The Case of the Invisible Dog

by Diane Stingley

  “Coming right up,” Cora said after peering at Shirley for a moment with an extremely baffled expression.

  “So, my dear,” Shirley said once Cora left. “Before we discuss the case, I would like to bring something up. There were times when my great-great-grandfather bruised Watson’s feelings. It was entirely unintentional. He would be so consumed with whatever case they were working on that he would forget the human element. I will never be a social butterfly or a group hugger. But I would like to improve upon that family flaw if I can. So. Would you care to discuss whatever is troubling you?”

  “What? No. I mean nothing is troubling me.”

  “As you wish.”

  “Why would you ask that?” I had no idea where this was coming from.

  “Subtle clues. Now, for instance, there is the residue of sleep still lingering in the inner corners of each eye, which leads me to believe that you were asleep when I called this evening at eight-thirty. That is an extremely early time for retiring in a young, healthy woman, even if there was nothing on television to garner your interest. I, myself, have extremely irregular sleep patterns. It is nothing unusual to find me poring over my studies when the sun comes up. When engaged in a case I may go days without sleep, and then spend twenty-four solid hours abed. But you, my dear, are hardly to be found immersed in scholarly pursuits until the break of dawn. I think, perhaps, your early bedtime is more logically a result of your desire to temporarily escape your troubles, whatever they may be.”

  “No,” I said, wiping the sleep out of my eyes and heartily wishing she would change the subject. “I was just tired. We were out pretty late last night, if you’ll recall. And then there was all the confusion about thinking that Matt was dead, and then he wasn’t dead, and then he was dead. I don’t think it’s all that strange that I found the whole thing a little bit exhausting,” I concluded, thinking that would settle the matter.

  “And the music,” Shirley continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “The first time that you gave me a ride, your choice in music was unfortunate. I do not fault you. You are a product of your time. And as a ‘regular Joe’ or ‘regular Josephine,’ if you will, it would be unrealistic for you to revel in the grandeur that is Beethoven. Or to find solace with a lovely sonata by Mozart.

  “But on the first occasion your unfortunate music was playing at a reasonable volume before you so courteously turned it off. This evening, however, when you drove onto Matt Peterman’s cul-de-sac, you had your music turned to an extremely loud volume. This suggests to me that you were trying to drown out your thoughts, or your feelings, or perhaps both. You turned it down as you approached, but I had heard it quite clearly, and making unnecessary noise on a noticeably quiet street where we would obviously not want our presence advertised was careless of you, and you are not a careless person. Otherwise, I would not have hired you. So I repeat, is something troubling you? And if so, would you care to share it with me?”

  “It’s nothing,” I said before taking a long sip of coffee.

  “Nothing?” Shirley asked with a look that made me feel as if she saw right through me, which, based on her detection skills so far, just didn’t seem possible.

  “Oh, just…life. Regular life stuff.”

  “Yes,” Shirley said thoughtfully after a brief lift of her eyebrows. “Life can be a difficult and troubling affair.”

  Before I could say anything else, Cora arrived and set down a gold saucer carrying an orange ceramic mug with a tea bag nestled beside it before moving on to her next table. Shirley dipped her finger into the water inside the mug and frowned.

  “Watson’s marriage was a happy one,” Shirley said, opening her tea bag with a sigh. “And I believe that my great-great-grandfather would have been happy with Irene Adler if he hadn’t been killed before they could be reunited. As for me, I have not met my male version of Irene Adler, and I doubt I ever will. I believe I function better as a solitary, and hence do not feel the void. But is that perhaps what is troubling you? That you have not yet found a suitable mate?”

  “No,” I said. “I mean, I was just in a bad mood. That happens to most people, you know. They have moods. Good moods and bad moods.” I was troubled that my carefully composed imitation of a healthy, happy person did not seem to be holding up to Shirley’s scrutiny. And if I couldn’t even fool Shirley, then what must the rest of the world think?

