The Case of the Invisible Dog (2 page)

Shirley's ad had been running for about six weeks. I'd study it for a few seconds and then move on because it was so strange. Shirley didn't list an e-mail address or a fax number. Not even a phone number. She asked interested persons to reply by mail with a letter in their own
handwriting—not
typed—explaining
why they would be a good candidate for the position as her assistant.
No experience required. Will train the right person. I am looking for someone resourceful, quick on their feet, loyal, flexible, and detail-oriented. Résumé not required and, if included, will automatically disqualify you from consideration,
the ad went on to say
. Excellent salary, benefits, and opportunities for the right person,
the ad concluded.

But one morning, after a really slow night at the restaurant that had yielded only twelve dollars in tips, I finally decided to take a chance and answer her ad. I figured I had nothing to lose. It was either that or think seriously about going to trucking school. And I definitely met the qualification of “no experience.” I copied down the address, which was a P.O. box in care of the
Springville Voice. As soon as I got home, I
composed a letter and mailed it.

Three days later I had a reply waiting for me in my mailbox from Shirley Homes inviting me to an interview at two o'clock that very afternoon.
Please be prompt and prepared for a rigorous examination of your intelligence and your character.
That threw me for a minute, but then I decided I could pretend to have character. I am a failed actress after all.

Still, it was strange. But I ignored my misgivings when I saw the starting salary at the end of her letter, which was twice as much as I made at my last crappy job working as a receptionist. And easily three times more than what I was making now as a waitress. The address she gave was in Springville, which was also surprising. With the salary she was offering I would have expected her office to be located in one of the large office buildings in downtown Charlotte. Or maybe over in one of the new suburbs by Lake Gregory.

I only had about an hour to get myself ready if I hoped to be on time. Fortunately, it was my day off, so I didn't have to worry about finding someone to cover my shift at the restaurant. I did my hair and makeup, and put on my most professional outfit with the pearl earrings that Aunt Ilene had given me when I graduated from high school. I still had some nice clothes from my days in L.A. (I think my wardrobe might have been the only reason I was offered the receptionist job in the first place.)

Before I left to meet Shirley I checked myself in the mirror one last time. I have a weird relationship with my face. I can see its good points, but I'm still not sure about the total picture. It literally takes me a few seconds to recognize myself in a photograph. I have good cheekbones, a nice smile, and pretty green eyes. My auburn hair is kind of funky—thick and wavy on good days, a frizzy mess when it's humid. Anna says it's one of my best features, but I don't see it. I'm five foot six, and if I were still in L.A. I could stand to lose a few pounds. But here in Springville a size eight is just fine. One of these days I should start working out again. That's number three on my to-do list, right after discovering the meaning of life and having my car detailed. Armored with my Ann Taylor jacket and skirt, my shoulder-length hair tamed into soft waves courtesy of three different styling products, and benefiting from some carefully applied makeup, I looked entirely different on the outside than I felt on the inside. That had been my goal.

I dashed to my car, started it, and took a left from my neighborhood onto Broad Street to head downtown, arriving ten minutes before two o'clock at the address Shirley had given me: 224 Tailor Street. Her business was located on the second story of an old building in downtown Springville.

It took me a few minutes to find a place to park since most of the buildings located downtown have very small parking lots. Hers was completely full, as were the ones nearby. I was forced to drive around and find a spot on the street a few blocks away. By that time I only had a couple of minutes to spare, so I practically ran the last three blocks until I reached the front of her building again. It was the most exercise I'd had all week, and I was slightly winded as I scoured the building for signs of an entrance to Shirley Homes' office.

On the first floor was a restaurant called Hobson's Bakery. I didn't recognize it. A lot of the businesses had changed hands after I'd left for L.A., and since I'd moved back I hadn't come downtown much except to hang out at the Highlight Bar. Not wanting to waste any more time, I went in and asked the middle-aged woman behind the counter how to get to the office upstairs.

“Shirley's office?” she asked with raised eyebrows.

