The Case of the Invisible Dog (23 page)

“A joke, Mr. Dunbar,” Shirley said with a playful wag of her finger.

“But when you winked at me, I thought—”

“Winked?” Shirley asked, flabbergasted. “I most certainly do not remember winking at you.”

“Yeah, I was sitting right across from you, and you kind of leaned forward a little, and then you—”

“Neither here nor there.” Shirley sniffed as she dipped a piece of her waffle into the maple syrup pooled on the side of her plate. “Perhaps a cinder in my eye, or the result of long, sleepless nights, trying to solve this case. Continue with your story, Mr. Dunbar, beginning with those events that took place post-wink, upon which point we shall agree to disagree.”

“Okay. So due to a
misunderstanding
regarding a certain person's eye, I decided to cruise by the Browns' place, and when I saw they weren't home, I thought my golden opportunity had finally arrived. A chance to, like, prove myself. I couldn't believe it when I found the actual doggie doorbell right there in the garage. Only I went back for the other stuff, and then they came home, and, well, you know the rest. But it was worth it. Working with Shirley wouldn't just be a dream; it would be a dream come true.”

“Very flattering, Mr. Dunbar,” Shirley told him with an indulgent smile. “But it was still extremely foolhardy. This sort of thing is best left to
professionals.”

“Yeah,” Lawrence said sadly as I tried not to choke on my bacon. “Like you guys.”

Yeah. Like us guys. The professionals.

“Still don't know what I'm gonna tell my cousin about that taxi getting all busted up,” Lawrence said with a depth of sadness that could have put Ol' Man River to shame.

“You shall tell him to call me with the repair bill,” Shirley told him crisply. “Which I intend to pay in full upon receipt.”

“Really?” Lawrence asked, thunderstruck, as a glob of waffle syrup ran down his chin.

“Really,” Shirley said, smiling at him fondly before turning her gaze toward me. “Before we were so rudely interrupted by my unjust, uncalled-for, and completely unnecessary incarceration, Tammy, you and I had planned to review the case together, in order for me to guide you. Now that we have this new information from our Mr. Dunbar, I believe we should pick up where we left off. What is your theory regarding this most interesting case of ours?”

“I get to stay, right?” Lawrence asked, wiping the syrup from his chin with what remained of his well-used napkin.

“Yes, you do, Mr. Dunbar,” Shirley told him. “You earned that right when you discovered the mechanism that created the invisible dog. An important clue that had eluded Tammy and me. It is a new and humbling experience for me and I thank you for your most invaluable assistance. Tammy? The case? Your thoughts?”

I swallowed the last of my biscuit, leaned back in my chair, and took a deep breath. I'd been preparing my story on my drive back. There was no way that I could let Shirley know that I had hired an actual private detective to do our detecting for us.

“I actually have a brand-new theory,” I said as nonchalantly as possible.

“Really?” Shirley asked with raised eyebrows. “I am fascinated to hear it.”

“I don't think that Matt Peterman was tormented or killed for any personal reason. I think someone wanted him out of his house. Now that he's gone and the Pittfords are gone, the only people living on that cul-de-sac are Chuck and Nancy Brown.”

“Yes,” Shirley said with a small nod. “I believe I mentioned that the last time we were there.”

“Fortunately, I remembered that. And then I asked myself
What would Shirley Homes do if she wasn't stuck in prison?
Following your masterful style, I went to a real estate agent, and pretended I was in the market for a house. I described what I wanted, basing it on the house for sale on Matt's cul-de-sac. And then, following your style once again, I started asking a lot of
pointed questions.
And do you know what I found out? That one house on his street that's in foreclosure? And the one that still has the For Sale sign? They both had sales going through that were stopped because extremely bad cases of mold and termite damage were discovered. Now, I would bet that when Matt's house goes up for sale and the inspection is done, they're going to find mold and termites there, too. And the same for the Pittfords' home.”

“Hmmm,” Shirley said, holding a giant forkful of waffle in midair. “So it was Matt's misfortune to inherit a house in a moldy and termite-infested neighborhood,” she mused. “And somehow that all ties in with the invisible dog. Most interesting.”

