The Case of the Invisible Dog (11 page)

“That bark was real,” I said simply. “That's what my gut says.” Shirley let out a sigh of relief, releasing her grip on the table as her face lit up all over again. “I guess I should have told you about that bark before. But this is all new to me and it was very confusing and at the time—”

“Great Scott, girl! We don't have time for regrets.” Shirley jumped to her feet. “Finish your lunch!” she told me, throwing a twenty-dollar bill down on the table. “I will be fully occupied examining the details of our case for the next few hours. You may have the afternoon off to think over what I have told you. Let me know what you decide about your position. And now I'm off. This case has suddenly become interesting again!”

Shirley grabbed her coat and stormed out of the restaurant before I could say another word. I sat there for a moment, watching her race out the door and around the corner to the back of the building. I could picture her running up the stairs and flying into the office to plan whatever crazy new scheme she had in mind.

It didn't matter that she'd been warned about interfering with police business. It wouldn't stop her. Shirley would keep right on interfering in her own ridiculous way no matter what anybody said. I could hear her now:
Detective Owen, when I nodded my head, it was in response to your question. That question was whether or not you had been clear. I was agreeing that your statement had been quite clear, nothing more, nothing less. Your assumption that I agreed not to continue with my investigation is a result of your own sloppy thinking and no concern of mine.

She'd given me a way out with no hard feelings and a month's extra pay. I should have been happy and relieved, or at least spent some time weighing my options. But all I could think about was the bark that Shirley and I had both heard. I could get up and go back to the police station and tell the detectives, but I knew they wouldn't pay any attention to me. They'd think I was just as crazy as Shirley Homes.

And as crazy as it sounded, my gut was telling me that the bark we'd both heard had
something—maybe
everything—to do with Matt Peterman's murder.

I quickly finished my lunch and left a nice tip on the table. I always overtipped when I ate at Mrs. Hobson's, even though it never made any difference in how she treated me. Then I picked up the twenty Shirley had left me so I could pay our bill. It was close to two o'clock in the afternoon, and the restaurant was starting to empty out. Mrs. Hobson gave me my change with her usual veiled hostility and I went outside.

I almost started to climb up the back stairs leading up to Shirley's office out of habit, forgetting that she had given me the afternoon off. I stopped myself and headed over to the parking lot behind our building, where I'd left my car that morning. The lot was small but didn't fill up until later in the day. That was another reason I kept going to Mrs. Hobson's: driving to another restaurant for lunch usually meant no parking space when I returned. Maybe when the weather turned warmer I would start bringing a lunch and eating at the small park a couple of blocks away. I liked downtown Springville. Some of it was old and run-down, but it still had character. I liked the old buildings. I liked that it didn't look like everywhere else, with fast-food places and mini-malls filling the streets. It was nice to see people out walking around instead of having to drive everywhere, the way I'd always had to when I lived in Archerville.

But as soon as I got in my car to head home, it hit me that I was not thinking clearly. Did I really believe I'd be having lunch in the park down the street from Shirley's office come summertime? I had just spent the morning in a police station being questioned about a murder. I'd have a month's severance pay to cushion me. Shirley had opened the door and provided a way to make a quick and graceful exit. She'd probably give me an excellent reference. I didn't have to tell her that I was leaving because she was nuts. I could pretend I was worried about the danger I'd be risking by working for the great-great-granddaughter of Sherlock Holmes. Egad! Once the word got out, all the world's arch villains would come gunning for her.

Any normal, sensible person would use that door and never look back.

There were other options. For example, if worse came to worst, and my money ran out, or I couldn't find a decent job, I could always live with Anna and her family again. But this time, instead of being a drain on their resources, I could be helpful. Before going to my low-paying, mind-numbing waitress job each night, I would put my time to good use during the day. Anna would return home to piles of clean, folded laundry, sparkling floors, vacuumed carpets, and a pot of homemade soup simmering away in the Crock-Pot. On my days off I could rake leaves, pull weeds, and reorganize the garage. During my free evenings Anna and Paul could go out to dinner and a movie while I babysat the kids—Brandy, ten, and Wesley, six—who adored me while at the same time obeying every single word that came out of my mouth without question. Sunday afternoons would be spent washing Anna's car, Paul's car, and bathing the family dog—Bella,
dachshund/Chihuahua
mix, seven. Not only would the entire family be thrilled to have me as a houseguest, they would be devastated at the thought of me ever leaving.

