The Case of the Invisible Dog (22 page)

“But I was trying to do right!” Lawrence wailed. “For once in my life, and look what it got me!”

“Get him out of here,” the judge ordered as Lawrence squirmed, trying to wriggle free from the bailiff's grasp.

“Lawrence,” Shirley called out as the bailiff began dragging him toward the side door. “I shall pay your bail. Your Honor, I can pay my fine and Mr. Dunbar's bail right now.”

“We're kind of backed up today,” the judge told her, grinning with satisfaction. “We'll let you cool your heels in a cell while we get caught up. The other bailiff will be here in a moment to escort you there.”

“Hey! You!” Lawrence yelled, dragging his heels and wriggling around to face the spectators. “Whatever your name is. Lady with Shirley!”

At that point I assumed a completely blank expression and pretended to be like every single other person in the courtroom: I looked around to see who in the world Lawrence Dunbar was talking to.

“You! Lady in the pink sweater and that thingie on your head!” I kept looking around, but since I was the only one in the courtroom wearing a pink sweater and a “thingie” on my head (known to some as a scarf), everyone else stopped looking in all directions, and instead began looking at me. “You gotta go get it. The doggie doorbell! That's how they did it. They used a doggie doorbell! I found it in their garage. It's in my cab.”

What? Lawrence found the evidence and figured out how the invisible dog plan had worked? If I hadn't had a reason to be depressed before…

“I should have just left then. But when I got back to my cab I remembered there had been some other stuff next to that doggie doorbell. Wires and shit—I mean stuff. Maybe stuff that would be important for your case. So I made the biggest mistake of my life and I went back. My cab is parked…I can't remember exactly where, but right around there somewhere. You'll see it. It's like two or three streets over! Go get it!”

The judge had started banging his gavel as soon as Lawrence started yelling, but the louder he banged, the louder Lawrence shouted over him.

“Go!” Shirley shouted in my direction. “Think not of our plight! You must not tarry in your quest for justice!”

The side doors opened and another bailiff came storming in. The judge pointed to Shirley and the man ran over and grabbed on to her right arm.

“The invisible dog, Tammy!” she exclaimed. “That's all that matters now!”

During this entire proceeding I had not moved. I had kept my face frozen. I had stared straight ahead. I had not reacted at all. When Lawrence and Shirley were removed, the courtroom stayed quiet for a few moments. The judge, the serious man in the dark suit, and all the spectators were engaged in the same activity: staring at me. I found a spot on the wall and focused all my attention on that.

“Young lady,” the judge said. I felt his eyes on me and my cheeks started to flush. “In the pink sweater? And the, er, scarf?”

“Oh, me, Your Honor?” I asked innocently, finally forcing myself to look up at him.

“Can you tell me what that was all about?”

“Not really.”

“You don't know those two people who kept shouting at you?”

“Never seen them before in my life,” I said as nonchalantly as I could. “An invisible dog?” I gave a little chuckle. “I think they both must be a little crazy.”

Once the next defendant's name was called I sat in my seat like a statue and did not stand up until his arraignment was under way. Thank God I had been smart enough to take a chair at the end of the row. I tiptoed out of the courtroom as quietly as I could. It wasn't until I was safely outside in the hallway that I started breathing normally again.

I took a moment to collect myself and then started toward the exit. I wanted out of that building before someone dragged me off in handcuffs and charged me with something along the lines of: a) causing a judge to come close to having a nervous breakdown, or b) bringing the entire justice system to a grinding halt. In other words, having anything to do with Shirley Homes.

As I started down the hallway, someone went running past, almost knocking me over with their huge purse as they went by. I looked behind me, thinking that Shirley had somehow managed to cause a mass evacuation of the building. But everything looked normal—no mass hysteria or panicked mobs fleeing to safety. So Shirley must be tucked behind bars. For now. When I turned back around, the hallway was empty.

I walked out of the courthouse and made my way to the parking lot where I'd left my car. I started the engine, and then sat there for a minute, finally feeling safe, even if I was still reeling from the fact that Lawrence Dunbar had apparently cracked the case. Although I
was
the one who had come up with the idea that the invisible-dog equipment might be sitting inside the Browns'. And I was the one…Oh, skip it.

