The Case of the Invisible Dog

by Diane Stingley

  “Of course you can,” Anna said, brightening. “You’ll do great. And you’ll probably make all kinds of contacts, and before long move on to something even better.”

  Anna is what you would call an optimist, especially when it comes to me. She continues to think that I am simply a normal person who tried to make it as an actress, failed (she actually thinks I just gave up too soon and that I was only weeks, if not days, away from my big break), and is now in the process of rebuilding her life, with some bumps along the way, which are only to be expected. She doesn’t realize that while there are many reasons for a person to go into acting, those reasons hardly ever include the words robust mental health.

  So while Anna had her reservations about my new job, I did not. Now that I’d had some time to get used to the idea, I thought that working for Shirley Homes might turn out to be the best thing that could have happened. Finally, a place where I could relax. A place where I wouldn’t have to work so hard at being normal and fitting in. Because compared to Shirley Homes, I was the poster child for normal.

  —

  When I reported to work the next morning there was another handwritten note on Shirley’s door. This time it read: Welcome, Tammy. Please make yourself at home. If I need anything, I will let you know. For the time being, please see to it that there is always a fresh pot of hot water available for our clients so that we may brew them a cup of tea. I have left some insurance and tax forms on your desk. A necessary evil, I am afraid. Please fill them out and leave them on top of the right-hand bookcase when you are through. It would be most helpful if you would be so good as to take your lunch hour between noon and one o’clock. Until otherwise notified, I am not to be disturbed. Thank you—Shirley Homes.

  That same basic note—minus the directions about the tax and insurance forms—was waiting for me every morning for the next two weeks. During the day Shirley would pop in and out, always stopping by my desk to say hello and ask if I was enjoying my job.

  “Yes,” I always replied, because what else could I say? I needed the money. I didn’t want to go back to waiting tables. At that point I would have said anything to hold on to my job even though I was bored out of mind.

  “Is there anything you need?”

  “No. I don’t think so,” I answered the first few times, feeling awkward and still wanting to make a good impression.

  On the fourth morning of my employment, I finally brought up the subject of finding me something to do. Shirley had come out of her office for the third time that day, asking me yet again if I was enjoying my job.

  “Yes,” I said as usual. “But…” My voice trailed off as she stood there smiling at me. I just wasn’t sure how to come out and ask her.

  “What is it?” she asked with just a hint of impatience in her tone.

  “Well, I mean…”

  “Out with it, Tammy!” she commanded with an impatient flourish of her hands.

  “Is there anything you’d like me to do?” I asked uncomfortably.

  “Not at present,” she replied, unflustered. “When there is I shall let you know. Until then, just continue to keep yourself occupied and stay near the phone. I believe that there are some mindless games of diversion on the computer I provided that might offer some pleasant diversion. Computers are useful things, I suppose, but I prefer to employ my own wits, brains, and imagination rather than relying on a machine. One day I may have to surrender to all this new technology, but for now I keep up the good fight. Oh, and always make sure there is a fresh pot of hot water for our clients,” she added with a brisk clap of her hands. With that she turned on her heel and cloistered herself in her office for the remainder of the afternoon.

  I finally started going downstairs to Hobson’s Bakery for coffee and a donut every morning so that I had something to look forward to. Most of the time I had lunch there, too. The owner, Mrs. Hobson, served great food. She offered fresh soups, salads, breads, and a variety of sandwiches. The place did a good business for lunch and had a nice homey atmosphere complete with checkered tablecloths, antique photos of Springville from the turn of the previous century, and small vases filled with fresh flowers on each of the tables.

  Mrs. Hobson looked like the perfect person to run her own little restaurant. She was a short, heavyset, middle-aged woman with plump cheeks, bright blue eyes, and soft brown hair that she wore pinned back in a bun. She always wore a ruffled apron over her shirt and slacks. I’d see her smiling and chatting with the other customers. But from the very first time I went inside, all I ever got from her was a gruff “Hello” before she grabbed a menu and quickly showed me to a table—usually the one right next to the kitchen door.

  I couldn’t figure out what I had done to offend her until one day, as I stood at the cash register to pay my bill, the little bells on the doorknob clanged, and Mrs. Hobson got a funny expression on her face. And when I say funny, I mean the way Aunt Ilene used to look if I ever burped at the dinner table. I turned to see what had caught her attention, and saw Shirley coming in the door with her usual brisk stride.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Hobson,” she boomed out cheerfully, stopping next to me.

  “Hello,” Mrs. Hobson said curtly through pursed lips.

  “I see you have met my assistant, Tammy,” Shirley said with no seeming awareness that Mrs. Hobson appeared less than thrilled to see her. “I was hoping that she would patronize your fine establishment. I am always so preoccupied that it is a relief to know she will have someone else with whom to converse and socialize. With all you have in common, I am confident that the two of you will quickly become great friends.