  “Ah,” Shirley said. “I suppose that is true. I am fortunate in that respect, being ruled primarily by my brain rather than the roller coaster of emotions that seems to make life so difficult for others. We shall move on to another topic: the case at hand. The first step, as soon as we’ve finished eating, will be a return where we left off for a thorough search of Matt Peterman’s house.”

  “Could I make a suggestion?” Shirley nodded her head. “I was thinking maybe we should hold off on that.”

  “And why were you thinking that?” Shirley asked with a shade of impatience as she took her tea bag out of the mug and folded it into her napkin.

  “I was thinking, on the way here, about what you said today. About going with your gut.”

  “Going with your gut?” Shirley repeated with a look of distaste. “I don’t recall saying any such thing.”

  “Sure you did. It had something to do with the French, and Sherlock Holmes using more than his brain, and—”

  “Yes, yes, yes. I recollect that conversation now. Perhaps if you had worded it with more finesse my memory would have made the connection. But what is your point?” Shirley took a small sip of her tea, frowned, and set the mug back down on top of the saucer.

  “I think, maybe, the Browns, well…”

  “Well what? Be precise, Tammy. We were given the gift of language in order to communicate with each other. Use it wisely.”

  “Even though I can’t come up with a reason for them to be involved, my gut is telling me that something is off about the two of them. It could be that I just don’t like them…but remember what Matt told us? That the Browns talked about having him over for dinner one night? But Chuck made it sound as if they invited him but he always turned them down. And Nancy’s story about wanting to set him up with someone? I didn’t buy it. He said they were nice and friendly, but they made it sound as if they were friends, and there’s a big difference. And you met Matt. Why would the Browns be so interested in pursuing a friendship with him?”

  “Because they are nice and friendly? And capable of compassion?” Shirley asked, cocking her head and giving me a superior smile. “That is one of the most difficult parts of an investigation, Tammy, sorting through everyone’s stories. They never match up entirely. And beware the pitfalls of letting your personal likes and dislikes color the nature of what you observe. The murder of Matt Peterman was a crude affair, not likely the work of someone with the artistic refinement that enabled them to appreciate the craftsmanship of an antique cane.”

  “Er, maybe, but…there’s something else. When you broke Matt’s door last night, Chuck Brown looked out from his window. He saw me. He’s the one who called the police.”

  “My dear, there you go again, making assumptions. Simply because Chuck Brown looked out the window and saw you does not mean that the subsequent arrival of two members of the Springville Police Department were a direct result of his actions. I think the more likely explanation was the one I gave you that night: the murderer, identity unknown at this point, was attempting to frame us for his evil deed.”

  “Chuck Brown looked right at me and said I’m calling the police.”

  “I see,” Shirley said, narrowing her eyes. “And why is it that you did not share that information with me earlier?”

  “Well, there was a lot going on at the time. You screamed—sorry, shouted—and Matt was supposedly dead. And then we were running from the police, and then this morning there was a detective waiting in your office…it was a lot to take in.” Shirley took a long, slow sip of tea, wrinkled her nose, and set the mug back down. “Sorry,” I added as she s
imply stared at me without speaking, the look in her eye reminding me a little bit of my Aunt Ilene the night I tried to sneak in after curfew. “Anyway, I know I didn’t like them, and I know I have a hat on tonight and it was dark, so maybe I look different, but the more I think about it, the more I think he recognized me. It was something about the expression on his face. I think he was just pretending not to.”

  “For what reason?” she snapped.

  “I don’t know. I’m not saying any of this makes sense yet. I’m just telling you what my gut is saying. And another thing. Don’t you think it’s weird that they got a dog? After all the complaining that Matt did about hearing a dog barking, and them always denying having a dog, and then, the very same day that he’s killed the Browns suddenly decide to buy a dog for themselves?”

  “Perhaps. Or perhaps it came about just the way they said.”

  “And what about Nancy’s comment about Matt not liking dogs? How would she know that?”

