“I think we better get out of here,” I said.
“Agreed,” Shirley said.
“Boy,” Lawrence said as Shirley and I got back into the van. “There’s a lot going on in this neighborhood.” We had waited a good fifteen minutes after the police left before moving, just to make sure that we wouldn’t be seen.
“Indeed,” Shirley said.
Shirley pulled the door shut and Lawrence turned on the engine.
“Where to now?” he asked.
“Back to the office,” Shirley told him. “It will be a long night for me. I’m not sure what, if anything, the Pittfords’ departure means. But I believe the police suspect foul play, and I am in agreement. Does this have anything to do with our case? I confess I do not know. But I do believe that we need to entertain that possibility and, thus, rethink our theory of the case and rigorously re-examine every detail from the beginning. Don’t you agree, Tammy?”
“Um-hmmm,” I muttered. And then I yawned very loudly.
I was thrown off by what had happened, too. But I had no intention of giving Shirley any idea that I’d be interested in staying up all night in her office. As bad as I felt for Matt, and now possibly the Pittfords, I had an appointment with Phil McGuire the next morning. I couldn’t afford to go in sleepy. I always had to be on my toes around him to make sure he didn’t trip me up and get me to reveal more than I wanted him to know. I let him help me with the small stuff; the big questions I keep to myself. Phil McGuire is my Band-Aid; I do not think he holds the key to my cure.
“Not to worry,” Shirley said. “I see that you are overcome with exhaustion. I shall burn the midnight candle alone. Unlike yourself, I am able to transcend physical limitations when necessary. When I am in the middle of solving the puzzle of a dastardly crime, I have very little need for sleep.”
Lawrence backed slowly down the driveway, leaving his lights off, and then pulled out onto the street. When we got to the end of the street he turned on his lights and I took a look out of the side-view mirror. Still no sign of anyone awake at the Brown house.
It was only when we’d been driving for a few more minutes that it hit me: there had been a lot of noise going on with all those sirens. Why hadn’t the Browns—always so nosy until now—come out to see what was going on? Or at least looked out their window? And in spite of my original plan to block out any thoughts about this case for the rest of the night, that question led to more questions. Why had the police taken that caregiver away? Why would the Pittfords both need an ambulance at the same time?
I tried to think of some simple explanations. The Browns were out for the evening, or they were out of town. The Pittfords were both elderly; there was a bad flu bug going around. Maybe they had both come down with it, and due to their age they needed to be seen in the emergency room. The caregiver would turn out to have been simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, and the suspicions of the police officers completely unfounded…That’s what I hoped, but I couldn’t get rid of the cold feeling in the pit of my stomach.
And there was something else, something that had been nagging at me for the past couple days. Something that Shirley had said…but I could never remember what it was. Only that it was something I should have paid more attention to at the time.
I really needed to think about my appointment and what topic I wanted to bring up. I like to direct my conversations with Phil McGuire as much as possible. He likes to do the same. It’s a little game we play. So far I’m winning…at least I’m pretty sure I’m winning.
But instead of concentrating on my session, I kept thinking about the Case of the Invisible Dog. I couldn’t fight a growing sense that we were still on the wrong track.
—
There’s a very good reason why I went to the hospital the next morning to check up on the Pittfords and see what I could find out. Lawrence had dropped us off in front of Shirley’s office the night before after we returned from searching Matt Peterman’s house.
“I just want to say one thing,” he told us as Shirley opened the door to the van. “I did exactly what you said. I stayed in the van. There were sirens going off and all kinds of shit—sorry, I mean stuff—going on, but I did not move. So if you ever was to hire me that’s what you could count on. I would do whatever you told me to. Until I learned the ropes, I mean, and could make my own decisions. I’m just saying.”
“We will keep that in mind, Mr. Dunbar,” Shirley told him before handing over a fifty-dollar bill. “And I thank you for your assistance this evening.”
“So you think you might be having any openings in the future? Or the near future?” he asked eagerly, stuffing the fifty-dollar bill inside one of the side pockets on his ski jacket.
“Perhaps.”
“And you’ll keep me in mind?”
“Certainly.”
Shirley actually sounded serious. Was she kidding? I was tempted to ask her, but that might mean another long, drawn-out conversation, which I was not up for. All I wanted to do was forget about this case for now and get a good night’s sleep.
That’s where I stood when I took a shower and put on my nightgown. That’s where I stood when I turned off my light to try to sleep. I fell asleep right away, but then I had a horrible dream about a funeral being held for the Pittfords. I was the only one there besides a minister and two maintenance men who wore white overalls with striped shirts underneath. As they started to lower the Pittfords’ coffins into the ground, I saw a big sign over their graves that read, “WHO DID THIS?” in capital letters. I woke with a start, my heart pounding, and tried to block that dream from my mind.
I finally got back to sleep around five and slept until seven-thirty. And the minute I opened my eyes and turned off my alarm, that dream was still crystal clear in my mind. I called the hospital as soon as I got out of bed, but they wouldn’t give me any information about the Pittfords when I said that I wasn’t a relative. I should have lied, but I hadn’t had any coffee yet.
