to suppress a yawn.

“That we know of. As you said right from the start, this is no ordinary villain that we're dealing with.”

“True,” Shirley said, her eyelids starting to droop.

“I wish we could just break into their house and see if all the stuff that disappeared from Matt's is in there. That way we could…” My voice trailed off as I suddenly became aware of what I was saying, and so casually, too, as if this were a typical, reasonable way to conduct my affairs. God, I really
was
spending way too much time with Shirley Homes. “But we can't do that, of course. Seeing how it's illegal,” I added with a festive little chuckle, the way one does when making a harmless joke with coworkers. Shirley yawned loudly, audible in the quiet night in spite of the hand she held over her mouth. “Well, it's late, and I'm tired, and my brain just won't work anymore. I know you could probably talk about the case all night, but I need to get some sleep.”

“Certainly, Tammy. Go home,” she said after another yawn, waving her cane toward the street. “Get a good night's sleep. And tomorrow we shall start from the beginning all over again, just as my great-great-grandfather had to do time and time again. Most of the stories were greatly condensed, Tammy, and left out much of the tedious toil involved, and the numerous theories that had to be tried on and then discarded before the final resolution.”

I had just settled into bed—teeth brushed, face washed, comfy pajamas on, perfect position finally achieved—when my cell phone rang. I was afraid it might be Shirley, but my sleepiness disappeared in a flash when I saw who it actually was on my caller I.D.: The Springville Police Department. My stomach dropped and the blood rushed to my head. In a flash I was twelve years old all over again. The cops show up unexpectedly…I heard my ring tone and shook away the image of my twelve-year-old self. I took a deep breath before pushing the button to hear whatever horrible news I was about to hear.

“Hello?”

“Shirley? Is this Shirley? Hello?”

“Who is this?”

“This is Lawrence Dunbar. Is this Shirley? You gotta help me, Shirley.”

“This isn't Shirley.”

“Are you sure? This is the number Shirley gave me to use if no one answered at the office.”

“Shirley gave you this number?”

“Yeah. I told her I was available day or night. I told her even if I was in the middle of driving someone somewhere, I'd throw them out of the cab and come help her. That's how much I want a job with you guys. I tried that other one first, the office, but no one answered. She must have gone home. But you're saying this
isn't
Shirley?”

“That's what I'm saying,” I snapped, knowing that now I would probably be awake for the rest of the night. And when I'm battling sleep deprivation, my day can feel like trying to wade through two feet of mud.

“That's…hold on.” Lawrence's voice became muffled. “Okay, sorry, I'll hurry. See, the thing is, I got the wrong person…yeah. I know you let me make a second one after no one was at the first one, but that wasn't my fault. Okay, okay, I'll make it quick. Lady? Are you there, lady?”

“I'm here,” I said, wondering why.

“I'm back on the phone now. But I gotta hurry. If this isn't Shirley, who is it?”

“This is Tammy. Her assistant.”

“Oh, yeah. The lady that was with Shirley. Wait. Maybe that's what she said. I'm having a hard time thinking with all these people staring at me. Yeah, that was it. Something about cell phones destroying brain cells so she didn't have one 'cause hers were too valuable to take that kind of risk. But you had a cell phone so I could call you if I had any vital information. I'm a cabdriver you know. I hear things. Anyway, I got a real emergency on my hands. Um, whatever your name is, I keep forgetting—but anyway, I'm down here at the police station, and it's kind of your fault, so you got to help me.”

“My fault?” I asked, sitting up and turning on my light since it was obvious that this conversation wasn't going to end anytime soon. “How is this my fault?”

“You know that couple who have a name like the color?”

“The Browns?” I asked wearily, knowing this conversation, whether long or short, also wasn't going to lead anywhere good.