  “He no doubt would have mentioned it when he went to complain about the barking. Tammy, I am pleased to see that you are attempting to observe your surroundings, take note of details, and trying to formulate theories, however wrongheaded they may be due to your lack of experience. For example, Mr. Brown’s decision to call the police actually argues against him and his wife as suspects. Much easier to pretend they haven’t noticed a thing, don’t you think? Why on earth get the police involved?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted somewhat begrudgingly. I didn’t have an answer for that, either. “But when we left I could have sworn one of them was watching us through their curtains.”

  “That may be because we looked just as suspicious to them as they look to you. Perhaps once they had time to think about Angie’s story they started to question it. Matt’s murder must be quite distressing to them. And that street is in their neighborhood after all. We are the intruders, Tammy, not they, regardless of the worthiness of our motives.” Shirley picked up her mug, lifted it toward her mouth, took one tiny sip, and then set it back down with a look of disgust.

  “Maybe I’m wrong,” I said. Maybe I wasn’t being fair, and was reading something into every little thing that Chuck and Nancy did because I couldn’t stand them. It might be as simple as the fact that the Browns reminded me of too many people I’d known in Hollywood—all surface and mannerisms and false friendliness, with nothing real underneath. “But I still don’t think we should go back over there tonight.”

  “Ah,” Shirley said, as Cora suddenly appeared beside our table carrying three full plates of food. “Our feast has arrived.”

  “Here you go,” Cora said, setting down the plates in front of Shirley. “Can I get you anything else? More coffee? More hot water for your tea?”

  “In order to have more hot water for my tea, I would have already enjoyed a first cup of hot water,” Shirley said, picking up her mug and handing it to Cora.

  “Huh? The hot water is right here. In this mug you just handed me.”

  “So it is. Never mind. I drink too much tea anyway. And this all looks delicious. Thank you, Cora. That will be all for now.”

  Cora smiled at Shirley the way that I used to smile at customers who I really wanted to punch in the face, and then she beat a hasty retreat back to the kitchen.

  “Next time I shall order lukewarm tea,” Shirley said. “And I shall, therefore, not be disappointed. Now, where were we?”

  “I was telling you that I don’t think it’s a good idea to go back over to Matt Peterman’s tonight.”

  “I can’t possibly eat all this bacon. Here. Please have a slice.”

  “Even if the Browns aren’t involved, they always seem to be lurking around,” I said, taking the slice of bacon Shirley had thrust toward me.

  “I see,” Shirley said. “You simply must try some of these hash browns. And a bit of waffle. Let me make you up a little plate.”

  Shirley slid the waffle off one of her side plates and onto the larger one. She cut it in half and then placed it back on the side plate, along with some of her hash browns, and handed it across to me. “There we go.”

  “Thanks,” I said, surprised by how hungry I suddenly was. “And if the Browns spot us over there again they’ll probably call the police.”

  “So, in brief, you think that Mr. Brown may have recognized you, but you’re not absolutely sure. And you think that Mr. or Mrs. Brown may have been watching us through their curtains, but you’re also not sure. Is that correct?”

  “Yes,” I managed to get out around a mouthful of potatoes. “Mmmmm.” I swallowed. “These hash browns are good. Are you going to eat that last slice of bacon?”

  “No. Please help yourself. So, to summarize: You admit that you dislike the Browns and that this may color your observations of their behavior. It is highly probable, however, that the arrival of the invisible dog and the subsequent decision of Matt Peterman to hire us to look into the matter led to his murder. He was, after all, a none-too-successful insurance agent with no apparent social life. Ergo, the usual murderous motives of money and/or sex do not seem to apply. To say nothing of the fact that we had not even been on the job for twenty-four hours when he was killed. And due to the quite obvious ineptitude of our local police department, I do not believe that Matt Peterman’s killer will ever be brought to justice unless I continue with my investigation, regardless of the risk involved. And that will necessitate a complete and thorough search of his house. You, of course, are under no obligation to put yourself in harm’s way if you choose not to. Watson was never commanded to accompany my great-great-grandfather. He was always invited.”