But then I thought about making that phone call, the one where I had to ask Anna if I could move back in…

Phil McGuire: Tammy? Phil McGuire here. What's going on?

Me: Oh, nothing much.

Phil McGuire: You left me a message to call. This is the first time you've ever called me other than to change an appointment.

Me: I just had a question. This new job of mine is kind of stressful. My boss is crazy. I don't mean regular boss crazy. I mean really crazy.

Phil McGuire: And what is your question?

Me: She offered me a month's severance pay if I want to leave. I think I'd like to take it. But on the other hand, at the end of the month, I might not have another job.

Phil McGuire: And what is your question?

(See how he repeats himself?)

Me: What do you think I should do?

Phil McGuire: I can't tell you what to do.

Me: Then what do I pay you for?

Phil McGuire: We've been over this before, Tammy.

Me: Okay, but if it were you, what would
you
do?

Phil McGuire: It doesn't matter what I would do. You have an appointment for the day after tomorrow. Do you think you can hold off for two days before you make a decision about your job? That way we can discuss the issue at length during your session.

Me: Sure. I can do that.

Phil McGuire: Good. I'll see you then.

After I got off the phone with Phil McGuire—a complete waste of time, I don't know what I was thinking—I Googled Shirley just for the hell of it. All that came up were two photographs reprinted from some alumni association newsletter put out by a private college in Massachusetts that I had never heard of. The first one was a picture of her, Myra, and ten other girls standing in front of a large cement slab. The caption read, “Newburg College Girls Lend a Helping Hand to Rebuild Orphanage in Oxfam, Mexico.” Shirley stood off to the side from everyone else, holding a shovel. All the other girls in the picture, including Myra, who looked to be about fifty pounds lighter than now, wore gorgeous clothes and smiled as if they were at a debutante ball. Shirley looked tired, her knees were dirty, and her T-shirt was spotted with sweat stains down the front. She wasn't smiling, either.

The second photograph showed Shirley with Myra again. This time they were pictured at a ski resort in Idaho for opening day, dressed in expensive ski clothes, ready to hop onto the lift. The caption underneath read, “Chicago Girls Take to the Slopes.” They stood close, with their arms around each other's waist, and both of them—even Shirley—were smiling. They both looked happy and pretty, and it made me sad to think how they acted around each other now.

I turned off my computer, turned on my television, and looked through my cable viewer guide. There weren't any bad movies on with anyone I hated, so I watched a pretty good movie with someone who was actually pretty nice. It wasn't anywhere near as satisfying.

And then the exhaustion came.

I'd been sitting there, debating what to do about my job, when an overwhelming sense of fatigue hit me like a bolt of lightning. It happens that way sometimes, without warning. I didn't bother fighting it the way I usually did. I just went with it. I didn't care if it was only five-thirty p.m. I peeled off the turtleneck and khakis that I'd thrown on that morning, put on my favorite flannel jammies with the little ducks (the kind a woman can only wear if she lives alone or has been married forever), got under the covers, and went to sleep.

Three hours later my cell phone rang. I was in one of those dead-to-the-world sleeps, so the noise of my phone became part of my dream. By the time I realized it wasn't a dream and grabbed for the phone, it was going to voice mail, and I was already forgetting my dream. All I remember is that it was a good one; I was happy there. For a moment I had one foot in my dream and one foot in the world. If given a choice I probably would have stayed in my dream.

But then I was awake and I saw that Shirley had called. I could have ignored it. Just like I could ignore my one tooth in the back that has a filling coming loose. Or I could go to the dentist and have it taken care of. Instead I keep putting it off and feel compelled to run my tongue over it. My relationship with Shirley had developed the same sort of dynamic. I sat up and played her voice mail.

“Hello, Tammy. Shirley Homes here. I'll be brief. I just wanted you to know the game's afoot. The case is starting to come together. I know you had a late night yesterday. I don't know what you have decided about continuing your employment. But I thought you might want to join me as I continue this investigation. If you do, meet me at Matt Peterman's house in one hour. Good-bye.”

I looked at my phone for a minute, then turned it off and threw it on the bed.

Here were my choices:

I went with option number three.