“Yeah, them. Well, I was bored tonight, sitting in my cab all by myself, no customers, so I cruised by Shirley's office and saw the light on. Like I did a couple nights ago when she gave me this number to call in case I had discovered any vital information. Little did I know the
real
reason I'd end up having to use it. Anyway, I went in to see her and we started chatting about the case, you know, giving her my ideas and stuff. I got this idea about the dog thing—about how it was done—which I better go into later because I don't think the cops are gonna let me talk long. But before I could tell Shirley about my idea, Shirley told me about
your new plan.
”

“Lawrence, I don't know what plan you're talking about.”

“How if the couple-with-the-color-name might have the invisible dog stuff at their house? Ringing any bells?”

Uh-oh.

“Yes, but—”

“And how the only way to find out for sure would be to, you know, find out for yourself? Know what I mean?” he asked in a hushed voice, and I could practically feel him winking at me through the phone line.

“Oh my God,” I gasped, as it hit me what he was getting at. “You broke into the Browns' house?”

“I made sure they were gone when I broke in or I never woulda done it—I'm not an
idiot—
but then all of a sudden they came back.”

“And they caught you.” My temples began to throb as I had visions of Detective Owen pounding on my door any minute now, demanding to know why I had told Lawrence Dunbar to commit a felony.

“The man took a shot at me! Can you believe it?! It's a miracle I'm still alive. But
I'm
the one in trouble. There's no justice in this world.”

“Lawrence, listen to me very carefully. I don't know what Shirley told you, but I was never serious about breaking into the Browns' house.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. It was just a joke. I never, ever, ever meant it seriously. And if that's what you told the police—”

“Hey! Lawrence Dunbar is no squealer. I ain't told them nothing.”

There was dead air for a few seconds, and I could hear him breathing heavily.

“Okay, well, good,” I said. “I appreciate that. Maybe you just misunderstood what Shirley said.”

“I know what I heard,” Lawrence retorted, sounding highly offended. “And now I'm stuck in here, and someone has to come and bail me out in the morning.”

“Don't you have a family member you can call?”

“They can't know about this! They already think I'm a screwup.”

“Okay, I'll get hold of Shirley in the morning and we'll see what we can do.”

“So she'll be here in the morning, right? They say I gotta go. This guy's starting to look really mad. Don't forget about me. Promise me you won't—”

But we were disconnected. Lawrence Dunbar was gone.

Phil McGuire: Why do you feel guilty that your aunt Ilene took you in?

Me: I don't know if guilty is the right word. I guess I feel bad. I was another expense. She had to work longer than she wanted to. She didn't even know me. I was like this stranger dumped into her lap.

Phil McGuire: She made a choice. A good choice; a kind choice. Maybe in her mind you gave her life some new purpose. Maybe she's grateful she had the chance to raise you.

Me: Or maybe she did it because she felt guilty.

Phil McGuire: About what?

Me: About the crappy life I'd have if I went into foster care. So maybe guilt isn't always so bad. Maybe it's gotten a bum rap. Maybe you should feel guilty about giving guilt such a hard time.

Another try at some humor to lighten the mood. And, okay, to get Phil McGuire onto another subject. But it's a waste of time trying to brighten that man's day. He just sits there, staring at me with his baleful brown eyes, his expression neutral, and yet, somehow, I can feel his disappointment that I'm not taking the process seriously enough, until I end up feeling—you guessed it—guilty.

At six o'clock the next morning I finally gave up on sleep and got out of bed. I used a trick I had learned in L.A. and soaked in a steamy hot Epsom salt bath for half an hour to get my blood circulating and plump out my skin. Then, after three cups of coffee and four unsuccessful attempts to reach Shirley by phone, I threw on my pink cashmere turtleneck, a pair of white dress slacks, and pulled my hair back with a pink and green pin-striped scarf by Donna Karan that I'd found at Nordstrom's Rack in L.A. I even put on some lipstick instead of my usual lip gloss, and a touch of smoky eyeliner along with my standard mascara. And then, feeling suitably presentable for the day ahead, I headed downtown to do battle with the legal system and see what, if anything, I could do to help Lawrence Dunbar.