“Yes.”

“Stairs are round the back,” she told me with a funny look on her face, kind of giving me the once-over, like she was trying to figure me out. I was tempted to ask her to give me a call if she ever did.

“Thank you,” I said uncomfortably, trying to give an impression of a happy, well-adjusted, regular kind of person, and wishing I had time to buy one of the cookies in the display case under the counter since I hadn't had a chance to eat lunch.

I walked outside, and as soon as I went around the corner to the back I saw a small sign posted by a set of wooden stairs that led to a door at the top.
Shirley Homes
the sign read, with an arrow pointing up the stairs. Underneath it was a second sign:
Watch Your Step!
I made my way up the stairs, still damp from the morning rain. When I got to the top I stopped for a minute to catch my breath.

The two large windows on either side of the stairs were too high for me to see inside. And the small window at the top of the door was covered from the inside with Venetian blinds, which were closed. I wasn't sure whether or not to just go in, so I knocked on the door and waited.

After a minute went by without a response, I knocked one more time, waited a few seconds, and then opened the door. I heard a small jingling sound above my head and looked up to see two small bells hanging over the doorway. Once inside I closed the door behind me and took a look around. Next to my feet stood a copper umbrella stand filled with five black umbrellas and a silver-tipped dark brown cane, polished so well that I could see my reflection. On the other side of the door was a potted fern sitting inside a large, brass urn. We were strangers now, but before long taking care of that fern would become the highlight of my day. I eventually named it Tilly.

There was an antique oak desk on the left side of the room with a laptop computer nestled underneath the open rolltop cover. The computer seemed out of place because everything else in the room looked so old-fashioned.

The two large windows that I'd seen from the stairs were each adorned with white lace curtains. They were fastened to the side of the windows by a burgundy red sash attached to brass hooks. The floor was varnished wood; a large Oriental rug lay in the center. A small antique couch covered in heavy blue and burgundy cloth sat against the right wall opposite the desk. Under the two windows were short oak bookcases filled with hardcover books.

On top of one of the bookcases sat a silver tray with a beautiful teapot and four teacups made of white china and dotted with small burgundy flowers. Next to the tray was a hot plate with a pot of steaming water. And hanging on the walls behind the desk on one side, and behind the couch on the other, were two large lithographs of London, both of them depicting a foggy night. In the painting on the right, a carriage made its way down a city street. In the other a man stood on a bridge under a street lamp, staring at the murky river below.

On top of the peculiar
decorating—peculiar
for a place of business in the twenty-first century—it was also very quiet inside. All I heard were the occasional sounds of traffic from outside and the ticking of the grandfather clock next to a door on the back wall. I also detected the faint smell of fresh cookies, which I assumed came from the restaurant downstairs. I stood there for a few moments, taking it all in, and feeling as if I had entered a different world. It was almost like being on a movie set. Then I noticed that the door in the back wall had a handwritten sign hanging on it that read:
Do Not Disturb. Important Work Being Conducted.

I wasn't sure what to do at that point, but decided to sit down in one of the two antique chairs against the wall and wait. Five minutes passed, and then ten. I started to wonder if I'd gotten the wrong day or the wrong time. I pulled the letter Shirley had sent me out of my purse and read it through. This was the right time and the right day.

“Hello?” I called out softly, feeling strangely guilty for disturbing the peaceful atmosphere. “Is anyone here?”

But all I heard was the ticking of the grandfather clock. I decided to give it five more minutes, and if someone didn't appear, I would either knock on the closed door or simply leave. To tell the truth, I was starting to feel a little foolish, as if I'd been the victim of some sort of practical joke.

I folded up the letter, and put it back in my purse, and watched the next five minutes tick by. When they were up I got to my feet. I didn't feel foolish anymore; I was angry. I'm sure Phil McGuire would call what I felt “healthy anger.” He's a big believer in healthy emotions.

Who the hell does this Shirley Homes person think she is?
I remember thinking as I marched over to the door. But just as I got ready to give it a good knock or two, the door flew open, and there stood Shirley Homes.

