The Case of the Invisible Dog (9 page)

“I'm sure you are. But whatever it is that she thinks she's doing, it has to stop.”

“She's very stubborn. I doubt there's anything I can do to stop her.”

“Then you might want to consider looking for another job.”

“I suppose,” I told him, thinking,
How easy it is for someone with a secure job to tell someone else to just go look for another one.

“She could end up getting sued if she keeps bothering that poor guy. And both of you are lucky that I'm not taking you in for breaking and entering.”

I opened my mouth, ready to give him a thorough explanation about how I only went in after I heard Shirley scream. But noting the humorless expression on his face I decided it would probably be better if I just kept my mouth shut and said as little as possible.

“Now, just for the record, could you tell me your version of what happened yesterday between Shirley Homes and Matt Peterman?”

I told him the story as briefly as I could. He listened intently with a neutral expression on his face, even at the weirdest parts. I could feel myself blushing a little when I got to the part about Shirley's belief in the invisible dog and the grave danger Matt was in, and the two of us going to investigate his claim. And because it was clear that Detective Owen thought I had a screw loose, too, I didn't tell him about that bark I thought I'd heard, the one that I'd been so sure about. But now, in the clear light of day, talking to a police detective, I was beginning to wonder if I had imagined it, a result of all the craziness that had been going on around me.

“And then we came back here,” I said, finishing up the story. “I'm sorry that I let her talk me into leaving. It's just, she's my boss, you know? And I was scared…but I was going to tell her this morning that we had to go to the police. Of course, that's when I thought Matt Peterman was dead, and it turns out he isn't dead…But still, I
thought
he was dead, and for all I knew it had something to do with Shirley and me and the invisible dog.”

“There
is
no invisible dog.”

“Well, of course not. I know that.”

“But you just said…never mind. The bottom line here is that it's pretty obvious that she thinks she's some sort of modern-day Sherlock Holmes and—”

“Sorry to interrupt, but she doesn't think she's some sort of modern-day Sherlock Holmes. She thinks she's the great-great-granddaughter of Sherlock Holmes.”

“Does that really matter?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“No, I guess not.” But actually, I thought it kind of did. At least it made a little more sense. Or maybe Shirley was wearing off on me more than I'd realized.

“The point is, she needs help. I'd like to see her get it before she does something really stupid and ends up getting herself, or someone else hurt.”

“She has a psychiatrist. Used to have a psychiatrist, that is. I met her yesterday. Her name is Dr. Morgan. Maybe I could try and get in touch with her and let her know what's going on.”

“That would be good. Why don't you—”

The door burst open before Detective Owen could finish his sentence, and in came Myra. She was dressed in bright red today with a flaming pink scarf wrapped around her hair. Under her left arm, she carried a box decorated with gift wrap. I was actually glad to see her. I figured the big problem that had just been dumped in my lap could now be dumped in
her
lap. That's my favorite way to solve a problem: make it somebody else's problem.

“Greetings. I come bearing— Oh, hello. Who are you?” she asked, giving Detective Owen a long, lingering look as she set her box down on the couch.

“Myra,” I said, stepping forward with a sigh of relief, “this is Detective Owen. Detective Owen, this is Myra, Shirley's sister.”

“Hello,” Detective Owen said, extending his hand.

“Hello,” Myra said warily as they shook hands. “So, what's happened now?” she asked with a grim smile.

“There was, um, kind of an incident last night,” I told her, hoping to ease into the story before Detective Owen explained all the gory details.

“What sort of incident?” Myra asked through pursed lips.

“It's a long story…but before I get to that, do you think I should contact Shirley's psychiatrist, Dr. Morgan? The one she used to see?”

Myra gave me a very odd look and started to say something, but stopped when Detective Owen's cell phone started ringing. He took it out of his pocket and glanced down at his caller ID.

“I have to take this,” he said abruptly. “I'll be right back.”

I waited a moment until he stepped out the door onto the back steps.

“I can't ask Shirley,” I said, as Detective Owen shut the door behind him. “Not without it being embarrassing for both of us. But I think Dr. Morgan needs to know that her theory isn't working.” Myra was eyeing me very strangely and I wondered if she thought I was overstepping my position.

“What theory is that?” she asked with raised eyebrows.