  “In a way I envy you good, simple people who can be so entertained by trivial conversation,” she continued in a wistful tone. “I myself am not plagued with the need to fill my days with the ceaseless, mindless chatter that people such as yourself and Tammy seem to thrive on. I find the banal subject matter that most people wish to discuss very cumbersome and unsatisfying. But you mustn’t trouble yourself with the thought that the life I lead must, therefore, be a sad and lonely one. My own solitary pursuits keep my mind absorbed and contented. And while I sometimes toy with the idea of learning to cultivate an interest in the mundane in order to fit in more sympathetically with the world at large, I have found that one cannot change one’s own essential nature. Do you by any chance belong to a bowling league, Mrs. Hobson?”

  “No. I do not belong to a bowling league,” she replied, cheeks flushed, barking out each syllable so that the words emerged like a spray of bullets from a machine gun. Due to the difference in their heights Mrs. Hobson had to crane her neck in order to glare at Shirley, who was literally looking down at her, and seemed wholly unaffected by the obvious impact of her speech on Mrs. Hobson’s demeanor.

  “Pity. I think it would be good for Tammy to find an alternate means of filling her evenings beyond the simple amusement provided by sitcoms and talk shows. I understand from the entertainment section of the New York Times that this Mr. Fallon fellow is the new—what is the phrase I am looking for?—King of Late Night. Yes, that’s it. I’m sure he is a perfectly lovely gentleman, but when entertaining the masses, one is forced by the very nature of the enterprise to keep the subject matter simple. Perhaps, Mrs. Hobson, you could put all that admirable energy of yours to good use by forming a bowling league of your own. I believe it would be an excellent way for you and Tammy to enjoy each other’s company while also benefiting from physical exertion. Food for thought, Mrs. Hobson, food for thought. And now, as I have pressing matters to attend to, I will take my leave and wish a good day to you both.”

  Shirley nodded her head and then whirled around and walked out the door, leaving me stuck there with a stony-faced Mrs. Hobson, muttering something under her breath as she slammed some coins out of the register and down onto the counter.

  “Keep the change,” I said, too embarrassed to meet her eyes, even though I had over seven dollars coming back. And then I made my own hasty retreat.

&n
bsp; If I hadn’t been so bored out of my mind most of the time, or if I hadn’t gotten completely addicted to her homemade cookies and soups, I probably never would have gone back to Mrs. Hobson’s restaurant. But I couldn’t make it past ten o’clock in the morning before finally giving in and heading downstairs.

  And that’s how things stood on that Friday in early March, and how things stood until the following Monday morning when everything changed. The morning I discovered exactly what service it was that Shirley Homes planned to provide to an unsuspecting public—and what kind of assistance I’d be expected to contribute on her behalf.

  Chapter 2

  I was so engrossed in my magazine on that Monday morning that I didn’t even hear the front door open, or become aware of Shirley walking into the office. I was leaning back in my chair reading the Enquirer, completely unaware of her presence. I know it is petty and bitter of me, but these days I absolutely love the Enquirer. I especially look forward to the swimsuit issues. I love lingering over pictures of famous people on the beach, with their cellulite and sagging bellies—especially if it’s someone I met when I had a bit part or worked as an extra who was particularly difficult to work with or rude to the crew. Or someone I heard about from my fellow struggling actor friends (gossiping about the A-listers as we swore that we would never, ever act that way once we hit it big formed a major theme in our conversations). If I spot someone, however, who was actually nice, or someone who was just sad, then I don’t linger over the photo. I may be petty and bitter, but I do have my standards.

  And it’s comforting to read about all the regular crazies out there, people going about their daily business who are batty as hell. After a particularly good issue, I comfort myself with the idea that normal people might actually be in the minority.

  Shirley was usually in her office by the time I arrived, and since her door was always closed I had just assumed that she was already in there, busy at her desk doing whatever it was that she did.

  “Good morning, Tammy,” Shirley barked, throwing wide the office door before clambering in and then banging it shut behind her so that the bells hanging overhead clanged against each other noisily. I was so startled by her sudden appearance that I banged my knee on the edge of the desk and dropped my magazine.

  “Good morning,” I mumbled, feeling my face grow crimson. It was embarrassing to be caught reading the Enquirer at my desk at nine-thirty in the morning, even though she still hadn’t given me anything to do. And there was no way to pretend I’d just been skimming through it. When I read the Enquirer, I am totally engrossed.

  “Startled you, did I?” she asked, her eyes twinkling with amusement as she strode toward my desk.

  “A little.”

  “You should obtain one of those devices that record television programs so that you don’t need to stay up late watching Mr. Fallon.”

  “I beg your pardon?” It was the second time she had mentioned Jimmy Fallon.

  “I use him as a metaphor, of course. There was a time when a cursory glance at the TV Guide, combined with my keen observation of your habits and personality traits, such as the reading material you are currently absorbed in, would have allowed me to quickly and easily deduce which programs were a regular part of your viewing habits,” she said merrily as she pressed her palms flat on my desk, beaming at me after an amused glance down at my Enquirer. “I do not care for television myself, but I try to keep up with what’s popular in order to better understand the world of our clients.”

  “Clients?” I asked hopefully. So far, other than Shirley and me, not one single other person had walked through that office door.

  “Your puffy eyes and dark circles are clear evidence that you are staying up late each evening,” she stated, seeming not to have heard my interjection. “But how do I know that it is television keeping you up?”