I was still back to motive. Since the doggie doorbell had been in the Browns' garage then they had to be involved. But why? And where did that leave Matt Peterman's ex-wife? Was his murder unrelated to the invisible dog? Did she hire the Browns? How would she have known them? Was everyone involved: Patty, Angie, and the Browns?

At least with Shirley in jail I could do some investigating on my own. I'd see if I could somehow make sense of this case. And I wouldn't have to worry about disguises or canes or hats.

I would start with Lawrence's cab and then take it from there.

I made it over to the neighborhood outside of Matt's cul-de-sac in about twenty minutes. I drove slowly and found Lawrence Dunbar's cab three streets over. But the minute I saw it, I already knew I was too late. The windows had been shattered, and both the hood and trunk were open. There was no point in even taking a look. I knew that the doggie doorbell was gone.

I sat there staring at the neighborhood, now virtually empty except for the Browns…Matt gone, the Pittfords gone…and it struck me all over again how odd it was, but with a new intensity. Maybe we'd been looking at this all wrong. Maybe nothing that had happened had been personal at all. Maybe it had absolutely nothing to do with Matt Peterman or his life. Maybe it had been about something else entirely.

I thought about that for a few minutes, but then, even though it was completely silent and there was no sign of anyone else around, I started to have a creepy feeling that I was being watched. I sped up and got out of there as fast as I could.

Mrs. Hobson looked as thrilled to see me as she usually did, but this time I didn't care. After I left Lawrence's cab I knew what I wanted: a big bowl of her homemade soup, two slices of her fresh-baked pumpkin nut bread, a piece of her red velvet cake for dessert, and some time to sit and think.

Even though the lunch crowd thinned and everyone around me ate their meal and left, I continued to sit. Mrs. Hobson asked me every five minutes if I needed anything else (translation: please leave), but I was able to block her out. I had my mind on other things, and I just didn't let her get to me.

Phil McGuire: How much do you worry about what other people think of you?

Me: I guess the usual amount.

Phil McGuire: What is the usual amount?

Me: I don't know. What do
you
think?

In my mind, I pictured the cul-de-sac. Everyone was gone now; everyone except the Browns. So what if this whole thing had been about getting Matt Peterman out of his house, and that's why he had been killed. But if they planned on killing him, why bother creating the invisible dog? Unless
that
had been their plan to drive him away. And then they'd gotten impatient?

But why? Why did they need all those empty houses? For the land? But there was plenty of undeveloped land in and around Springville. What would make that particular acreage so valuable?

I used my phone to go online and try to get some information on my tiny little screen. I Googled Matt Peterman and found out he had been divorced for three years. There had been an obituary for his parents a year ago. They had been killed in a boating accident on Lake Gregory. For a moment I wondered if it
had
been an accident, but then I looked up the archived
Springville Voice
files and found the story. A bunch of college kids had been drunk and racing each other on the lake, and one of them had plowed their boat into Matt's parents' boat. He was still in prison.

There were a couple of other things about Matt—his employee web page for the insurance company he worked for. A really sad Facebook page that hadn't been updated for months. But nothing else.

I tried putting in his address, and then the street by itself, but nothing came up. I actually didn't know what I was doing, but a real private detective probably would. I had done some research for a part (female private detective who doesn't know that her husband has taken out a contract on her life) that I tried out for. I knew that they had access to special databases.

This whole thing would drive me crazy unless I got to the bottom of it. I was making decent money. Thanks to Shirley I had dental insurance. That would cover most of the cost of replacing my back filling if I ever got around to making the appointment. It had been three whole days since my car had made that funny sound, which might mean that it had somehow magically fixed itself. And I had a bonus coming.

I thought about it for a couple minutes, and then I made my decision. Finding out who killed Matt Peterman was the first thing that had truly interested me in months. I would pay someone to get more information. And then I could decide what to do from there.

“This a domestic?” Sid asked. “Husband dipping his hot dog in another bottle of mustard?”

“No,” I said. “It's something else.”