“I don't mean to get so personal,” I said, and Myra's expression hardened even further. “But Dr. Morgan kind of forced my hand when she came to see me yesterday. She was worried about Shirley. She was hoping that this whole, um, detective thing might just be a harmless fantasy. That it could even be helpful to Shirley. That maybe if she had a chance to act out her fantasy she could get it out of her system. But I don't think…Why are you looking at me like that?” I finally had to ask because at this point the expression on Myra's face could not be ignored.

“Because,” Myra replied, “there is no such person as Dr. Morgan in Shirley's life and never has been.”

We stared at each other for a moment, and I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

“What do you mean there is no such person as Dr. Morgan? I met her. She was in my apartment.”

“I have no doubt that there was someone in your apartment. And she may have called herself Dr. Morgan. However, although Shirley saw many mental health professionals when she was younger, none of them were named Dr. Morgan. And none of them got anywhere with her. Since she turned eighteen, Shirley has never seen another psychiatrist or any sort of mental health professional. She absolutely refuses. Not that she doesn't need one…” Myra pursed her lips as her voice faded away, and she seemed to become lost in her own thoughts.

“My sister is stubborn and believes that it is always the
other
person who has the problem,” Myra resumed after a minute. “And she hasn't gotten better during the past few years; she has gotten worse. As evidenced by all
this
,” Myra concluded, waving her arms around the office with a dramatic flourish.

“What are you saying?” I asked.

“I think what I'm saying is very clear. What is it that you don't understand?”

“So you're saying that the woman who came to my apartment yesterday was
pretending
to be Shirley's former psychiatrist? But why?”

“I have no idea. But it is certainly an interesting turn of events. Shirley has always been…let's say high-strung. Easily bored. It runs in the family. Fortunately, I have found golf. But that type of pursuit is not for Shirley. Unless she has some project to throw herself into that absorbs her mind completely, she has a difficult time. There have been several of these little projects over the years; none of them lasted long. And she has no social skills whatsoever. There have been a couple of, shall we say,
episodes
? But this ludicrous idea she has…Do you know who she believes herself to be?”

“Dr. Morgan—or whoever she is—told me that Shirley thinks she is the great-great-granddaughter of Sherlock Holmes.”

“Yes. And me, too, since I am her sister. This is all rather recent. She claims that there are papers to prove it, papers she discovered when our parents were killed in a skiing accident three years ago.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling a sudden and unexpected common bond with Shirley. “I'm sorry.”

“Papers that prove Sherlock Holmes was real,” Myra continued as if I hadn't spoken, “not just a character in a book. But when she told me all this she swore me to secrecy, even though I made it clear that I didn't believe her. She said that no one outside the family could know. And she refused to show me these papers. She says it's for my own safety. I think the more logical explanation is that the papers do not actually exist. I thought she would get bored with the idea eventually. But then, when she decided to move here to open up this office of hers, I realized that the situation was more serious than I had originally suspected. I decided I had no choice but to follow. Someone needs to keep an eye on her. I just thank God for the abundance of golf courses in the area.”

“So if you both kept it a secret, how do you think this person claiming to be Dr. Morgan knew about it?”

“Somewhere along the line Shirley must have told that ridiculous story to somebody else.”

“And you're sure that there's no chance she was seeing a psychiatrist without telling you?”

“None. Trust me. It is not in her nature. It's a shame, really.”

“What is?”

“This is the happiest that I have ever seen Shirley. The first time that I have ever seen her so fully engaged by one of her little projects. Unfortunately, it is not a project grounded in reality. And her current happiness will just make it that much worse for her when the delusion comes crashing down.”

“But why would this person come to see me? She actually followed me to my apartment. And why would she pretend to be Shirley's psychiatrist? It's creepy.”

“Yes,” Myra said, tilting her head and gazing at me seriously. “It is. When you go around telling crazy stories, you will attract crazy people into your life. Especially when you have a great deal of money, as Shirley and I do. Perhaps we need to find out who else she has shared this with. I know you think I am too hard on my sister, but I believe that I have, in fact, been much too lenient.”

Myra snapped her fingers and then she marched over to Shirley's office door and banged on it loudly three times.

“Shirley! It's Myra! I need to speak to you, please.”

“I am thinking at the moment!” Shirley called back. “My brain needs total silence and concentration if this case is ever going to be solved!”