  “I don’t know,” I muttered in the face of her unrelenting gaze.

  “You have these same puffy eyes and dark circles every morning of the week. You aren’t married, and I see no sparkle in your eyes, no spring in your step, no photo on your desk to indicate a romantic involvement. And it would hardly be your love of reading classic literature or the great works of philosophy causing you to lose valuable sleep,” she said, with another pointed glance at my Enquirer. “Thus, there is some late night program that you watch each evening, and those dark circles and puffy eyes are a result of this unfortunate habit. Hence my suggestion that you invest in a recording device, and delay your viewing until the following day at an earlier hour. I know that you are a lover of routine, but after a few days I feel quite sure that you would be able to adapt to the change.”

  I was so taken aback that I didn’t know what to say. It was not only the longest conversation that she’d ever had with me, but it was also completely untrue. I was definitely not a lover of routine; I had, as a matter of fact, spent most of my life avoiding routine. These days I was trying to discover if there was a routine that I could learn to live with. And I didn’t stay up late watching T.V.—or doing anything else, for that matter. Most nights I came home feeling exhausted and took a long, hot shower, stood in the kitchen while I had a quick sandwich or salad for dinner, and crawled into bed early with a good mystery.

  As for the dark circles and puffy eyes, I wasn’t sleeping well. I hadn’t slept well for the most part since I left L.A. But sitting in Shirley’s office for eight hours a day for the last two weeks with nothing to do was starting to make it worse. There are only so many times you can water a fern, mist all its leaves, trim off the dead ends, check the soil, and polish the brass urn that it sits in. Even when you name it Tilly, and find yourself asking how it’s doing today, a potted plant can only provide so much in the way of occupation and entertainment.

  “Amazing,” I said as Shirley continued to stare at me, obviously waiting for me to express my disbelief at her uncanny powers of perception.

  “It isn’t magic. Simply a matter of close observation. Anyone could achieve the same results if they would simply take the time to pay attention. As we start to work our cases, you’ll get used to it over time. And hopefully you will learn to develop some of these abilities yourself.”

  “Our cases?” I asked, taken aback for a second time. Surely she couldn’t be an attorney? Who in their right mind would let Shirley Homes represent them in a court of law?

  “Yes. If I am not mistaken, a man will be coming to see us shortly. He has a very curious problem, and it will be up to me to solve it for him. Ah, here he is now.”

  Shirley turned and faced the door, and I peered around her, expecting to hear footsteps coming up the stairs. But there were no footsteps, and after staring at the door for a good two minutes, Shirley finally cleared her throat.

  “Tammy,” she said, turning back to face me. “Let that be a lesson to you, one that we shall both need to remember as we work on our cases.”

  That was the third time in the space of five minutes that she had mentioned our “cases,” and I was anxious for her to finally explain just what kind of cases we would be handling. I still had absolutely no idea what business she was actually in or what kind of person would want to hire her. For anything.

  “Impatience is our enemy,” she continued before I had a chance to ask her to clarify. “Impatience shall give us false clues, and false clues shall lead to false results. I was so anxious for our first client to arrive—yes, we do at last have our first client—that I assumed those footsteps were coming to our door. Obviously it was nothing more than someone walking down the sidewalk in noisier-than-typical foot apparel. You have heard, of course, the famous story of the tortoise and the hare?”

  “You mean the one where the hare goes too fast and wears himself out, and the tortoise ends up winning by taking his time and being patient?”

  “I do indeed mean that story, as I am unaware of any other common story featuring those two characters. I have made a study of such stories and fables, designed to illustrate an important m
oral to their readers, stories from all over the world, and a remarkable fact has emerged. If you read them carefully as I have done—”

  The two bells over the front door tinkled as Shirley talked, and a nervous-looking man of average height with an extremely large potbelly—who appeared to be in his early forties—stepped cautiously inside. He had small green eyes and a receding hairline that he tried to cover by combing his light brown hair over to the side. I felt a strange sort of affection for the guy when I saw his bald skull peeking through his thinning hair. I understood his reasoning all too well. (I bet if I just comb this hair over to the side no one will ever notice that I’m going bald!). It might have taken a different form, but that same principle was currently the foundation of my life.

  “—you can notice that certain themes emerge,” Shirley droned on, oblivious to the man who was now shuffling his feet uncomfortably on the Oriental rug. “One of the most interesting is—”

  “Shirley?” I asked, trying to get her attention, pointing toward the door.

  “—that what we perceive to be universal values…Yes, Tammy, what is it?” she asked impatiently.

  “I think our first client has arrived,” I told her, gesturing toward the door again.

  “Ah,” she said serenely, without missing a beat. “Thank you, Tammy. You are right, of course. No matter what interesting discussion we might be having, the client must always come first. Welcome, sir,” she added, whirling around to meet him with an extended hand. “I am Shirley Homes, as you know. And this is my trusted colleague, Tammy Norman. Tammy, this is Matt Peterman, our first client.”

  “Hello,” I said. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “You too,” Matt said, his eyes darting back and forth between the two of us as if he was trying to figure out how to get back out the door as quickly as possible. “Maybe this was a bad idea.”