I popped in my Pink CD and blasted her fierce ballsy lyrics full volume all the way over to Matt Peterman's house. I had thrown on my black jeans, turtleneck, and hoodie again, but this time I had on thick wool socks, my warm jacket with the sheepskin lining over the hoodie, and I'd tucked my hair up inside a navy blue ski cap. When I turned on to Matt Peterson's cul-de-sac it was a little after nine-thirty. I turned down my CD and saw Shirley at the bottom of the Pittfords' driveway talking to Angie Berger. Shirley leaned on her cane with both hands while she talked, and Angie kept puffing on her cigarette. They both looked up when they saw my headlights. Shirley nodded, Angie merely took another drag on her cigarette.

I turned down my music to the lowest setting and started to pull in front of Matt Peterman's house when Shirley began waving at me frantically with her cane. Not sure what the problem was, I stopped the car and leaned over to roll down my passenger window.

“What?” I asked.

“Shhhh!” she hissed. Then she gestured for me to pull over to the Pittfords'.

Already regretting my decision to get out of bed, I backed up and turned around. I stopped next to her and Angie, and that's when I saw a taxi parked in front of the garage at the back of the Pittfords' long driveway.

“Why is there a taxi here?” I asked.

“Shhh!” Shirley hissed again. Angie took another lethargic drag on her cigarette, staring at Shirley and me with a blank expression. “There is a taxi here,” Shirley continued in a quiet voice, “because I did not know if you would be joining me. I, therefore, needed a reliable form of
transportation.
Now that you have arrived I can send him on his way and you can park in his spot.”

“Okay. I'll back up so he can get out,” I told her, but just as I was saying that the door to the taxi opened and a short man got out. I started to put the car in reverse when the taxi driver slammed his door shut. Shirley jumped and then looked over her shoulder. I watched as the taxi driver marched toward us, his noisy steps down the driveway echoing across the cul-de-sac. I put my car back into park and set the brake.

“Shhhh!” Shirley waved at the man with her cane, but it didn't seem to faze him. After he took a few more steps, the Pittfords' security light came on, and I got a better look at him as he came into view.

He wasn't as old as I had thought at first—probably in his mid-thirties—he just had really bad posture and hunched shoulders. The Carolina Panthers sweatshirt he wore was too large for him; the old blue jeans he had on were frayed at the ends because they were too long. As he got closer I saw that his skin had a nice olive tone, and his hair was dark and thick with almost no thinning. But his nose was strangely wide and flat, as if someone had punched it in, and his lips were thin—so thin that his upper lip was almost invisible. His big brown eyes would have been his best feature if they hadn't been so far apart. They almost looked as if they were floating on the side of his face. He also had a large beer belly and was in desperate need of a shave. Every step he took appeared to be a gigantic effort on his part, an effort he wasn't sure he'd achieve.

“Look, lady,” he barked in a nasal voice after stopping a few feet in front of Shirley. “I've been sitting there and waiting like you said. But the meter is running and I'm gonna need to see some cash if I'm gonna keep—”

“Quiet!” Shirley commanded, slamming her cane down on the driveway and then waving it in his direction.

“Hey!” he shouted, jumping back. “What do you think you're doing?”

“Shhhhh!”

Angie snorted and shook her head. This situation did not seem as if it was on the road to ending well. I unbuckled my seat belt with a sigh and opened my door to get out and see if I could try to get it resolved before things spiraled out of control.

“Um, what's going on?” I asked.

“She's crazy!” the taxi driver told me as Shirley shushed him again. “Just pay me so I can get out of here. And stop waving that thing at me!”

“My good man,” Shirley said, “if you don't keep your voice down, a murderer may go free.”

“What are you talking about? What murder?”

“Nothing,” I said quickly. “There's no murder.”

“She just said there was a murder,” he said, pointing at Shirley.

“The guy who lives there,” Angie said, pointing across the street with her lighter. “He got murdered.”

“No shit?” The taxi driver stared at Matt's house for a moment. “So are you guys cops?” he whispered, looking around slowly, taking stock of the three of us. “Is this some kind of undercover operation? Wait a minute!” he exclaimed, his voice rising. “Since when does the police department call for a cab? Shouldn't you have your own vehicle?” he asked, looking at Shirley suspiciously.

“They're not cops,” Angie told him.