“Or maybe those houses didn't have mold or termite damage. Not originally. Maybe someone made sure it got there. Maybe someone wants all those houses to sit empty…No. Wait a minute. Not to sit empty. I think I have it. It's just like you always say, Shirley. You just have to keep going over the clues again and again until something jumps out at you. What if someone wants all those houses to sit empty until they're ready to buy? I bet that's it. They make sure all the property values get lowered, and then they come in and buy everything up.”

“A passable theory, I suppose,” Shirley said. “But aren't you forgetting the key to this whole case? The invisible dog? Where does he fit in?”

“What if…what if that was how they planned on getting Matt out? Remember when he said it wasn't just the noise. That he didn't like dogs? He inherited that house free and clear. He probably wanted to stay put. Maybe they thought the barking would drive him so crazy that he would decide to sell the place. And when he goes to put it on the market, the inspector finds mold and termite damage, just like in the other homes. But then they either got greedy or impatient, or maybe both, and just decided to kill him.

“And here's another thing. We could never figure out a motive for the Browns to do something like this. But Chuck and Nancy Brown aren't listed as the owners of that house they live in. It's owned by this big
company—Merryweather
Properties—whose
headquarters are in New York. Why would a big company from New York buy a house here in Springville? What if Chuck and Nancy Brown are working for them? What if Merryweather wants to buy up all that land at a really cheap price?”

“I see,” Shirley said, nodding her head. “I am glad to see that the extra time I have spent training you is paying off. Well, I must say, my theory is coming together nicely. Chuck and Nancy Brown obviously did not realize who they were dealing with. As if I would fall for that little performance, their supposed appreciation for my walking stick. You have answered all my questions splendidly, a result of vigorous and thorough investigation on your part, Tammy.”

“Hmph,” Lawrence Dunbar said. “But that doggie doorbell, that's what cracked the case wide open.”

“But we still don't know about Angie,” I said. “Was she a part of it, or did the Browns do something to her? And Matt's ex-wife. Where does she fit in?”

“Yes,” Shirley said thoughtfully. “Perhaps we can pay her a visit, in disguise of course, and see what we can discover.”

“We can't,” I said casually, caught up in my own thoughts.

“Why ever not?” Shirley asked curtly.

“She's been arrested. Oh!” I said, seeing the surprised look on her face. “Sorry. With all that's been going on I never got a chance to tell you. I saw Patty being led into the police station today when I went to see about Lawrence. She's been arrested on suspicion of murder.”

“Pity,” Shirley said. “As usual, the police have taken the easy way out and simply arrested the most logical suspect. And, in many cases, the logical suspect does, in fact, turn out to be the actual suspect. But I do not believe that is the situation here. Otherwise my services would not be required.”

“Yeah,” I said, running everything through my head. “The Browns are the only ones that we know for sure had something to do with this.”

“Yep,” Lawrence said, nodding his head vigorously. “That much we know. Thanks to the doggie doorbell.”

“But,” I went on, “this was a pretty well thought out plan. Whoever was behind it knew what they were doing. And they wouldn't want a lot of people knowing about it.”

“A very good point,” Shirley said as she stabbed her Barn Buster for another bite. “It has been bothering me all evening.”

“Especially someone like Patty, who has a pretty big mouth. And hangs out in bars a lot. The Browns knew about Matt's fear of dogs and his sleep disorder. And his ex-wife would be the obvious person to know personal things like that. But what if she wasn't actually part of the plan? Or didn't know she was part of the plan?”

“
What if,
indeed?” Shirley asked with a thoughtful expression on her face. “It is amazing how our minds continually run in the same direction.”

“What do divorced women love to talk about more than anything? How awful their ex-husbands are. Especially the annoying little personal things and anything they can make fun of. But everyone they know gets sick of hearing it after a while. So if Patty met someone who pretended to be
interested—say,
for instance, Chuck or Nancy Brown—she probably could have gone on for hours, spilling the beans about every single thing she hated about Matt Peterman, and all his annoying quirks.”

“Hmmm,” Shirley replied, setting her fork down reluctantly and folding her hands on top of her desk, a faraway look in her eyes. “That is what I meant when I said it was a pity that she had been arrested. This intriguing theory of ours that you have managed to articulate so well—enabling me to continue enjoying this delightful repast—leaves only the loose end of Angie Berger, a onetime suspect, but now a potential victim instead. I fear, as I did from the first moment she disappeared, that her fate has not been a pleasant one.”

