The Case of the Invisible Dog (4 page)

Matt kept sneaking glances over at me every now and then as Shirley lectured on and on. Each time our eyes met I would give him an encouraging smile, but my smile became more and more forced as I grew increasingly uncomfortable. Listening to her conversation with poor Mr. Peterman, I began to have serious doubts about spending five days a week in the company of Shirley Homes. And then, while I waited for Shirley to wind down the lecture, I happened to glance over at Shirley's bookcase. And that's when I saw it: perched on the top shelf, conspicuous even among the collection of books, paperweights, and other knickknacks, there sat a hat. A most distinctive hat in brown and cream plaid, complete with earflaps and a peaked top. And suddenly all the pieces fell into place.

“This isn't some kind of a joke, is it?” Matt asked with a forced chuckle, his glance flicking from Shirley to me and back again.

“Joke?” Shirley cocked her head. “If you think that your problem is a joke, my good man, that is your affair, and you can be on your way. But I take your situation most seriously. From what you have told me I think that there is more to your story than meets the eye. In fact, I think that you might very well be in grave danger.”

“But it's just a dog,” he said with a nervous smile.

“An
invisible
dog, and therein lies the danger.”

“An invisible dog?” I asked, thinking maybe I had missed some key part of the conversation.

“Yes, Tammy. Our first case involves an apparently invisible dog.”

Now it was my turn to stare intently at Matt. I was no longer sure which one of them was crazier, Matt Peterman or Shirley Homes.

“Okay,” he said reluctantly, “I'll admit that it's weird. But there's got to be a logical explanation. And I don't think I'm in any real
danger
,” he added defensively.

“Oh, yes,” Shirley said firmly. “There will definitely be a logical explanation. The existence of an invisible dog is impossible. Therefore, we will pursue every other possible explanation, no matter how improbable, until we find the correct result. But mark my words, you are indeed in danger. Until we identify the cause of this invisible dog, you must be on your guard. An invisible dog does not simply appear out of nowhere. Someone went to a lot of planning and trouble to bring an invisible dog into your life. And it is doubtful that they had your best interests at heart.”

“Yeah,” Matt said slowly after a minute. “When you put it like that…it is pretty weird. Maybe somebody
is
up to something. And I can't exactly take this to the cops. It's too ridiculous. You're really not going to charge me anything?”

“I do not say things that I do not mean.”

“Okay.” He thought things over for a few moments. “Okay,” he said again, sounding more confident. “I guess I have nothing to lose. Let's see what you can do.”

Shirley leaned back in her chair and I lifted my pen, very interested in spite of myself to hear more about Matt Peterman and his invisible dog.

“Well,” Matt said. “It all started about four weeks ago. That's when the Browns moved in next door. They seemed like great neighbors, really friendly and all. No kids. They both work for one of those big banks in Charlotte. They're so nice that I can't believe they'd have anything to do with this. They came over and introduced themselves and said when they got settled in they'd have me over for dinner one night.”

“And they might very well be innocent victims in this as well,” Shirley said with a vigorous nod of her head. “Whoever is behind this dastardly game might have timed it to begin the moment they moved in for exactly that reason. So that suspicion would naturally fall onto the Browns.”

“Like they're being framed?” Matt asked.

“Precisely. I do not believe in coincidences in matters such as these. Carry on.”

“Okay. So ever since the Browns moved in, my life has been a living hell because of all the barking. I haven't gotten more than three or four hours of sleep.”

“Did you at least manage to get some sleep when you vacationed in Hawaii?” Shirley asked.

“Huh?”

“Your tan. Obviously recent, and that orange tone would indicate a tropical sun. You sell insurance, an honest and vital occupation, which affords a comfortable but not lavish monetary compensation. So a vacation to Hawaii, rather than, say, the Caribbean or some other exotic locale, is the obvious explanation for your tan.”