Sid was quite possibly the most revolting human being that I had ever met in my entire life—and I spent seven years in Los Angeles. It wasn't his weight; it was his total lack of hygiene. He had dark stains on the armpits of his shirt. Sweat glistened on his forehead, and he wiped it off every minute or so with the back of his right arm. His fingernails were long and ragged, and I could see dirt caked inside the tips. As a person currently struggling with a noticeable lack of optimism concerning my life and the options available to me, I occasionally did not get out of my pajamas upon arising. Lord knows I didn't shave my legs quite as often I should. There were days when styling my hair involved nothing more than a quick brush before stuffing it all under a headband or pulling it back into a ponytail. But I did not ignore the basics, such as teeth brushing, armpit maintenance, and regular bathing.

However, unlike the other detectives I'd called, Sid could see me right away. His fee wasn't bad, and I had a feeling he wouldn't ask too many questions.

“Not a domestic. Glad to hear, 'cause I was gonna say that you should be enough for anyone's hot dog.”

All the extra care I'd taken that morning in front of the mirror hadn't been in vain.

“Been in this business long enough, though, to know it doesn't matter. Guy that's gotta double dip could be married to someone that gives Angelina Jolie a run for her money. Wouldn't stop him. It's like a compulsion, see? Anyway, domestics are kind of my specialty. A lot of agencies don't even do it anymore. But I can handle most anything. What you looking for?”

“Here's the thing. I don't know exactly what I'm looking for. But what I'd like you to do is see what you can find out about a street.”

“A street?”

“It's a small cul-de-sac. Only five houses. And four of them are empty now.”

“This economy. Still some empty streets around.”

“There's only one foreclosure. The rest of them, well, it's just weird. I'd like to see what you can find out.”

“Got the addresses?”

“Yes.”

I gave Sid the information.

“Normally it might take me longer, but I just heard from the wife of the guy I was supposed to follow this afternoon. He called in sick. No nooners for him today. She's pretty pissed having to take care of him when she knows he's horndogging around. Give me a couple hours,” he said. “I'll see what I can do.”

In a way I kind of hated to leave Sid behind. The food in his teeth—my guess was a burger and fries—was disgusting. His body odor was overwhelming. But he fascinated me. I wanted to ask him how he did it. How did he find the strength to keep going? What got him out of bed in the morning? Or did he even think about it? Did he ever ask himself why he was here and was it worth all the effort? Probably not. That was the difference. I thought about it all the time.

I killed some time by running errands. There was a Redbox outside the grocery store, so I scanned the titles. There was a new movie just out on video that I couldn't wait to see. One reviewer had said of it, “If your goal is to spend two and a half hours watching a plot that makes no sense, and actors who look as if they wandered onto the set by mistake and wish they could find the nearest escape hatch, then this is the movie for you!” He was right. It was definitely the movie for me.

“Okay, so it's kind of weird,” Sid said when I returned to his office two hours later. “The one house that's up for sale is just sitting there. A sale did go through a few weeks ago, but when they did the inspection, they discovered the whole place was filled with mold and lots of termite damage. The owners had already moved out of state, and they're suing the real estate company that was supposed to keep the property maintained for negligence. And the house that's in
foreclosure—same
thing. This couple got a great deal last month at an auction but backed out when they had an inspection done and found—you guessed it—all kinds of mold and termite damage. Right now the bank and the mortgage company are fighting over who should pay to get all that stuff taken care of.

“You got two houses that are occupied—the first one by a guy named Matt Peterman. His folks bought the farm about a year ago. It was paid off so he inherited the house free and clear. And then the poor slob got shot a few days ago. This is one unlucky neighborhood.

“The other house has been occupied for the past twenty years by a couple called the Pittfords. The last house—the one next door to the Peterman property that you were so interested in—was almost in foreclosure before it was sold a couple months ago to Merryweather Properties. No mold or termite damage in that one. Can't see why a big outfit like that would be interested in buying a house here in Springville.”

“Nothing about a Chuck or Nancy Brown?” I asked. “Because that's who's living there right now.”

“Nope. Maybe they're renting it from Merryweather. Still can't see why a little rental property would interest them. But Merryweather is owned by another company, which is owned by another company, and then it all starts splitting off in so many directions that you can't follow the trail.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me?”

“Nope. I went through all the relevant databases, and that's all I could find.”

I drove back over to the neighborhood in front of Matt's cul-de-sac and sat inside my car. I didn't drive into the cul-de-sac itself. I was still a little spooked. I sat on that upper street and looked down at those five houses. All of them dark; all of them empty.

Except for one.