I shuddered a little, hoping that she hadn't met the same fate as Matt. “Oh, no,” I said with a sigh as it dawned on me what we would have to do next. I dreaded it with every fiber of my being. I could imagine the ridicule and the scorn; I could picture the expression on his face. And on his partner's face.

“There is something you need to do that you don't want to,” Shirley said with a knowing smile. “No, it is not a magic trick. The simple observation of the expression on your face, combined with the familiar ‘oh, no' that is uttered when human beings have to face something unpleasant, has given me all the information I need.”

“Wow,” Lawrence said with awe. “You're good.”

Phil McGuire likes to tell me you have to pick your battles. This one was already over. I didn't see that I really had any choice. I would have to pay another visit to the Springville police station. I would have to ask to speak to the detectives handling Matt Peterman's murder. I would have to tell the two of them the story of the doggie doorbell and explain how Lawrence had gotten it. I would have to do all this on the chance that the Browns had something to do with Angie's disappearance, and if they had, on the very slim chance that she might still be alive.

And, worst of all, I would have to take Shirley Homes with me.

Once I explained why I thought we needed to make another attempt to have the police listen to us—
Exactly!
Shirley agreed.
I was moments away from suggesting the very same thing—
I called the police station and was told that Detectives Owen and Addams had gone home for the evening. I knew there was no way they'd come back that night to talk to
us,
so we agreed to wait until morning to pay them a visit. (It was only when I got home later that I realized the next day was Saturday. I reviewed my social calendar and it turned out I could squeeze in a quick visit to the police. Or a lengthy one, for that matter.)

“I get to go, too, right?” Lawrence asked eagerly. “I'm the one who figured out about the doggie doorbell.”

“Don't you have to drive your cab?” I asked hopefully.

“My cousin lets me work flexible hours.”

“You do understand that you'll have to admit what you did,” I reminded him. “That you broke into the Browns' house and took their property?”

“For a good cause,” Lawrence said huffily.

“The police might not see it that way.”

“It is your choice, Lawrence,” Shirley said, kindly.

“I'll do it,” he said, pausing for only a second. “On one condition. That if I get locked up you promise to hire me on the day they spring me loose.”

“Consider it done,” Shirley said, patting his hand as his lower lip quivered. “I commend you for your courageous decision. And should there be legal consequences, rest assured that I will lend you every means of support at my disposal. Very well, we meet back here tomorrow at eight a.m. And then we pay a visit to the very good-looking, though rather mediocre-thinking, Detective Owen.”

The hour that I spend with Phil McGuire every week always seems to pass so slowly. Most of the time I feel as if what he says goes in one ear and out the other. I don't think he
gets it.
I think he's read about it, and that's different.

And yet I am always surprised when something he's said to me will occasionally pop into my head without any warning.

Me: Aren't you always saying that each of us is a separate and complete individual? So why are you trying to judge me on the basis of other people?

Phil McGuire: I think you're
misinterpreting
what I mean. I'm asking you to examine all those relationships. All those friends you had in Los Angeles who you now feel weren't actually friends at all.

Me: Since I haven't heard from any of them since I came back, I think it's a pretty good guess. But now that they're out of my life, what's the point?

Phil McGuire: Self-knowledge. We tend to attract people based on who we are, and where we are, emotionally.

I really did not want to think about Phil's theory, and what it meant about me, as I followed Shirley Homes and Lawrence Dunbar the next morning up the steps leading to the Springville police station. Of all the people I knew, these were the two that I had spent the most time with during the past week. It didn't bear thinking about.

Shirley wasn't wearing her hat or using her cane, thank God. As for Lawrence—well, I guess he decided to dress up for the occasion. It was not a wise decision. He wore khaki slacks that were too short, leaving the tops of his white socks visible. He had on loafers with tassels, and it just wasn't the look for him. His light blue Oxford shirt wasn't bad, but the brown leather jacket he had on over it was too tight and made squeaky sounds as he walked.

I, myself, had gone with a casual but tailored ensemble: white jeans, a pale green pullover accented with the pink and green pin-striped scarf (aka, the “thingie”) tied around my neck, and large silver hoops in my ears. It was far too late to make a good first impression on the Springville Police Department, but maybe the third time would be a charm. Thinking along those lines, I also took a few extra minutes to blow-dry and tame my messy hair with a diffuser.

