“So how are you?” I asked, ignoring her previous comments. Anna and I have both learned the hard way that this is the best way to proceed. The worst way is to make some sort of comment along the lines of, “Don’t be silly, Aunt Ilene. I don’t think of you as old.” She doesn’t believe it, and then she asks you if you could please explain just when in the hell it was that the world decided being old is something to be ashamed of!
“I’m fine,” she replied crisply. “No broken hips. I haven’t set the house on fire or spent the last two hours looking for my car keys. As a matter of fact I have my car keys right here in my hand.”
“You do?” I asked. “Why?”
“Because I’m getting ready to go somewhere in my car. Why else would I have them in my hand?”
“Well…” I said, stalling for time. It was just a casual question. Really. “Because you just came back from going somewhere in your car?”
“No. And now I must be going. I have an engagement.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“Good-bye.”
Aunt Ilene never waits for the other person to say good-bye. Once she’s done speaking, she hangs up. Our conversations are frequently abrupt. If she has something else to do she doesn’t make small talk or ask how you are. I would never in a million years think of confiding in her about anything too personal. I haven’t told her anything much about what actually happened out in Los Angeles when my life crashed in on itself. But I would walk through a burning desert for that woman.
—
Since my aunt was busy I gave some thought to doing something else useful. I even got so far as opening my front door and looking at the patch of dirt around the tree outside my apartment. It was too late to plant any bulbs, but I’d seen some trays of spring flowers in front of the garden section at my local Walmart the last time I drove past. (My grocery shopping tends to consist of short trips to the local market when I need something. My current state of mind does not give me sufficient motivation or willpower to tackle the many aisles of Walmart.) I could have gotten some mulch and planting soil and a few trays of flowers to plant. Thanks, once again, to Aunt Ilene, I knew the basics of gardening.
But it was a cloudy day, I spotted a couple of bees hovering nearby who looked like trouble, and before I knew it I was back on my couch in front of my television, and scrolling down my viewer guide, where I had the good fortune to spot a serial killer movie that was so bad you rooted for the killer to go free. The whole thing was so embarrassing that everyone involved should have gone home and never come back outside for the rest of their lives. Including the female lead, who used to make the extras stop talking whenever she was within twenty feet. I got a warm feeling inside when I pictured how ridiculous she had looked trying to play the part of a streetwise homicide detective.
But then another idea popped into my head. Maybe I should go see Detective Owen by myself. I could dress in my really good Anne Taylor suit, put on my best normal act, and see if he would believe that Shirley and I had both heard a dog’s bark when we’d been inside Matt Peterman’s house. I would fill him in on what else we had discovered, and see if he would at least take a look at the Browns, still my primary suspects despite their love of old canes.
Maybe without Shirley there Detective Owen would take me seriously. Maybe if he did, I could talk him into paying Shirley another visit, so he could let her know he was investigating our information. Maybe then Shirley would stay out of it. That way she wouldn’t need to run around trying to solve Matt Peterman’s murder, and I wouldn’t need to go back to his house again. And since it didn’t seem likely that another client would make the mistake of hiring Shirley Homes, maybe she would manage to stay out of trouble, I could keep my job for a while until I figured something else out, with nothing more to worry about than watering a fern, paying off some bills, and learning to live with boredom. That was a lot of maybes, but I figured it was worth a shot. After the events of the past few days, boredom was starting to look better and better.
—
They kept me waiting out in the lobby for over twenty minutes after I asked to speak to Detective Owen. I told the guy at the front desk that it was regarding the murder of Matt Peterman. He didn’t look as impressed as I thought he would. I guess murder is more of an everyday thing inside a police station.
I was starting to feel foolish—and having flashbacks of waiting to be interviewed by Shirley Homes—when Detective Owen finally came out to the lobby. I stood up to greet him, and as I did, I saw that Detective Addams was following right behind.
“Ms. Norman,” Detective Owen said. “You have some information for us? About the murder of Matt Peterman?”