“I haven't ever been to Hawaii,” Matt said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

“My good man, it has been months since we've had a warm, sunny day—warm enough to give you a glowing tan. Perhaps this trip to Hawaii—
which you are so determined to keep secret for some reason
—contains a clue regarding the appearance of this invisible dog into your life.”

“Or maybe,” I said, “you went to a tanning salon?”

“Of course! Of course he went to a tanning salon,” Shirley said, nodding her head vigorously as if it had been her idea.

“Okay, I went a couple of times. I work inside all day and—”

“Why you go to a tanning salon is neither here nor there,” Shirley said with an impatient shake of her head. “I threw out the Hawaii vacation idea to discover where you went when you took your recent trip out of town. A trip that you wanted to look your best for, and thus the reason for your visits to the tanning salon. And I think that on this trip you had a strange encounter of some kind? Maybe your luggage went missing? Or someone broke into your hotel room and searched through your belongings? Or you met a mysterious woman who later disappeared?”

“No,” Matt said. “None of that. I haven't taken a vacation in over three years.”

“Have you perhaps been out of town on a business trip?” Shirley asked. “Good,” Shirley replied after Matt shook his head. “Since it is highly unlikely that someone would wait over three years—the date of your last
vacation—before
introducing this invisible dog into your life, we have one explanation eliminated. Whatever is behind this invisible barking dog has nothing whatsoever to do with a recent vacation. Proceed with your story.”

“So after the first couple of nights,” Matt said with a mystified look in his eyes, as if he couldn't believe he was still in her office (a feeling I completely understood), “I couldn't take it anymore. I went to the Browns' the next morning before they left for work and brought up the subject of their dog. I put it as nicely as I could, but they both gave me this funny look after I explained about the barking and how I wasn't getting any sleep. They told me that they didn't have a dog. And that they never heard any barking. Well, I felt pretty stupid then and made my excuses and left. I even told myself maybe I'd been dreaming the barking for some reason.

“But that night it started again. It only happens at night. So after tossing and turning for a couple hours, I finally got up. The barking had stopped, but I still went outside with a flashlight. I went over to the fence and shined it around, and sure enough, I didn't see any dog in their yard.

“But as soon as I got back inside and into bed and returned to sleep, it started all over again. I went back out with my flashlight to take another look around. But just like before there was no sign of any dog! It's gone on like this for almost four weeks now. The dog wakes me up, and then, as soon as I get out of bed, it stops. I try to go back to sleep, but it starts up again the minute I close my eyes and begin to get sleepy. Sometimes for only a minute, just enough to wake me up. It got so bad that a few days ago I went to the doctor and got a prescription for sleeping pills. But they only help so much. By two or three in the morning the dog wakes me up, and then that's it. I'm so tired and sleep deprived that it's started to affect my job.”

“Interesting,” Shirley said tapping her fingers against the desk. “And what about the other neighbors? Have you asked them if they have also heard this barking dog?”

“That's just it. I live alone in a small cul-de-sac. There are only five houses. There's the Browns, and me. Two of the other houses are empty. One was sold, but no one has moved in yet. The other was foreclosed on. And there's the people in the house across the street, the Pittfords, who are in their eighties. Once they take out their hearing aids at night they're stone deaf.”

“And what about the land behind and around the cul-de-sac? Any houses there?”

“There's a golf course on one side, and the other side is still all trees. That land was going to be developed until the recession hit. The only other houses are in the neighborhood in front of us, but they're not close at all. I can't believe this is happening. I always had trouble sleeping when I lived in apartments because of the noise. I think it's one of those sleeping disorder things. Once I wake up I stay up. When I got the house last year I actually started getting a full night's sleep. But now it's worse than it's ever been.”

Matt hesitated for a moment, and then looked down at the ground. “I…I don't really like dogs. So this is like a nightmare.”

“Intriguing,” Shirley said, nodding her head and pursing her lips for a moment. “I think there is a game afoot concerning this invisible dog—and a nasty game at that—the nature of which is not yet exactly clear. But take heart, Mr. Peterman. My colleague and I will take this case, and before long you'll be sleeping soundly again. We shall not rest until we get to the bottom of this mystery of the invisible dog.”