“How may I help you?” the man at the desk asked. It wasn't the same man as before. This one was young, with sandy brown hair, pink cheeks, and a happy, innocent expression. That expression was probably about to change.

“Good morning,” Shirley boomed. “We need to speak to Detective Owen at once. It is urgent. It is in regard to the murder of Matt Peterman. An innocent woman is being charged with the crime, and we have vital information that will vindicate her and prevent a horrible miscarriage of justice.”

“Wow,” the young man said. Pete was the name on his name tag. He was new here apparently; he appeared to be taking Shirley at her word. “If you want to have a seat over there I'll see if Detective Owen is available. I'm not sure he's in. What's the name?”

“The name is—”

“Lawrence Dunbar,” I interrupted before Shirley could get her name out. There was no way Detective Owen would see us if he knew it was
us.
“Tell him it's Lawrence Dunbar. You don't really need to mention us. He's the one with the important information.”

“Okay,” Pete said, still cheerful after spending two minutes in the presence of Shirley Homes, a possible world record. “Have a seat.”

“How very kind of you,” Shirley whispered as Lawrence led the way over to the row of seats along the wall with his chest puffed out. “Giving Lawrence the credit.”

“He deserved it,” I said, shrugging my shoulders as if it was no big deal. I could share the limelight; I could throw Lawrence Dunbar a bone. That's just the kind of person I am.

We sat there for a couple minutes, and then Pete let us know that Detective Owen would be out in just a moment. My stomach did somersaults. I had to keep telling myself that the reason we were here was important enough to suffer through some embarrassment if necessary. So what if Detective Owen—and for that matter, most of the Springville Police
Department—thought
we were crazy? It wasn't as if these people would be a regular part of our lives.

I took deep breaths. I tuned out whatever inane discussion Lawrence was having with Shirley.

And then the door opened. And when I saw the expression on Detective Owen's face, all of my pep talk faded away, and I pretty much wanted to sink into the middle of the earth. There was no disguising what he was feeling and thinking:
Of all the people on this planet that I am not in the mood to see right now, Shirley Homes and Tammy Norman are the top two. In third place would be that moron they've brought along with them. I am a busy, underpaid police detective, and I really don't need this crap right now.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Absolutely not.”

He started to turn away and Shirley got to her feet.

“Detective Owen!” she bellowed. “Are you telling me that you refuse to listen to information that three taxpaying citizens of Springville are here to bring to your attention? Information that pertains to a murder, a woman who may be facing imminent danger, and another woman who could end up being wrongfully convicted, while the real killer walks free?”

Detective Owen slowly turned back around to face us. He sighed so loudly that I could have sworn the leaves on the potted plant sitting on the counter actually fluttered when he exhaled.

“Come with me,” he said, not angrily, but kind of sadly. I wasn't sure what that meant, but I had a feeling we were about to find out.

“Please have a seat,” he said politely as we all followed him into the little room that Shirley and I had been taken to before.

Lawrence grinned from ear to ear and strutted around like a peacock. Shirley marched in with her head held high, sure that her little speech was what had turned things around. But I knew that he was only humoring us. He'd listen politely, then send us on our way. And probably only to prevent Shirley from making a scene in the lobby of the Springville Police Department.

“Thank you for seeing us,” Shirley said as Detective Owen took a seat on the other side of the table. “Now, as I was saying—”

“Don't speak,” Detective Owen said, holding up his hand. “Just listen.” He ran his fingers through his thick dark hair and sighed again, although not quite as loudly this time. “I have tried to be patient. I have made allowances. And I do understand. We all need a useful role to play in life. Right now, for instance, I have the role of police detective. It gives me a useful function, and I like to think that I contribute something to society.

“And I also understand that life can be difficult if you cannot find a role for yourself. I'm sure that if for some reason I could no longer be a police detective I would have a long period of adjustment. But I would have to face reality. I would have to move on. Being a police detective is not who I am. It is what I do.

“Ms. Homes, I am sorry that you have never found a useful role for yourself. I don't know what has led to your belief that you are the great-great-granddaughter of Sherlock Holmes. I don't know—”

“That is not a belief, sir. That is a fact.”