“Put your brain on pause and come out here or I'll just keep knocking on your door until you do!”

“Oh, very well.”

I felt relieved there for a few moments, thinking that Myra would take charge of things. Maybe with her backing me up it would be possible to set some clear boundaries with Shirley. At least long enough for me to start looking for another job. I didn't see any way around that now. Not only was Shirley crazy, but she was almost always wrong. About almost everything. God knows what situations she'd keep stumbling into, with me stumbling in right behind her.

But just as Shirley walked out of her office looking extremely annoyed, the outer door opened and Detective Owen came inside with a shocked expression on his face.

“Ms. Homes, Ms. Norman,” he snapped before Myra could say a word to Shirley, “I'm going to need the two of you to come with me.”

“Is that absolutely necessary?” Myra asked. “Couldn't it wait? I need to have a serious discussion with my sister.”

“I'm afraid it is,” Detective Owen replied. “Matt Peterman has been shot to death outside his office.”

Aunt Ilene did her best. By the time I came along she had already raised her own two children, her husband had died, and she was planning on taking early retirement from her teaching job. Then my parents were killed in a car accident. There were no other relatives. She was my mom's older sister—fifteen years older. I was only twelve, and if she hadn't taken me in, I would have gone to foster care. Aunt Ilene has never been what you would call a warm, cuddly person. And now that she's older, she's even less so. But she took me in. She didn't have to, but she did. And by taking me in she ended up having to work five years longer than she had planned on. I don't ever forget that.

She was the first person I thought about as Shirley and I walked into the police station behind Detective Owen. I hoped and prayed that no one who knew my aunt would see me there. It wasn't as if she could point to all my many
accomplishments
and feel that her sacrifices had not been in vain. But at least until now, I hadn't been hauled into any police stations.

I knew I was in for a horrible day, being stuck in the Springville police station with Shirley Homes, probably for hours. But it could have been worse. At least Shirley hadn't worn that ridiculous hat.

Once we arrived, Detective Owen took us to a small room with a metal table, three old folding chairs on each side, and one small window, with closed blinds. He told us to have a seat and that he would be right back. He did not return for over an hour.

As soon as he left, Shirley folded her hands over her chest, leaned back in her chair with her legs stretched out in front of her, and closed her eyes.

“Look, Shirley,” I said after sitting there for a couple of minutes, “I think we need to talk.”

“Later, Tammy. I must think, and to think I must have silence. We shall talk before the day is over, just not now.”

Her tone of voice made it clear that I would be wasting my time attempting a conversation, so I left her alone and got out my phone to play Candy Crush. I glanced over at Shirley, who sat so still it was hard to tell if she was breathing. I played a number of games, but Shirley never moved. I had just stood up to stretch my legs when the door opened, and in came Detective Owen with a woman who looked to be in her late thirties. She was about my height, with light brown hair that she wore in short layers. She had a boyish build, and hazel eyes set far apart that she had highlighted with light shadow and a dusting of mascara. I may not know much, but even though I don't bother with it that often anymore (most days just a quick swipe of mascara and a dab of lip gloss), I do know makeup. And I knew this woman didn't want anyone to realize she had used any. Her blending technique actually wasn't bad. Her facial features were delicate, with a pixielike quality that contrasted with the heavy jacket and oversized turtleneck that she wore.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Detective Owen said indifferently. “This is Detective Nat Addams.”

“I'm disappointed in you, Detective,” Shirley said without opening her eyes. “Such an old trick leaving us in here to wait, hoping to wear us down. But I can always find a way to keep my brain occupied. Even if I have no case to work on, the mysteries of this world and the people in it are endless and eternal. And Tammy here had her phone with that popular little candy game to keep her entertained.”

“Oh my God, I love it!” Detective Addams said, her whole face lighting up. “She's a hoot!” Shirley's eyes popped opened instantly, and she sat up ramrod straight in her chair.

“A hoot?” she asked, staring at Detective Addams through narrowed eyes.

“I mean that in a good way,” Detective Addams said with a big grin. She walked over to the table where we sat, pulled out the chair on the other side of Shirley, and plopped down next to her. “This whole thing you've got going on,” she continued, waving her hands around Shirley's head. “It's wonderful.”

“What
whole thing
might that be?” Shirley asked
contemptuously.