After Matt Peterman left the office, with assurances from Shirley that we should have an answer for him within a matter of days, I felt confused and torn. It was clear by now—and I wondered how I could have been so dense as to not have seen it right away—that my boss was indeed a nut job, and believed herself to be some sort of modern Sherlock Holmes. I don't have anything against nut jobs. Since ordinary life appears to be kicking my butt, I think there's a very good chance that I may be one myself.

I just didn't know if I could handle coming into the office every day, having to pretend her little Sherlock Holmes act was normal. But Matt Peterman hadn't been pretending. And part of me was curious: What was the story behind the invisible dog?

“I am intrigued, Tammy,” Shirley said once Matt had closed the door and we heard his footsteps clattering down the wooden stairs, “by this perplexing case. Since we are now committed to resolving it, I shall tell you how I came to find our first client. Two months ago I placed ads in all of the local publications advertising my services. There are many towns nearby and Charlotte is not far, either. Although my search for an able assistant had thus far proved fruitless, I was willing to shoulder my burdens alone if necessary. I worded my ad in such a way as to stand out from the others. Perhaps a mistake. Unfortunately, this is a world of conformity, and original thinkers are often left to a cruel fate. I waited in vain for the sound of a ringing phone or an anxious knock upon my door.

“But finding you renewed my hope. I told myself that I must simply be patient. And in the meantime I had the opportunity to observe how you handled your unstructured time. My observations have shown me that you are someone who prefers to keep herself usefully occupied. And that you suffered acute embarrassment over being paid while seemingly doing nothing to earn that pay. Fortunately, you have a passion for plants—or perhaps just ferns—and can keep yourself entertained by the trivial details of their upkeep. And, of course, you also had your little computer game with pieces of candy or flying birds to move around the screen.

That fleeting image of Shirley kneeling on her floor, intent on the keyhole, once again presented itself to my mind. I thought my days had been dull. But for her to have spent all those hours squatting on the floor watching me do nothing? Her thighs must be impossibly strong.

“Those are outstanding qualities for the role that you will play in my life. I, naturally, have a completely different temperament. You thrive under routine; I find it repulsive. Unless I have something extraordinary to occupy my mind, I suffer a level of boredom that leaves me almost paralyzed. And, unlike you, I do not have to worry about earning a living. That is both a blessing and a curse. I think, sometimes, that being forced to labor as the rest of the world does would perhaps be beneficial to my physical and emotional well-being…”

Shirley's voice trailed off and she looked toward the window for a moment before clearing her throat.

“Be that as it may,” she continued, “when another two weeks had passed without a single inquiry I was, quite frankly, starting to despair. But then, as is often the case, the answer appeared without any effort on my part at all. Take note, Tammy. At times there is a hand of fate behind our
affairs—sometimes
our friend, sometimes our foe. But it is there all the same.

“To continue. Each morning at eight o'clock I stop at the restaurant downstairs and enjoy my daily cup of coffee and a pastry. The woman who owns it, Mrs. Hobson, has an unpleasant personality at times, but her bear claws are unsurpassed. While finishing up the last of my bear claw, I overheard Mr. Peterman—a stranger to me then—telling a lovely, rather elegant and gracious elderly woman sitting at the table next to his that he was exhausted due to a barking dog that kept him awake at night. He had to talk quite loudly because the woman was very hard of hearing.

“She seemed quite concerned about his predicament and asked many questions. There was something about the agitation in his manner that intrigued me, and I admit that I began eavesdropping. She asked if he had talked to the owner of the dog or called the police to complain. He was evasive at first, but I guess that her concern—Edna was her name, and she was really quite charming—wore down his defenses. He finally admitted that no one else besides him had ever seen or heard this dog that kept him up every night to the point of exhaustion. My curiosity finally outweighed my strong sense of propriety. I turned around and introduced myself and explained that I couldn't help overhearing their conversation.