“Um, yes, well, kind of.” God, I sounded like an idiot. Now that he was standing right in front of me, I suddenly realized that I had been kidding myself and underestimating just what a bad impression Shirley and I had both made on him. Detective Owen didn’t look as if he was at all curious to hear what I had to tell him. He looked suspicious and leery. And then, to make matters worse, he glanced down at his watch. But I had to at least make an effort. “Here’s the thing. I think there’s someone that you should investigate. Those next-door neighbors…the Browns…Chuck and Nancy Brown?”
“Uh-huh.”
“They got a dog.”
“A dog?” he asked.
“You didn’t know that?” Detective Addams asked, deadpan. “It was the headline in this morning’s paper. Local couple gets dog. The whole town is abuzz.”
My face turned red; I could feel the warmth in my cheeks; and I cursed whatever genes I had that made me blush so easily. And I cursed the day I met Shirley Homes.
“The thing is,” I forced myself to say as my cheeks continued to flame, “they got the dog on the same day that Matt Peterman was killed. And he only started hearing the invisible…a dog barking, that is, after they moved in. Which they claimed they didn’t have. And now all of a sudden they decide to get a dog? Don’t you think that’s kind of suspicious?” All of this had made so much sense in my head, but the more I tried to explain myself, the lamer I sounded.
“I sure do,” Detective Addams said, nodding her head vigorously. “It’s the break we’ve been looking for. I say we go over to their house right now and arrest them on one count of suspicious dog buying.”
“How did you discover this information?” Detective Owen asked. The corners of his mouth were twitching. Apparently he found Detective Addams’ attempts at humor very hilarious. He obviously had no imagination and lacked a wide range of thought. “Wasn’t I clear enough the last time we spoke about staying out of this case?”
“The Browns told us themselves. We were on a public street, which is not against the law, I believe. And they came over and told us about the dog. They made a point of telling us about the dog. Which I think is very strange.”
“It may be strange, but at this point in our investigation we don’t believe that a dog—invisible or otherwise—is the key to Matt Peterman’s murder. We are pursuing other leads.”
“Human leads,” Detective Addams added with a smirk. Apparently she found herself as hilarious as Detective Owen did.
I felt foolish and angry but forced myself to keep a neutral expression on my face. I didn’t want either one of them to know that their little jokes were having any effect on me whatsoever.
“Suit yourself,” I said with an indifferent shrug, as if giving up the fight. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get to work.”
“And that work doesn’t include Matt Peterman, right?” Detective Owen called after me.
I didn’t say anything, just shrugged again and walked out the door. There was no point in bringing up the one quick bark that Shirley and I heard inside Matt Peterman’s house; Detective Owen thought we were crazy. And no one listens to crazy people.
—
I was halfway down the steps of the police station when I heard her voice.
“Good morning,” she said.
“You!�
� I exclaimed, taken completely by surprise at the sight of the person standing there at the bottom of the steps: Dr. Morgan.
“Yes, it’s me.”
I almost turned and ran back into the police station, but then I remembered that they already thought me some kind of lunatic. And what exactly did I think they would charge her with?
“How did you know I would be here?” I asked, taking a few steps back and clutching my big leather purse. I always carry way too much stuff in it, and I figured if nothing else I could use it to whack her over the head.
“I was coming to see you, but as I got out of my car I saw you come racing out of your apartment. And when I saw what a hurry you were in, I didn’t want to bother you. I decided to simply follow you instead and see if an opportunity presented itself for me to speak with you.”
“I know you’re a fake. I know that you were never Shirley’s psychiatrist.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I told Shirley about your little visit.”
“Oh, I see,” she said, obviously taken aback. “I suppose I just assumed you would keep that confidential.”
“I was planning on it. But then Myra told me that Shirley hasn’t seen a psychiatrist since she was eighteen.”
“Ah, Myra,” she said after a moment, pushing a strand of her soft brown hair behind her pearl-studded ear. “Of course. I should have explained myself more clearly, I suppose. This is a very delicate situation. There are some benches over there. Will you sit with me for a few minutes so I can explain things?”