I walked into the Springville police station with as much confidence as I could generate from my improved
appearance—which
wasn't much. I had stopped for a donut on the way and toyed with the idea of bringing in a big box of assorted flavors for the officers to enjoy. I thought it might break the ice and mend some fences. Then I worried that they would be offended—like I was buying into the stereotype of cops always eating donuts. Then I thought about stopping somewhere else and getting a box of brownies. Then I worried that it might be considered a bribe so I gave up on the whole idea altogether.

Since I had no extra cash, I really had no plan as to how I might help Lawrence Dunbar until I was able to reach Shirley. I tried the office a couple times to see if she was in yet, but she hadn't answered. At least if Lawrence saw me he wouldn't feel as if he'd been totally abandoned. I know that feeling, and I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. Even if he had brought it on himself.

I took a deep breath and started walking toward the front desk—just my luck, it was the same guy who had been on duty last time. Before I reached him, however, I heard the front door burst open followed by the sound of a woman shouting at the top of her lungs.

“Let go of me. I didn't kill my fucking ex-husband, you assholes.”

I turned around. I knew the voice, and I recognized the cheap black stilettos. It was Matt Peterman's ex-wife, Patty, in handcuffs, being led in by Detective Owen on one side and Detective Addams on the other.

Her voice matched the rest of her. She was forty trying to look twenty, with streaked blond hair that was so brittle it looked as if it would break into pieces if you touched it. I could tell from the blotches of blush on her cheeks and smeared mascara under her heavily shadowed eyes that she still had on her makeup from yesterday. It was early, so they must have gotten her out of bed before she'd had a chance to “fix her face,” as my aunt says. Her white sweater and black velvet pants were both wrinkled, and there was a brown stain on the front of her sweater. Her bloodshot eyes and crusty lips told me that she was probably suffering from a massive hangover.

“Pipe down,” Detective Addams ordered.

“You're making a big mistake here. As soon as I call my boyfriend he'll get a lawyer down here, and then you'll be sorry. I'll sue this town for every penny it's got.”

“You don't need to call him,” Detective Addams said with a smirk. “He's already here. And he had some very interesting things to tell us, especially about a certain will you were desperate to get your hands on.”

“You're lying! There's no way he'd talk to you. Let go of me!”

I definitely did not want the detectives to see me, so I scooted over to the end of the counter and looked the other way. No one paid any attention to me. Everyone stared at Matt's ex-wife as she continued to shout and make threats while they took her through the doors to be questioned—the same doors that Shirley and I had gone through when we'd been questioned three days earlier. She was probably still screaming; we just couldn't hear her anymore.

I gave it another couple of minutes before returning to the man at the desk so I could ask about Lawrence Dunbar. He didn't seem to recognize me, thank God, and said that if Lawrence had been brought in the night before he would be headed over to court that morning to be arraigned.

As soon as I got outside I called the office, thinking it was best if I handled matters on this end by myself, considering the rather humorless outlook most members of the legal profession have while on the job.

“Shirley Homes here.”

“Shirley, it's me. Tammy. I'm down at the police station,” I told her. We'd deal with Dunbar and then later I'd confront her about giving out my cell phone number. Hopefully she'd agree to stay put until I had more information about what they planned on charging him with, and I'd ask her if she'd be willing to post his bail. “Lawrence got arrested last night. I guess for some reason he got it into his head to break into the Browns' house.”

“What?” she asked, surprised, which was a relief. At least she hadn't
asked
him to do it. “Why would he do such a foolish thing?”

“I don't know. He said he came by the office and the two of you talked, and somehow—”

“Oh, that poor, impetuous fellow!” Shirley exclaimed and I heard a thud on her end that sounded as if she had slammed one of her heavy reference books down against her desk. “I had just woken up from a refreshing nap when who should appear in the doorway but Lawrence Dunbar. I ended up discussing the case with him because he is so eager to learn, and I find that a fresh retelling of the facts often brings to light new ideas. You remember how disheartened I became yesterday evening when I realized that the invisible dog equipment might be sitting there at the Browns'? As suspects they are improbable, but not impossible, and every possibility must be explored and either confirmed or eliminated. That is my method.