“You're rich, right? I mean, you'd have to be. Only a rich person could open up an office and run around pretending to be Sherlock Holmes without having to worry about any money coming in. I guess going to Europe and the Caribbean got boring after a while, huh? So you had to come up with some other way to get your kicks. I must say, it's very creative.”

I glanced over at Detective Owen. He stood leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, wearing a benignly neutral expression on his face.

“My good woman,” Shirley replied haughtily, “my finances are none of your concern. And I am not pretending to be anyone other than who I am. Shirley Homes.”

“Oh, right. Sorry. I forgot. You are the great-great-granddaughter of Sherlock Holmes.”

“Where did you hear that?” Shirley asked, looking a little rattled for the first time since I met her. “Have you been talking to my sister?”

“No. I didn't hear it from your sister,” Detective Addams replied airily. “I heard it from my partner, who heard it from
your
partner. Dr. Watson, I presume?” she asked glancing over at me. And then she snorted with laughter.

Shirley looked across the table at me. I couldn't look her in the eye. I felt as if I was in the wrong, as if I'd betrayed her.

“But here's the thing,” Detective Addams said once she'd stopped laughing, “as cute as this whole little charade is, you've got some serious problems. First of all, and this is a minor thing, really, compared to your other problems, you are not a licensed private detective in the state of North Carolina. So we've got you on that.”

“You have me on nothing!” Shirley exclaimed, slapping the table forcefully with her right hand. “Nowhere on the sign outside my office do I claim to be a private detective. I have no listing in the Yellow Pages or newspaper ads or anywhere else as a private detective. Tammy, did you ever hear me once, at any time, tell Matt Peterman—or anyone else, for that matter—that I am a private detective?”

“Well, no, actually.”

“What did I tell him?”

“Um,” I said, remembering back to their conversation. “You said you would help him figure out what was going on because, well, something about civilization and how it's the greatest thing ever. And crime destroys it. Something like that.”

“But I never once said I was a private detective, did I?”

“No,” I said firmly, relishing the unhappy expression on the face of Detective Nat Addams. “You did not.”

“And did I charge him any sort of a fee?”

“No. You made a point of telling him that you wouldn't charge him any money.”

“Hah!” Shirley leaned back in her chair and stretched her legs back out in front of her underneath the table. “I believe we have settled the little matter of this private detective business, have we not? If you wish to arrest me, be my guest. I don't believe the district attorney would charge me, and if she were foolish enough to do so, even an idiot lawyer that graduated at the bottom of his class could get me off.”

“So you never told Matt Peterman that you were a private detective?” Detective Addams snapped.

“I told him that I conducted
investigations.”

“That's odd. Because he told the police officers who showed up after you broke into his house that you were a private detective.”

“Then that was his own mistaken assumption,” Shirley said calmly. “When I first met him at Hobson's Bakery—a delightful restaurant downstairs from my office with an unfortunately grumpy woman as its owner—I explained that I conducted
investigations.
He asked me if that was like being a private detective. And I said yes, that it was
like
being a private detective. Whatever assumptions he made after that are a result of his own sloppy thinking and failure to achieve clarity.”

“Well done, Shirley,” Detective Addams said nodding her head. “With the right attorney you could probably skate by on that one. But it would be on very thin ice. And I don't think you'd get away with it twice.”

“I would not
get away with it
twice, because I have not
gotten away
with anything at all. Not even once.”

“Well, be that as it may, we have the little matter of last night when you broke Matt Peterman's window and went inside his home without his permission. We here at the Springville Police Department like to call that breaking and entering.”

“Not if I did so at his request.”

“Did you do so? Did Matt Peterman specifically ask you to break into his house?”

“Not in so many words,” Shirley said calmly, pulling a piece of lint off the plaid sleeve of her jacket. “But he agreed to let me help him. And at the moment when I broke said window, I believed that Matt Peterman was in danger. And that I needed to get inside his house to prevent him from being injured or killed.”

“And you believed he was in danger because, let me see…Oh, yes, because he was being kept awake at night by an invisible dog.” Detective Addams barely bothered to conceal her smirk as she gazed amusedly at Shirley.

“Don't be ridiculous, Detective,” Shirley responded dismissively. “There is no such thing as an invisible dog.”

“I am aware that there is no such thing as an invisible dog. Those were your words.”