She smiled at me warmly and I started to wonder why I thought she was so dangerous. Maybe Shirley had lied to me. Maybe Myra had lied to me, too. Maybe Myra was just as crazy as Shirley. Neither of them seemed to be playing with a full deck. Maybe they didn’t want me to know that Shirley was seeing a psychiatrist. Maybe there was more going on than what they told me. Maybe I should listen to what this person had to say. She certainly didn’t appear too threatening in her sky-blue pantsuit with matching pumps and small clutch purse.
“Okay,” I said hesitantly. “I’ll give you five minutes.”
“Thank you.”
I followed her down the steps in front of the police station, and we walked over to the small flower garden on the corner where there were two benches surrounded by a bed of pansies still left from winter. I guess the town hadn’t been any more anxious to get to their spring planting than I’d been. Dr. Morgan sat down on the bench to the right; I sat down on the one to the left.
“So,” she said. “Allow me to clarify. Myra does not know about me. Her relationship with her sister is…strained. Shirley has moved several times to pursue various interests, and Myra always follows. She says it is because she needs to keep an eye on Shirley. But Shirley does not appreciate Myra’s concern. There is money involved, you know. They both have large trust funds. Shirley once accused Myra of plotting to try and have the courts declare her incompetent and appoint Myra as Shirley’s guardian so that she could control all the money. Their relationship has never fully recovered from that ugly accusation.”
An elderly woman wearing a flowered dress underneath a white cardigan sweater came walking slowly down the sidewalk. Dr. Morgan shifted on the bench and stopped speaking until the woman went by, smiling at us as she passed. I smiled back, noticing the smell of lilacs that lingered in the air for a minute or two after she was gone.
“So you don’t think there’s any truth to her accusation about Myra?” I asked.
“No. I think Myra can be a little…overbearing. A bit controlling when it comes to Shirley. And Myra may be worried that Shirley will go through all her money on these little projects of hers. And then what would become of her? Shirley, I mean. With her…rather quirky personality, it’s hard to imagine how she would find a way to support herself.
“But ever since then Shirley has kept a wall between the two of them. And that is why she did not want Myra to know about me. That is one of the reasons why she doesn’t want you or anyone else to know about me, either, her fear that Myra would find out and try to use it against her. A baseless fear, I believe, but very real to her.”
“I see,” I said, not sure what to believe or who to trust anymore.
“And even if her accusations were true, it isn’t easy to have someone declared incompetent,” Dr. Morgan continued. “But if this fantasy of Shirley’s about being the great-great-granddaughter of Sherlock Holmes gets out of hand…What do you think? Is it getting out of hand?”
“I’m not sure how to answer that.”
“Tell me what’s been going on, then. Does she still have that client you told me about? Is she making any progress on the case? Is she putting herself in any danger?” There was a hint of eagerness in her eyes as she peered at me intently.
“I don’t see why this is any of your business. She fired you, right?”
“That is a harsh way to put it. She felt that she had made enough progress to function on her own, and that remains to be seen. I have known Shirley for years. I may not be her psychiatrist any longer, but I am still concerned about her welfare.”
“Then why don’t you go see her?”
“When I saw her recently she was very clear that…she didn’t need me anymore.”
“I’m not going to spy on her. But I will say that I’m beginning to think that she’s not completely crazy. But then again I can’t say for sure that she’s completely sane, either. What I can say is that in some weird way her game, or whatever you want to call it, well, it’s kind of working. We still have our case, and it’s a real case. The police won’t listen to us even though we have all this information. They just blow us off. But Shirley is the only one who took Matt Peterman seriously.”
“The client?”
“What makes you think that?” I asked, immediately suspicious. All this talk of nefarious schemes was beginning to show.
“I believe you mentioned his name the first time we talked.” A slight crease appeared in her otherwise unlined forehead.
“No. I don’t think I did.” I just wasn’t one hundred percent sure.