“Edna appeared delighted to have me join their conversation and made introductions. Matt Peterman was not delighted. I believe he thought me some sort of busybody. Even when I explained that I undertook investigations that the police could not—or would not—take seriously, and that I sensed there was more to his story, he remained evasive.

“But Edna—such a dear—told him that he couldn't go on like this. He looked ready to drop from fatigue. If the police couldn't help him, then maybe I could. He still hesitated, but when I explained that I charged no fee, he finally told me his story. I agreed to take the case and told him I would be at my office upstairs if he chose to use my services. I escorted Edna to her taxi—she is no longer able to drive but enjoys a morning outing—and returned here. Matt Peterman arrived at our doorstep twenty-five minutes later.

“Two things we know about him already.” Shirley began ticking her deductions off on her long, slender fingers as she talked. “One, he is of an indecisive nature since it took him almost half an hour to make up his mind. And it took both Edna and me to talk him into it. Two, he is lonely, hence his need to tell an elderly stranger his troubles. I think he had no one else to whom he could turn. Are you with me so far?”

“Yes, but—”

“Good. And do you have any ideas as to the mystery behind this invisible dog?”

“No, not really, but—”

“Of course you do not. I myself have only a dim sense of the forces that may be at work here, and I will share them with you as they become clearer. Here is what I propose. You may have the rest of the day off. We shall meet back here at midnight. We will proceed to Mr. Peterman's backyard, where we will wait to see what, if anything, transpires in regard to the invisible dog. As there is a brisk wind about, which will only grow cooler as the sun sets, I suggest that you wear warm clothing.”

Whatever curiosity I had about the invisible dog completely disappeared at the thought of coming back at midnight and poking around Matt Peterman's backyard with Shirley Homes. But when I looked at the expression on her face—so hopeful and excited—I didn't have the heart to tell her that.

“Will do,” I said.

Maybe it would be an adventure,
I told myself. It didn't help. I used to love adventures, but I didn't have the energy or the optimism for them anymore.

“I am sorry that you will have to miss your television viewing,” Shirley added. “Have you given any more thought to purchasing one of those recording devices?”

“No,” I said abruptly, tempted to launch into a whole explanation of how
On Demand
worked, and then to further explain that her conclusions about my evening routine and the reason for my puffy eyes and dark circles were all wrong. But one look at the expression on her face—so intent and sure of
herself—stopped
me in my tracks. Who was I to puncture her delusions? God knows I'd spent eight years laboring under a set of my own. “I mean, I have some bills to catch up on first.”

“Ah. Well, when this mystery is resolved, and if you have rendered me the assistance I believe you capable of, I think that you shall find a very nice little bonus in your next paycheck.”

And with that one little word—
bonus—
she reeled me right back in.

It was about one o'clock that afternoon when my doorbell rang. My apartment complex is small—just four units in a U-shaped brick building on a small side street behind the courthouse. I rent the front unit on the left which has its own small driveway on the side for parking. The other three tenants park in the back. This ideal situation has enabled me to avoid my neighbors except for the random, obligatory hello when I go to get the mail. My living room has a huge front window with a view of downtown, but my blinds were currently closed since I was in the middle of watching a DVD that had done horribly at the box office and received terrible reviews. It had taken me a long time to make my selections (the one that I planned on watching next was even better; and by that I mean worse), and I did not wish to be disturbed. So far I had loved every minute of it, since the lead actress was a nasty little psycho bitch who made life miserable for everyone unfortunate enough to be around her.

“Who is it?” I called out as I paused my DVD, hoping it was the pizza guy, the only person at that moment I was willing to interrupt my viewing pleasure for.

“Ms. Norman?” a woman's voice called back. “Tamara Norman?”

“Yes?” I said cautiously. I didn't recognize the voice, and no one here called me Tamara—just Tammy. Only people in L.A. called me Tamara. For one dazzling moment I fantasized that some world famous director had used all his resources to track me down and now his assistant was standing outside my door to bring me back to Hollywood because only Tamara Norman had the range to give full justice to the lead in his next blockbuster.