“When I referred to the barking Matt Peterman heard as that of an invisible dog, I was using a figure of speech. I coined a phrase designed to show him in quick and simple terms how serious his problem was, because he was a simple man of average intelligence. If you continue to hear barking every night, and yet there is no evidence pointing to the existence of a living and breathing dog, you have, in effect, the problem of an invisible dog.”

There was silence for a few seconds. Detective Addams had definitely lost some of her bluster and actually looked to be at a loss for words. I glanced over at Detective Owen for a second, but he still had that same unreadable expression. I had to hand it to Shirley. In her own weird way she did make sense.

“Yes, well,” Detective Addams said gruffly. “That isn't really the issue.”

“Is it not?” Shirley asked with a smirk.

“No, it is not. The issue is that you have no authority to go barging around in people's backyards and breaking into their homes because you have some cockeyed idea that they are in danger.”

“Cockeyed?” Shirley asked. “Matt Peterman has been murdered. So it would seem that I was correct and that he was, indeed, in danger.”

She glanced around the room with a satisfied look on her face. Detective Addams' face was starting to get flushed, and I could hear her breathing heavily. Shirley tended to have that effect on people. But I will have to say that she was starting to seem a little less crazy to me. Not normal or anything, just a little bit less crazy.

“So you!” Detective Addams said, peering around Shirley and staring right at me. “You seem normal. What's your deal? You think you're Dr. Watson? Or the great-great-granddaughter of Dr. Watson?”

“No,” I said, feeling my cheeks color. Until now all the attention in the room had been directed toward Shirley, and I'd been hoping it would stay that way.

“So what's your deal?” she sneered, leaning forward. “How did you get involved in this?”

“I work for Shirley. I'm her, uh, assistant.”

“Yeah? What do you assist her in?”

“Well—”

“I think we're getting off point,” Detective Owen said quietly. He walked over to the table and sat down in a chair on the other side, across from Shirley and me. “We don't know if Matt Peterman's murder had anything to do with the invisible—with the barking noises he thought he heard.” He furrowed his brow slightly, casting a thoughtful look between Shirley and me. I avoided meeting his intelligent blue eyes as he continued. “What we do know is that you two saw him the day before he was murdered. So we are going to go over the conversation you had with him again, this time in more detail. He may have said something that didn't seem important at the time. Something that could help us figure out a motive for his murder.”

“Detective,” Shirley said impatiently as she pulled in her legs and sat up in her chair. “I have already given you every single detail that I have. That is what I do. I observe. I take note of those details that other people miss. There is nothing else that I can add to the discussion we had earlier. My sister will be arriving here any minute with a very high-priced attorney. Unless you have something with which to charge us—which you do not—he will secure our release. So why don't we quit wasting your time and mine?”

“We can hold you as a material witness,” Detective Addams snapped.

“Yes, if I were poor and uninformed you could try that,” Shirley retorted. “But I am not, and the attorney my sister, Myra, is bringing with her will rip those charges to shreds. I think you could save yourself a lot of time and trouble by simply letting us go.”

“I'm in no hurry,” Detective Addams said curtly. “And I'm not afraid of a little trouble.”

“No,” Detective Owen said quietly with a pointed look at Detective Addams. “This is a waste of time.” Detective Addams shook her head in disgust, but she didn't put up any more argument. “You are free to leave. But you are not—I repeat,
not—
to involve yourself in the investigation of Matt Peterman's murder in any way, shape, or form. Do you understand me? Am I being clear?”

Shirley simply nodded her head and stood up.

“And if it puts your mind at ease,” she said right before we made our exit, “I will have my private detective license before the end of the month. Come, Tammy.” I followed her out the door and we walked quickly down the hall, through the lobby, and then headed outside and down the steps, toward the sidewalk.

The police station was located just a few blocks from her office, which meant we could walk back. By now it was a little after twelve o'clock, and the streets were busier than usual with people headed out on their lunch break. “We have much to discuss, Tammy,” Shirley said as we continued walking. I was still trying to find the courage to bring up the subject as to why I'd told Detective Owen about her identity. “Let us make our way to Mrs. Hobson's establishment. I believe I smelled a pot of her famous chicken noodle soup simmering this morning. We can go over this most perplexing case while we enjoy some of said soup with a slice of her scrumptious pumpkin nut bread.”