“You're the great-great-granddaughter of that Sherlock guy?” Lawrence asked with wide eyes. “Like in the movie?”

“There is no movie that has ever come close to capturing the true essence of my great-great-grandfather,” Shirley retorted with a contemptuous shake of her head.

“Ms. Homes,” Detective Owen said patiently—but from the grim set of his lips and the way his right eyelid was starting to twitch, I could tell he was struggling to maintain that patience. “Let's give you the benefit of the doubt, even if it does fly in the face of common sense. Let's assume that you are the great-great-granddaughter of Sherlock Holmes. That still does not give you the right to run around causing disturbances and being a nuisance. I'm sorry if that sounds harsh. But you are a wealthy woman. You have choices. There are many other things you could be doing with your life. You cannot continue this farce. The next time that you come barging in here or interfere with my investigation, I will have you arrested. And that is not an idle threat.”

“My good man,” Shirley said after a moment, sitting up straight in her chair. “All I can say is thank goodness Scotland Yard did not have your attitude. I am sorry that my identity threatens you. We could have been great allies. And you should know that all credit would have gone to you. Like my great-great-grandfather, I am not in it for the glory. But very well. We shall not bother you again.”

“Good. And we're clear?”

“Very clear. Come along, Tammy. Lawrence.”

Shirley stood up.

“So wait,” Lawrence said. “Does this mean I don't get to tell him about the doggie doorbell?” he asked, glancing back and forth between Shirley and Detective Owen, who rolled his eyes and shook his head.

“Yes, Lawrence,” Shirley told him. “Unfortunately it means exactly that.”

Lawrence pushed back his chair and lumbered to his feet. Shirley started toward the door, and Lawrence pushed his chair in and followed sadly behind.

“Wait!” I shouted, not meaning to be so loud. But to me this was it; this was our last chance to make Detective Owen listen.

“Ms. Norman, please don't make this—”

“Please listen. I know you think we're just these wacky people running around with no idea what we're doing. And I could go through and list everything that we've found out. But I know you wouldn't believe me. You've already decided that we're crazy, and no one listens to crazy people. So will you do just one thing? Do this one thing, and I promise that if I'm wrong you will never, ever see us again.”

Detective Owen looked up at the ceiling. Shirley and Lawrence were both staring at me, but I ignored them. I kept my focus on Detective Owen. I kept the expression on my face as calm as I could. After a few moments he looked down and then over at me.

“Is that a firm promise?”

“Absolutely.”

“What do you want?”

“Okay, first of all, I'm not doing this because I'm some kind of a drama queen, or to make a point. I think someone is in actual danger. Angie Berger. I think there's a chance that the Browns might be holding her, that is if they haven't killed her.”

“We've been through all this before about the Browns.”

“You're still holding Matt Peterman's ex-wife, right?” Detective Owen nodded his head with an exasperated sigh. “Because of the stuff we know, the stuff you won't believe, we think that Matt's ex-wife didn't have anything to do with his death. We think she was tricked into telling someone all that stuff about Matt—the sleep disorder, the fear of dogs. Will you please go ask her if she remembers talking to anyone in the last few weeks or months about Matt Peterman and his sleep disorder and his feeling about dogs?”

“Not the dog thing again.”

“What can it hurt? It will only take you a couple of minutes. If she says that she doesn't know what you're talking about, then we're out of here. Forever.”

Detective Owen cocked his head, still thinking about it.

“Hey,” I told him, now getting a little exasperated myself. “Just because he was crazy didn't mean that Van Gogh couldn't paint sunflowers.”

“Forever?” he asked after a moment.

“Forever. I promise.”

“I don't get it,” Lawrence said after Detective Owen left. “Why does that guy think you are crazy? You both seem normal to me.”

“Because,” Shirley said wearily, “there were very powerful people who went to a lot of trouble in order to make sure that no one ever knows the real story of Sherlock Holmes.”

“Yeah? What is the real story?”

“I am not at liberty to say,” Shirley told him primly. “Not at this time.”

“So what if that lady doesn't say what we want her to say?” Lawrence asked.

“Yes, Tammy,” Shirley said curtly. “What then?”

“He wasn't going to listen to us. At least this way I got his attention.”