“My name is Dr. Morgan. I'm here about Shirley. Shirley Homes,” she added.

Nothing good could come from that statement, but with equal amounts of dread and curiosity I reluctantly got up off the couch, undid the deadbolt, and opened the door a few inches. Staring back at me from my front porch was a woman in her mid-fifties of medium height, with short gray hair worn in a simple pageboy that fell just beneath her ears, a round face, and a ruddy complexion free of makeup. She had a pleasant face with a button nose and a wide mouth, but there were deep lines at the corners of her lips and the edges of her dark blue eyes. She seemed like someone who didn't give much thought to her appearance or turning back the hands of time. Yet the pale green linen pantsuit and gold hoop earrings that she wore both looked expensive. And the dark brown pumps she had on were top-of-the-line. I may not know much, but I do know shoes.

“Yes?” I asked, wondering what this person was doing here.

“You are Tamara Norman?” she asked with a smile, peering at me so curiously that I felt uncomfortable. “The woman hired by Shirley Homes to be her assistant?”

“Yes. But I go by Tammy. Not Tamara.”

“My apologies. Shirley called you Tammy, but I didn't want to presume to use a nickname since we had never met. My name is Dr. Morgan. May I come in for a few minutes?”

“Um, well,” I said, stalling for time in my usual articulate manner, torn between my curiosity about why she was here and my sense of dread that by letting her in I'd be taking another step inside the world of Shirley Homes. I have enough difficulty as it is trying to navigate in my own world. “I'm sort of in the middle of something.”

“It won't take long, and I would really appreciate it.”

She smiled again and it seemed like a nice smile, but she had taken another step closer to the door when she said it as if the matter had already been resolved.

“How did you know where I live?” I asked, keeping my hand pressed firmly on the door.

“I followed you from Shirley's parking lot.”

“You what?”

“I realize that it was very presumptuous of me. I almost approached you at the grocery store and again when you stopped at the Redbox, but I didn't want to startle you. And I did have some hesitation about taking this course of action. That is why I have been sitting in my car by the curb for the past hour, trying to work up the courage to knock on your door. I apologize for showing up unannounced, but I think it is very important that we talk. Otherwise I wouldn't dream of imposing. Please,” she said, her voice softening, and I saw a real sadness in her eyes for a moment or two before she plastered a smile back on her face.

“All right,” I said reluctantly as I opened the door. Her expensive and perfectly tailored outfit made me painfully aware of just how old and ratty my comfortable pair of faded pink sweats must have looked. To say nothing of the bright yellow bandanna with assorted bleach stains that I'd halfheartedly stuffed my hair inside, or the fuzzy pair of purple slippers I wore on my feet with the hole that left my right big toe exposed. “Come in,” I said nonchalantly with as much dignity as I could manage. “But I only have a few minutes.”

“I understand.”

Dr. Morgan came inside and followed me into my small living room with its mismatched furniture courtesy of Goodwill, my cousin Anna's attic, and a couple of garage sales that she'd dragged me to when I decided to leave Wayne. But there was no clutter and no mess. I may have a hard time getting out of bed most mornings, but when I do that bed will be made and the pillows fluffed before I do anything else. Aunt Ilene detested mess, and basic housekeeping is simply a part of my daily routine.

“Thank you for agreeing to talk to me,” she said as I indicated the couch—old and plaid but covered with a gorgeous pale brown afghan that Aunt Ilene had made. Other than some pictures of my family, it was the only personal touch in the room. I kept thinking I should buy some throw pillows, maybe a few plants. Do some painting. Fix the place up. I knew how to make that work on a small budget—I'd loved working on my place when I lived in L.A. But thinking about it was as far as I'd gotten.

“Sure,” I said, taking a seat on the opposite end of the couch. I plucked the remote from the coffee table and, with a sigh, reluctantly turned off my movie—it was right in the middle of the worst scene in the entire thing—the one that someone had done a hilarious spoof of on YouTube.