I ate some cereal and gulped down a quick cup of coffee before driving over to Phil McGuire’s office without my usual mental preparations.
Phil McGuire: How is the situation at the new job?
Me: What situation?
Phil McGuire: The one you called me about on Tuesday.
(I had to think back to remember that conversation. A lot had happened since then.)
Me: Oh, that situation.
Phil McGuire: You sounded distraught when you called me. Are things better now?
Me: I was not distraught. That was just a bad day. I’ve gone through a lot of changes in a pretty short amount of time, and things just kind of came to a head. I’m getting a better handle on it. And I’m thinking maybe I can handle her. My boss. And it’s only for a year at the most.
Phil McGuire (curious): What changes at the end of a year?
Me: Well, that’s my deadline. I mean, um…(nervous now, but trying to hide it; that was a bad slip, I should have had another cup of coffee)…in my head, I think a year should be long enough to figure things out. About the job, I mean. And to find another one if I have to.
Phil McGuire: That seems rather arbitrary.
Me (shrugging as if it’s no big deal): It’s just a number.
Phil McGuire: And what happens if you don’t find another job at the end of the year?
Me: I’ll cope. Isn’t that what I’m here to learn? How to cope? So I guess how well I react would depend on how well you do your job.
Phil McGuire: Do you think that it might also depend on how well you let me do my job?
Me: So I have to pay you and help you do your job?
Phil McGuire (ignoring my last comment): Like now, for instance. I think there is more going on here than you’re telling me. And if you don’t let me know what’s really going on, I can’t help you.
Me (looking honestly puzzled): I can’t think of anything that I’m not telling you. Maybe I’m in denial. But if I am in denial, I wouldn’t know that I’m in denial. Isn’
t that, by definition, the nature of denial? So how could I possibly tell you something that I am not consciously aware of?
(I sit back, pleased with the strong argument that I have made, but giving the impression of a person deep in thought.)
Me: Boy, that denial is a bitch, isn’t it?
Phil McGuire (after a minute of silence spent staring at me; but I don’t break that easily): So, what else is going on in your life?
—
The moment I walked out of Phil McGuire’s office I started thinking about the Pittfords again. I tried telling myself that the police would get to the bottom of everything. They had good reasons for ignoring Shirley and me. I’m sure that if I were in their shoes, I’d think we were crazy, too. But what if the Pittfords hadn’t come down with the flu or whatever…what if the Pittfords were dead…or someone had done something to make them become ill…but what possible reason could Matt’s ex-wife have for hurting the Pittfords? It didn’t make any sense.
I decided to go to the hospital to try and see if I could find out what had happened to them. If they had simply gotten ill then Matt’s ex-wife went back to being the logical suspect and we could make one last visit to his house. But if not…if they had been the victims of foul play, then something else was going on, although I had no idea what.
“Yes,” I told the nurse with a straight face. “I am Lola Pittford, Mr. and Mrs. Pittford’s granddaughter.”
“Your parents got here a few minutes ago.”
“They did?” I asked, squeaking a little on the word did.
“Yes. You can go right on in. They just spoke to the doctor, so they can fill you in.” The nurse pointed to room 335.
“The thing is,” I said, lowering my voice, “that’s actually my dad and my stepmom. My dad left my real mom. He left this stupid little note that didn’t explain anything. At all. Just said he needed to find himself. Whatever that means. There was a messy divorce, and my mom had to work three jobs to keep a roof over our head. But did he think about that when he left? About how hard it would be on her? No. (I lifted this plot from a Lifetime movie I’d been up for.) So I’d really rather not speak to them. I’m sure you can understand. I’d just like you to tell me how my grandparents are doing and what led to their hospitalization. The flu? Or something else.”
“I’m confused,” the nurse said. “I thought the Pittfords were her parents.”
“Her?”
“Your stepmom.”
“No. I’m pretty sure that they’re my dad’s parents.”
“No. When they came in she said—”
“You must have misunderstood. I think I know my own grandparents.”
The nurse peered up at me from under her reading glasses. “I think it would be better if you spoke to your father.”
“And I think it would be better if you spoke to me,” a man’s voice said behind me, sounding extremely irritated.
Uh-oh.
I turned around to find the very unhappy face of Detective Owen staring at me.
—
“You’ve saved me a trip,” he said after ushering me into a small conference room down the hall, which the nurse said we could use. She didn’t seem very surprised to learn that a police detective was anxious to talk to me.
“I have?” I asked casually as I kept my eyes on the painting of a lake hanging on the opposite wall. It was quite fascinating. There was a little rowboat, too.
“Did you really think we wouldn’t know it was you guys?”
“Us guys who?”
“It’s no use. As soon as we put you in a lineup, Debbie Slack will recognize you.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said, trying desperately to ignore the words put you in a lineup. “I don’t even know who this Debbie Slack person is.”
“She’s the caregiver who was working at the Pittfords’ last night. She was brought in for questioning because the paramedics thought there was something suspicious about the symptoms that the Pittfords had. And the fact that they both got ill at the same time. The minute she told us about two women showing up in the Pittfords’ driveway last night—one of whom was dressed as a plumber with a fake beard but then forgot to disguise her voice—I knew it had to be you and Shirley Homes.”
