“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.
“I will make this as short as I can. I suppose you have noticed that Shirley is rather…unusual?” I nodded my head. “Shirley has been under my care for many years now. I am her psychiatrist.”
“Okay,” I said, surprised. Shirley didn’t seem to have any awareness whatsoever that there was anything the slightest bit wrong with her.
“I suppose you are wondering what I’m doing here?” she asked with a half smile as she crossed her legs and folded her hands on top of her lap, kind of like she was settling in for a long chat, not the short visit she’d promised just a minute ago.
“Yes,” I said. “I mean, is it okay for you to be talking to me about her? Isn’t it all supposed to be confidential?” I shuddered at the thought of Phil McGuire talking to anyone I knew about anything that I had ever said to him. I kept a lot hidden, but still. I had told him enough.
“Normally that’s true. Shirley is, shall we say, a special case. There are reasons for my being here. Reasons that serve to protect her. Let me ask you this. Does Shirley seem to be under any sort of delusion? Anything that I should be concerned about?”
I hesitated. It wasn’t as if Shirley was trying to hide it, what with the clothes and the hat and the way she talked. “Well,” I said. “I’m not sure exactly how it works in her head. But she seems to have some kind of an obsession with Sherlock Holmes.”
“In what way?”
“In every way. Right down to the stupid hat.”
“Has she said anything to you about why she has this particular obsession?”
“No.”
“Ah.” Dr. Morgan stared at me for a moment and then looked away, deep in thought. “I think that there is something you need to know, even though some might say I’m violating patient confidentiality,” she said before turning back to look at me again. “However, Shirley is no longer under my care and was not so when she confided in me. I have been thinking of closing up my practice for some time anyway, and her well-being is more important to me than the risk of losing my license.” Dr. Morgan took a deep breath and rearranged her legs before proceeding. “Shirley believes that she has finally discovered the truth about herself, and she believes that this truth explains everything and makes me unnecessary. After receiving her brief letter informing me of this, I went to visit her to find out why she thought she no longer needed to see me. Shirley told me she has discovered that she is the great-great-granddaughter of Sherlock Holmes.”
“Discovered how?” I asked, as I absorbed this new piece of information, which sounded worse than my idea that she was just trying to imitate him.
“That she did not share with me.”
“But…how could she think she was the great-great-granddaughter of a fictional character? That doesn’t make any sense.”
“He is real to her.” Dr. Morgan uncrossed her legs and folded her hands, squeezing them together as she spoke. “Of course it isn’t all that unusual for individuals to believe that great characters from literature are real. They become part of our collective imagination.”
“But that wouldn’t make it normal to believe that you’re the great-great-granddaughter of Scrooge, or Robin Hood, or Romeo and Juliet.”
“Perhaps. But is being ‘normal’ all that wonderful?” Dr. Morgan asked wistfully.
I had so many answers to that. But all I said was, “I don’t know. I guess it’s just better than being crazy.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be glib.” Dr. Morgan looked down and stared at her hands for a moment before suddenly unclasping them as if she had just become aware of how tightly she’d been squeezing them together. “I guess I’m trying to put the situation in a positive light because I am actually very concerned. Does Shirley actually think that she’s the great-great-granddaughter of Sherlock Holmes? Or is it just a game that she’s having at our expense? That’s why I would like you to keep an eye on her for me.” Dr. Morgan opened up the brown leather purse she’d set beside her on the couch and pulled a business card from the side pouch. “Let me give you my card. It has all my numbers. If her behavior seems to become—”
“Look, Dr. Morgan,” I interrupted before this went any further, “if Shirley really believes that she’s the great-great-granddaughter of Sherlock Holmes, I don’t know if I can keep working for her. Do you know what we’re doing tonight? We’re going to sneak around some guy’s backyard looking for an invisible dog.”
“An invisible dog?” she asked, startled, momentarily losing her composed expression.
“Okay, that part isn’t crazy. It’s kind of a long story, but she somehow managed to get this client—”
“She has a client?”
“Yes, and he…That doesn’t matter. The point is, I don’t think I’m cut out for this.”
“Oh, but you are!” Dr. Morgan exclaimed. “You’re perfect. You’re exactly what Shirley needs. Someone grounded and down to earth.”
“I barely know her. If you’re this concerned, shouldn’t you talk to someone in her family?”
“That…would not be a good idea. Not unless absolutely necessary. There is only her sister, Myra, and their relationship is…no. Tammy, this may sound strange to you, but there is a chance that this Sherlock Holmes fixation may actually end up helping Shirley. She is gifted with a great imagination and many talents, but she has always had trouble finding her place in the world. Some of the greatest people in history have had similar difficulties.
“I can’t give you the specific details of her life. That would be a violation of her privacy. But the fact that she has managed to create that office and that little world for herself…she’s never found anything to truly absorb her attention. Add that to the fact that she has talked someone into letting her take a case—well, maybe we’re all a little bit crazy. But it isn’t hurting anyone, is it? Maybe it’s what she needs for now. A chance to act out her little fantasy until it runs its course.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ll have to think about this. I don’t know if I can go in there day after day pretending that she’s the great-great-granddaughter of Sherlock Holmes,” I said, thinking it was too bad I was so attached to food, clothing, shelter, and DVDs. Otherwise the decision would be an easy one.
“But you will go with her tonight? Let her enjoy an hour or two of acting out this fantasy of hers?” Dr. Morgan asked fervently. “It is one thing to imagine the world of Sherlock Holmes; it will be something else to live it. There’s a very good chance that she may discover that it’s not at all what she expected. And if this is nothing more than a game for her, then I would wager that tonight’s little adventure will satisfy her and be the end of it.”
Her eyes stared at me hopefully as she clutched her purse. I had sort of planned on calling Shirley in a little bit with some excuse as to why I couldn’
t go with her tonight. But if it would mean that much to her…it had been a long time since I’d felt as if I could do myself any good, let alone anyone else. And wandering around someone’s backyard for an hour probably wouldn’t kill me.
The pizza guy was due any minute. There was a new Sara Lee coconut cake in the refrigerator going to waste. And those two terrible DVDs starring people I hated weren’t going to watch themselves.
“Okay,” I said so Dr. Morgan would go away and leave me to my simple pleasures. “I guess I can do that much.”
Chapter 4
It was dark and quiet by the time I left my apartment. I’d thrown my wallet, compact, some protein bars, a flashlight, and a bottle of water into a canvas tote bag, which I tossed into the backseat of my car. Based on my extensive knowledge of thrillers and spy movies, I was dressed from head to toe in black for my nighttime mission: black jeans; black loafers; a black turtleneck; and a warm, black hoodie. I had actually toyed with the idea of smudging some black charcoal on my forehead, nose, and cheeks, but decided that was probably overkill.
When I arrived in downtown Springville the only light I saw, besides the one from the Highlight Bar, was the light shining from Shirley’s office. I grabbed my keys and left the tote bag behind, and kept a good watch around me as I made my way from my car to the back stairs. It was spooky being out there by myself at that time of night, and I jumped at every little sound I heard.
I carefully made my way up, glancing around as I went. When I had made it about halfway, I heard voices coming from inside the office. It sounded as if Shirley was having an argument with someone. Since I had never seen another person cross our doorstep besides myself and Shirley and Matt (who I was pretty sure would never make another appearance), I couldn’t imagine who she was talking to. I didn’t want to barge in if it was something personal, and after my conversation with Dr. Morgan I was half afraid it might turn out to be Shirley arguing with no one but herself, so I stopped to listen.
The Case of the Invisible Dog Page 5