“I’m sure you did. I was sitting on your couch and…Does it matter? Matt Peterman’s death has been all over the news.” She waved her manicured hand in the air between us, the pale pink polish sparkling in the sun as her nails flashed past her face. Had I mentioned a murder? “I can see that you don’t trust me. We are strangers, and Shirley and Myra both deny my existence. I know you probably won’t believe me, but I am just trying to keep Shirley safe.” Dr. Morgan stood up. “Here is my card again. Call me if you change your mind.”
I took the card she thrust at me and then watched as Dr. Morgan walked to the street and turned right at the intersection. Was it that I didn’t believe her? Or that I didn’t want to believe her? All these perfect-looking people. Well, I knew all too well how much mess you can hide behind a clean face. Once she was out of sight I threw her card into my purse, where it joined the first one she’d given me, and stood up to go to work.
—
When I opened the door to the office around eleven I saw that Shirley’s door sat open again. I was still debating whether or not to tell her about my latest encounter with Dr. Morgan. But as soon as the overhead bells signaled my arrival, Shirley called out my name.
“Yes,” I said, shutting the door. “It’s me.”
“We have a visitor,” she called out. “Come join us.”
I set my purse down on my desk, took off my coat, and walked into Shirley’s office. Angie Berger sat opposite her, looking frazzled and upset, her blond curls lank and deflated, her right fingers twitching toward the pack of Marlboros protruding from her beat-up brown purse.
“You remember Angie Berger, of course,” Shirley said. “Caregiver to the Pittfords. She has some very interesting information pertaining to the case.”
“Interesting information?” Angie repeated frantically. “Is that what you call it?”
“Angie,” Shirley said calmly, “yo
u must maintain control of your emotions. They simply aren’t helpful in situations like this. They cloud the mind and impair the judgment.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You didn’t have those two creepzillas showing up on your doorstep this morning. You didn’t have to call your agency, and pretend to have a family emergency so they would send out a replacement, because you are totally freaked out. Which I am. I am totally freaked out. You’re not the one who has to go back there tonight because you need the money, and you have nowhere else to stay, even though those two smiley-faced freaks could show up at any minute.”
“One problem at a time. Sit, Tammy. Angie, I think it would be a good idea for you to start at the beginning.”
“I already told you everything! What good does it do to repeat it? I need help. You got me into this mess and you need to get me back out of it!”
“There are reasons for everything I do and everything I ask,” Shirley said calmly in the face of Angie’s hysteria. “A method to my madness, if you will. Please start from the beginning, and tell us both everything that happened. I value Tammy’s insights on these matters.”
“Fine. I need a cigarette. I don’t suppose you’d let me smoke in here?” Angie asked hopefully. Shirley shook her head firmly. “Then let’s go outside. I need a cigarette if I’m gonna tell this story again.”
“Excellent idea,” Shirley said. “We can stop at Mrs. Hobson’s on the way and purchase some coffee and pastry to enjoy along with the fresh air.”
—
We made our way downstairs. Mrs. Hobson, wearing a bright yellow ruffled apron, was at the cash register when we walked in the door. The sunny expression on her face darkened as soon as she spotted us. Angie took a cigarette out of her purse as we stopped in front of the counter to place our order.
“There is no smoking in here, young lady,” Mrs. Hobson snapped, her nostrils flaring and blue eyes flashing in irritation.
“Duh,” Angie said sarcastically with a roll of her eyes that would have done an adolescent proud. “Like, I haven’t been living in a cave for the past twenty years, okay? Geez. You guys get me a coffee with cream and sugar and one of those jelly donuts. I’ll be outside.” She rolled her eyes at Mrs. Hobson again, put her cigarette in her mouth, and marched over to the front door. The small cluster of bells that hung on the silver doorknob clanged noisily as she wrenched the Oakwood door open. I winced as it slammed furiously behind her, causing the large windows on either to side to rattle, while the antique photos on the adjoining wall tilted sideways. Somehow, I didn’t think either Shirley’s or my stock with Mrs. Hobson was climbing.
The Case of the Invisible Dog Page 15