“Are the Pittfords going to be okay?” I asked, wanting to know and realizing that further denials were pointless.
“They’re alive. But it looks as if they’ll both be heading to a convalescent home in a few days. It will take them a long time to recover…if they ever do.”
“What happened?”
“We still don’t know.”
“Was it…deliberate? I mean, did someone do something to them?”
“Like what?” he asked, cocking his head and staring at me with an expression in his eyes—think cat staring at mouse—that made me want to bolt from the room.
“I don’t know. It’s just seems strange that they would both get sick at the same exact time. And after what happened to Matt— Why are you looking at me like that? You don’t think that we had anything to do with whatever happened to them, do you?”
“I need to know what you were doing over there,” Detective Owen said, and he wasn’t kidding around. Those deep blue eyes of his were looking discomfortingly serious.
“Um, well, Shirley wanted to try out this new disguise she’d come up with for a, uh, costume party she’s going go. And we were both hungry so she suggested that we head over to Waffle Barn. She just loves those Barn Buster waffles. And it just so happens that the Waffle Barn is very close to Matt Peterman’s neighborhood. And we happened to be driving down that cul-de-sac, and we happened to see that caregiver sitting out on the front porch having a cigarette…” My voice trailed off as a new and disturbing thought occurred to me.
“You happened to be driving down the street where Matt Peterman lived? And you happened to see Debbie Slack sitting on the porch of the Pittford house, right across the street from Matt Peterman’s house?” His frown deepened as he waited for me to give him an answer.
“We thought, maybe, you know, since we were in the area, that if we drove by at night we might see a dog running around. We—that is, Shirley doesn’t believe that Matt was dreaming when he heard those barks. She’s still trying to, um, find a logical explanation. Like, maybe a stray dog that runs around there at night looking for food. She’s a little obsessive about things like that.”
I knew that I was rambling on idiotically. I also knew that I should probably fill Detective Owen in on what Shirley and I had discovered inside Matt’s house. But somehow, sitting there, knowing he wouldn’t take me seriously, and not wanting to increase whatever suspicions he already had about us, I found that I couldn’t.
“Not the invisible dog again. Now, look, we have a viable suspect for Matt Peterman’s murder. We are going to close that case. You two need to quit interfering and stop this nonsense about that stupid dog.”
“A suspect?” I asked. “You mean his— I mean, who?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“But what about the Pittfords?” I blurted out. I knew I was getting on his nerves—never a good idea with a homicide detective who already has his suspicions about you—but I couldn’t help feeling that he was missing the big picture.
“What about them?”
“If someone did this to them, then don’t you think—” I stopped myself. No, he wouldn’t think that any of this was tied together. But I did. I just didn’t know how. “I mean, what are you going to do about it?”
“Investigate. Just like we always do. Without any help from you or Shirley Homes.”
—
I thought long and hard as I drove to the office that morning. The suspect Detective Owen had in mind had to be Patty, the ex-wife. I was starting to have some doubts. She might have had a reason to torment Matt, and to kill him, but why would she hurt the Pittfords? So what if she didn’t do it? What if this poor, innocent woman ended up rotting in jail for years and year
s? There were stories like that all the time. I almost got the part of the wife of a falsely accused murderer. She held out hope for as long as she could. But it wasn’t as if they had the greatest marriage. And she was still young, and wanted children. I understood her conflict. I could have acted the hell out of that part.
Or…what if she hadn’t acted alone? What if she’d had help? And that’s why the Pittfords were now in the hospital. They had discovered something or overheard something that they weren’t supposed to…something about the invisible dog…
—
When I walked into the office that morning, anxious to share my new theory, Shirley’s door was already open. I spotted that hat on top of the bookcase out of the corner of my eye. I toyed with the idea of sneaking in there one day, and taking that hat, and…
“Tammy?” Shirley called out. “Come join us.”
I saw Myra sitting in the chair across from Shirley as soon as I got halfway across the room. Today she was dressed in a wild purple shirt, pants that were swirling with large red and purple flowers, and purple lace-up boots that came to the bottom of her knees.
“Tammy, hello,” Myra said as I walked into Shirley’s office. “Shirley has been telling me that you’re hot on the trail of a killer.”
“Those were not my words,” Shirley said, giving her head a small shake as she caught my eye.
“Sit down right here next to me, Tammy,” Myra said, smiling at me as she patted the chair next to her. “And spill all the gory details.” I took a seat. I wasn’t sure what to think about Myra. I didn’t know if Dr. Morgan had been telling the truth. I didn’t know if she and Shirley had a simple sibling rivalry, or if there was something deeper going on, something that would end up harming Shirley.
Yes, she drove me nuts. But I wouldn’t want to do anything that might help Myra take over her money and her life if that was her goal. “I believe that Shirley is being humble,” Myra purred, “which is very much out of character. Which leads me to believe that there is something truly delicious going on.”
The Case of the Invisible Dog Page 20