  “What about Detective Owen?” I asked hopefully. “Maybe if we gave him all the facts, and he knew that we had both heard a dog barking—”

  “Detective Owen?” Shirley interrupted shrilly. “Hardly,” she added with a sarcastic snort. “However charming his physical attributes, I’m afraid that he does not have the imagination and wide range of skills to see what is at the root of this murder.”

  “And what is at the root of this murder?” I asked.

  “Something sinister that will require imagination and a wide range of skills, the likes of which Detective Owen most certainly does not possess, to uncover. I thought I just explained that. Really, Tammy, you can be of no assistance to me unless you pay attention. However, it is late, you are yawning, I myself am feeling fatigued, and I believe it would be wise to put off our search of the Peterman residence—or my search, as the case may be—until tomorrow evening.”

  Chapter 11

  After we left the Waffle Barn, I dropped Shirley off in front of the office, per her request, and then headed home. I was sleepy from all the food I had eaten. Shirley said that I didn’t need to be in until noon, but I woke up early the next morning and couldn’t get back to sleep

  I didn’t feel like going to the donut shop, so I threw on my robe, made some coffee, and then I brought up the online version of the Springville Voice. There was a short article about Matt’s murder on page one with very little information. He’d been shot inside his car in the alley behind his office around seven-thirty a.m. There were no witnesses, no one had heard anything, and he’d been found by the guys on the trash collection truck who had gotten out because his car was blocking their way through.

  I scanned a few other sites—apparently there are a surprising number of female celebrities who actually used to be men—before turning off my computer. I toyed with the idea of giving my apartment a thorough cleaning, but thanks to my upbringing at the hands of Aunt Ilene, I kept the place as neat as a pin even on my worst days. It wasn’t something I had to think about it; the habit was too deeply ingrained. And I had already done all the detail stuff, including under the refrigerator, before I even moved in.

  So I decided, instead, to go see the woman responsible for all this disgusting self-discipline—Aunt Ilene.

  I called first. My aunt has many rules. One of her rules is that you do not drop by her house unannou
nced. This rule of hers actually goes against one of the unwritten laws of Springville: if someone drops by your home unannounced—even if it is someone that you don’t particularly like—you stop what you’re doing immediately. You express your absolute delight to see them. You offer coffee in the winter and sweet tea in the summer, and something to go with their beverage, such as a slice of cake or some cookies. Best of all is if the cookies or cake are homemade.

  My cousin Anna has told me that my aunt lived by the code of Springville for many years. But by the time I came along, all that had changed. After Uncle Ronny died she became this entirely different person. I don’t have any way to verify this information. I don’t know if Anna is remembering correctly. I didn’t know her or my aunt for the first twelve years of my life. Aunt Ilene and my mother had stopped speaking to each other three years before I was born. That’s the other reason why I’m so loyal to my aunt. She really did not have to take me in; there was literally no obligation for her to do that.

  “Hey, Aunt Ilene. It’s Tammy,” I said without thinking, and then immediately winced when I realized what I’d done: identified myself. Big mistake. I should have finished my cup of coffee before calling her.

  “Of course it’s Tammy. Who else calls me Aunt Ilene? I haven’t lost my memory yet. Or my marbles. And the day I do, just pack me up and take me to the home.”

  Aunt Ilene is a very literal person. And she takes great offense at the slightest hint that you might be doubting her mental abilities now that she’s getting up in years—even when you don’t mean anything of the kind. She makes a point of letting Anna and me know on a regular basis that she will never be a burden. We are under strict orders that at the first sign of old age trouble of any kind we’re to pack her up and drop her off at the nearest convalescent hospital.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t called for the past couple of days. My new job is pretty crazy.”

  “You don’t need to apologize. I’m not so old that I have nothing better to do than sit around in my rocking chair, knitting shawls and waiting for my relatives to call.”