The sun was starting to go down, and I didn't want to be here after dark. The last thing I wanted was for the Browns to come driving past and spot me sitting there. I actually had a working theory now that answered a lot of my questions. If I was right the two of them had managed to torment and then kill Matt, injure the Pittfords, and shoot at Lawrence Dunbar—all without any consequences. (If they ran me off the road the police department would probably just heave a sigh of relief. Their only regret might be that Shirley hadn't been in the car with me.)

As I sat there debating all this—thinking I should really get out of there—my phone rang. I glanced at my caller ID. It was Shirley, calling from the office.

“Tammy? Shirley Homes here. I was able to reach Myra. Once I agreed to help sponsor her club's next charity tournament she obtained the necessary funds for my bail, which I shall, of course, repay, and I have been freed. I also have Lawrence Dunbar here with me; I was able to free him on my own by posting his bail. My experience as a prisoner unjustly held in the American justice system has been a real eye-opener. But that is a discussion for another time. More importantly, are you in possession of the doggie doorbell?”

“No. Someone got to Lawrence's cab before me.”

“I feared as much. Where are you now?”

“I'm sitting here looking at Matt Peterman's street. Every house is empty. Every house except the one where Chuck and Nancy Brown live.”

“An interesting detail, to be sure, although I do not see the relevance. Now that I am a free citizen once again, it is time to regroup and reexamine every detail of this investigation. Stop at Waffle Barn. Get enough food for you and Mr. Dunbar and me—with plenty of those delicious Barn Buster waffles—and meet us at the office. I believe that we are getting close, Tammy—very close to unraveling this ball of yarn that seems to grow larger by the day!”

Shirley hung up. I was beginning to regret the day I had ever introduced her to the waffles of Waffle Barn almost as much as I regretted the day that I went to work for her.

It was…What's the word I'm looking for here? Humiliating? Sobering? Ego deflating? Or is there a word that adequately describes the situation I found myself in? The situation of sitting and listening to Lawrence Dunbar
explain
one of the mysteries regarding the existence of the invisible dog? No. There is no word in the English language adequate to describe the experience.

“So,” Lawrence said, once we had all settled in around Shirley's desk and sat down to enjoy the Waffle Barn feast. “In answer to your question, Shirley, this is how I figured it out. See, I have this cousin over in Morganville. You guys know where that is? Little town about thirty miles north of Hickory?”

“I think the better question, Mr. Dunbar,” Shirley told him, “is whether or not there is any town in the state of North Carolina that does not contain one or more of your cousins.”

“Huh?”

“Continue.”

“So anyway, this whole invisible dog thing. Ever since you told me, Shirley, I couldn't stop thinking about it. So I decided to call my cousin Ed. He's one of those handyman types. I asked how you could go about making barking noises inside someone's house. I was thinking that someone would have to get, like, some kind of recording machine. And then find a dog barking and tape the sounds. But Ed reminded me about our cousin Arnie, and what he did after his dog died. You with me?”

“Yes, Mr. Dunbar,” Shirley said dryly. “We are with you.”

“Our cousin Arnie had a dog. And the dog died. Arnie was too upset to get another one. But he liked the way his dog would bark whenever someone rang his doorbell. So one day he was at the hardware store and found a thing called a doggie doorbell. It sounds like a dog barking every time you ring the thing. Get it? So then I asked Ed if it would be possible to set it up somewhere else besides the regular doorbell spot. And he said he'd have to think about it. And so he did. Think about it. And he said he thought it could be done. You'd just have to run some wiring across to the other place you picked out. And then push the button, and bam! Sounds like a dog barking.”

“Well done,” Shirley said after swallowing a huge bite of her Barn Buster waffle. “Please continue. Tammy needs to hear the rest of your story.”

“Tammy?” Lawrence asked.

“Pink sweater? Thingie on my head?”

“Oh, yeah. So that was yesterday afternoon when I got all that figured out. At first I couldn't get hold of you, and then I had to crash for a while 'cause I had the late shift. It's mostly sitting around. That's what I was doing—sitting around, waiting for a fare—when I cruised by and saw the office light on. And I was gonna tell her my idea, I really was…” Lawrence gave her a sheepish grin. “…but then when Shirley said that stuff might be at the Browns' and talked about needing a good burglar—”