“I explained my quandary to him, and how it was hopeless to expect any help from the police. Then, merely in passing, I made some silly joke about wishing I knew a good burglar that I could trust. But that a burglar, by the very nature of being a burglar, is not a person that one
can
trust. He must have decided…oh, that foolish, heroic man!”

“Uh-huh,” I said. A regular Don Quixote. “Long story short, the Browns came home and caught him. He's going to be arraigned this morning. He doesn't want his family to know. He was hoping that you might be willing to post his bail.”

“Consider it done.”

“Great. I'm heading over to the courthouse now for his arraignment. I'll let him know that you're posting his bail, and as soon as it's over and I know the amount I'll call you. Hopefully I won't be more than—”

“I'm on my way.”

“No, that's not—”

She had already hung up.

This was another wonderful new development: me, Lawrence Dunbar, Shirley Homes, and the legal system. I did not foresee it as a group dynamic that had the slightest hope in hell of turning out well. Or okay. Or even just mildly inconvenient. This had disaster written all over it.

I made it inside the courtroom just as Lawrence Dunbar's name was called. I took a seat at the end of the third row. He shuffled over to stand in front of the judge, an older man with silver hair and ruddy cheeks who seemed completely uninterested in his court or the fate of Lawrence Dunbar. He was probably counting down the days until his retirement. Lawrence didn't notice me. His clothes were bunchy and wrinkled, and lack of sleep had produced dark pouches under his eyes, making them appear as if they might literally fall off the side of his face at any moment. He was pale, his hands were visibly shaky, and he looked at the judge with a hangdog expression, as if expecting to be hauled off to serve on a chain gang for the next ten years.

“Mr. Dunbar, the charge is breaking and entering,” the judge announced. “How do you plead?”

“Well, Your Honor, it's like this. I wasn't—”

“You say guilty or not guilty. One or the other.”

“If I could just explain. There are extended
circumstances.”

“Do you mean extenuating
circumstances?”

“Yeah. That's it. Anyway, as I was saying—”

“Again, Mr. Dunbar, you have two choices. Guilty or not guilty. Don't you have an attorney?”

“No. I didn't think I needed one. Like I said, if you'd just let me explain about—”

The judge banged his gavel down and Lawrence jumped back. “One more time, Mr. Dunbar. Is it guilty or—”

“Your Honor! Sorry to be so late.”

I heard that voice, and then I heard those footsteps marching toward the judge, and my worst fears came true. I wondered how much attention I would draw to myself if I slid down off my seat and curled into a ball on the ground until it was all over.

“And who are you?” the judge snarled.

“I represent Mr. Dunbar,” Shirley Homes said with complete seriousness.

I slunk down as far in my seat as I could.

“Good. Then will you tell your client how to plead? He seems confused about this proceeding, and simple directions appear to baffle him.”

Shirley marched over to Lawrence and stopped next to him. He stared up at her with a dumbfounded expression, his mouth hanging open and his wide brown eyes as grateful as a puppy's. At least she looked normal—no cane, no hat—just her white shirt, plaid jacket, and a black tailored skirt.

But this wasn't good.

“Your Honor,” Shirley boomed. “Mr. Lawrence Dunbar pleads not guilty.”

“Excellent. We are finally making some progress.”

“And as he has no arrest record. I would like him—not now Mr. Dunbar,” Shirley said, irritated, as Lawrence began tugging on the sleeve of her jacket.

“Your Honor!” The middle-aged man at the table in front and to the left of the judge had jumped to his feet. His brown hair was short and perfectly cut, and his cheeks were so smooth that I couldn't imagine a five o'clock shadow ever daring to make an appearance. He wore a dark suit with a crisp white shirt and burgundy tie, had a briefcase sitting open on the table in front of him, and pretty much embodied the words
serious
and
official.
I assumed he must be the prosecuting attorney. “That statement is incorrect. Mr. Dunbar has two previous arrests. One for shoplifting and one for trespassing. In light of that, the state feels that Mr. Dunbar should not be released on bail.”