How to describe her? What words could possibly do justice to Shirley Homes? Well, to start with, she's very tall and very slim, with big brown eyes that seem to look right through a person. Her hair is pretty—a thick chestnut brown slightly lighter in color than her eyes—and falls in loose waves right above her shoulders. It's hard to tell her exact age, but I'd guess early to mid-thirties. Her skin is very pale, but her complexion is flawless. She has a strong nose that might overpower someone else's face. But her sharp cheekbones and wide mouth balance out the size of her nose. Shirley is very striking, although her presence is so overwhelming that I still haven't quite figured out whether or not she is actually attractive.

That day she wore a tailored white shirt with black pants and a plaid jacket. I'd soon come to learn that she wears a variation of that outfit every single day. The shirt varies only in the length of the sleeves and the weight of the fabric of her jacket, depending on the weather. And sometimes she wears a black skirt instead of black pants.

“Welcome,” she barked out in that booming voice of hers. She was beaming at me, her wide mouth stretching across her narrow face, and her eyes twinkling with amusement, as if she knew something that I didn't.

“Thank you,” I said hesitantly, as my anger turned into confusion in the face of her exuberance. I couldn't remember the last time anyone had seemed so happy to see me.

“Come in. Come in,” she said, waving me through the doorway with a flourish. I went into her office, and she shut the door behind us. “Please be seated.”

As I walked over to the chair in front of her desk I was struck by the fact that there was no computer on her large oak desk, and that she had one of those old-fashioned phones with a rotary dial, the kind you see in old movies.

There were two paintings on the wall behind her desk: one of a foggy London street similar to those in the outer office, and the other of a beautiful green countryside.

“Tammy,” she said as she took a seat behind her desk, and I took a long, deep breath to steady my nerves. I was rattled by the whole experience so far, and it was getting harder by the moment to keep smiling. Shirley leaned back in her chair, still beaming, and as she continued to stare at me with those penetrating eyes I felt a drop of sweat trickle down my forehead.

As I pretended to rearrange a lock of my hair in order to wipe the trickle of sweat off my face, she suddenly leaned forward.

“You're hired!” she exclaimed.

“Excuse me?” I asked, so startled that my hand remained fixed in the center of my forehead, stopped in mid-swipe.

“You are exactly the sort of person I have been looking for to assist me. You're solid and steady. You follow instructions, but you have a breaking point. You'll do what's necessary if the stakes are high enough. You'll stand up for yourself when necessary and face danger head-on. You're wondering how I know all that, aren't you?” she asked as I stared at her, more than a little dumbfounded.

“It's simple,” she went on. “I have been trying to find a personal assistant for almost two months. I knew the search would be difficult, but I was willing to wait for the right person. My first test was asking all the applicants to apply by mail and in their own handwriting, which would quickly eliminate people in whom I simply would not be interested. I have made a careful study of handwriting analysis and what it reveals about a person's character and temperament. However, such in-depth analysis ultimately proved unnecessary. Of all the letters I received, only three were legible: yours and two others. And the other two had missing commas in their replies. You, however, did not. You know your grammar, and that is a dying art. Indeed, most of my favorite things in this life either are currently, or soon will become, dying arts.” She punctuated this observation with a wistful sigh, gazing at a point somewhere behind my left ear. After a protracted pause, she abruptly jerked back to the present moment, once again focusing intently on my face. I shifted in my seat, uncomfortable with that intensity. “I had, therefore, a favorable impression of you before you walked in this door,” she continued, still grinning at me with her disconcerting Cheshire Cat smile.

I had Aunt Ilene to thank for my mastery of commas. She had been a high school English teacher. After I went to live with her, she used to go through all my homework, editing everything until I knew my commas and semicolons backward and forward. She also used to make me send handwritten thank-you notes for birthday parties, Christmas presents, etc. They didn't go into the envelope until she had pronounced them acceptable. That accounted for my penmanship.