“Pardon me, Your Honor,” Shirley said. “I need a moment with Mr. Dunbar.”

“Make it quick.”

Shirley leaned down and whispered something. And then Lawrence stood up on his toes and talked a mile a minute, waving his hands as he spoke. The judge rested his face in one hand while tapping his fingers impatiently with the other. The serious man in the dark suit rolled his eyes before sitting back down in his chair. I was just about to get up and sneak out while the going was still good, when Shirley patted Lawrence on the back and he stopped talking.

“Your Honor,” Shirley said, “Mr. Dunbar has two arrests but no convictions. Furthermore, both of those arrests happened when Mr. Dunbar was barely eighteen. He assures me they were both complete
misunderstandings.
And regarding this current case, I believe it is Mr. Brown who will be called to answer for his crimes. Not Mr. Dunbar.”

“Who is Mr. Brown?” the judge asked wearily.

“He is the villain who fired a shot at Mr. Dunbar.”

“The villain?” the judge asked, staring at Shirley with a puzzled expression. I'm sure it was the first time the word villain had ever been uttered in his courtroom.

“Your Honor!” The prosecutor had leaped back up again. “Mr. Brown is no, uh, villain. He is the homeowner who came home last night and was almost knocked over when he entered his garage and Mr. Dunbar came running out.”

Lawrence tugged on Shirley's sleeve and whispered frantically again. She nodded.

“Your Honor, is Mr. Brown claiming that anything was stolen?” she asked.

“No,” the prosecutor snapped. “Fortunately he arrived home before Mr. Dunbar was able to get that far.”

“Wrong!” Shirley declared triumphantly. “He should indeed have reported something stolen. The fact that he did not report anything stolen completely vindicates Mr. Dunbar, and proves his innocence!”

Wait—what?

The prosecutor threw his hands up in the air and the judge leaned back and stared at Shirley while I tried to absorb the fact that Lawrence had actually discovered something at the Browns'. It had never, I am ashamed to admit, occurred to me to ask.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“My name is Shirley Homes.”

“Did you actually manage to graduate from law school, Ms. Homes?”

“I'm afraid that would have been rather impossible, Your Honor.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I never attended law school.”

“You are not an attorney?”

“No.”

“Then why are you in my courtroom pretending to be this man's legal counsel?”

“I am doing no such thing. I am representing Mr. Dunbar, exactly as I stated. I am acting as his advocate. I can offer evidence on his behalf showing that he is not a guilty man. Perhaps guilty by the letter of the law, but not the spirit of the law. As a judge I am sure that you understand and respect that very profound difference. And I am also willing to post his bail if necessary.”

Please don't say that if the judge made an assumption that she was an attorney it is a result of his own sloppy thinking, and that his failure to obtain clarity has nothing to do with her. Please.

“However, Your Honor,” Shirley said as I put my hands over my face, “if you assumed that I was his attorney, it is a result of your own sloppy thinking. And your failure to obtain clarity has nothing to do with me.”

I peered out through my fingers. The judge—who hadn't looked very happy to begin with—looked much less happy now. His face turned kind of purple, and the courtroom grew completely silent.

“Ms. Homes,” he said with great effort, as if the burden of being unable to sentence Shirley to the electric chair was more than he could bear. “Not only will you
not
be representing Mr. Dunbar, I am citing you for contempt of court in the amount of two thousand dollars. And setting bail for Mr. Dunbar in the amount of twenty-five thousand dollars. Bailiff! Call for assistance so that you can remove these two people from my sight!”

“Wait,” Lawrence said, running up to the judge's stand. “I don't have twenty-five thousand dollars. I barely have twenty-five dollars.”

The bailiff—a heavyset man in his twenties with a shaved head who scared me on sight—marched over to Lawrence and grabbed him by the arm.