The Case of the Invisible Dog

by Diane Stingley

  Lawrence grinned from ear to ear and strutted around like a peacock. Shirley marched in with her head held high, sure that her little speech was what had turned things around. But I knew that he was only humoring us. He’d listen politely, then send us on our way. And probably only to prevent Shirley from making a scene in the lobby of the Springville Police Department.

  “Thank you for seeing us,” Shirley said as Detective Owen took a seat on the other side of the table. “Now, as I was saying—”

  “Don’t speak,” Detective Owen said, holding up his hand. “Just listen.” He ran his fingers through his thick dark hair and sighed again, although not quite as loudly this time. “I have tried to be patient. I have made allowances. And I do understand. We all need a useful role to play in life. Right now, for instance, I have the role of police detective. It gives me a useful function, and I like to think that I contribute something to society.

  “And I also understand that life can be difficult if you cannot find a role for yourself. I’m sure that if for some reason I could no longer be a police detective I would have a long period of adjustment. But I would have to face reality. I would have to move on. Being a police detective is not who I am. It is what I do.

  “Ms. Homes, I am sorry that you have never found a useful role for yourself. I don’t know what has led to your belief that you are the great-great-granddaughter of Sherlock Holmes. I don’t know—”

  “That is not a belief, sir. That is a fact.”

  “You’re the great-great-granddaughter of that Sherlock guy?” Lawrence asked with wide eyes. “Like in the movie?”

  “There is no movie that has ever come close to capturing the true essence of my great-great-grandfather,” Shirley retorted with a contemptuous shake of her head.

  “Ms. Homes,” Detective Owen said patiently—but from the grim set of his lips and the way his right eyelid was starting to twitch, I could tell he was struggling to maintain that patience. “Let’s give you the benefit of the doubt, even if it does fly in the face of common sense. Let’s assume that you are the great-great-granddaughter of Sherlock Holmes. That still does not give you the right to run around causing disturbances and being a nuisance. I’m sorry if that sounds harsh. But you are a wealthy woman. You have choices. There are many other things you could be doing with your life. You cannot continue this farce. The next time that you come barging in here or interfere with my investigation, I will have you arrested. And that is not an idle threat.”

  “My good man,” Shirley said after a moment, sitting up straight in her chair. “All I can say is thank goodness Scotland Yard did not have your attitude. I am sorry that my identity threatens you. We could have been great allies. And you should know that all credit would have gone to you. Like my great-great-grandfather, I am not in it for the glory. But very well. We shall not bother you again.”

  “Good. And we’re clear?”

  “Very clear. Come along, Tammy. Lawrence.”

  Shirley stood up.

  “So wait,” Lawrence said. “Does this mean I don’t get to tell him about the doggie doorbell?” he asked, glancing back and forth between Shirley and Detective Owen, who rolled his eyes and shook his head.

  “Yes, Lawrence,” Shirley told him. “Unfortunately it means exactly that.”

  Lawrence pushed back his chair and lumbered to his feet. Shirley started toward the door, and Lawrence pushed his chair in and followed sadly behind.

  “Wait!” I shouted, not meaning to be so loud. But to me this was it; this was our last chance to make Detective Owen listen.

  “Ms. Norman, please don’t make this—”

  “Please listen. I know you think we’re just these wacky people running around with no idea what we’re doing. And I could go through and list everything that we’ve found out. But I know you wouldn’t believe me. You’ve already decided that we’re crazy, and no one listens to crazy people. So will you do just one thing? Do this one thing, and I promise that if I’m wrong you will never, ever see us again.”

  Detective Owen looked up at the ceiling. Shirley and Lawrence were both staring at me, but I ignored them. I kept my focus on Detective Owen. I kept the expression on my face as calm as I could. After a few moments he looked down and then over at me.

  “Is that a firm promise?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Okay, first of all, I’m not doing this because I’m some kind of a drama queen, or to make a point. I think someone is in actual danger. Angie Berger. I think there’s a chance that the Browns might be holding her, that is if they haven’t killed her.”

  “We’ve been through all this before about the Browns.”

  “You’re still holding Matt Peterman’s ex-wife, right?” Detective Owen nodded his head with an exasperated sigh. “Because of the stuff we know, the stuff you won’t believe, we think that Matt’s ex-wife didn’t have anything to do with his death. We think she was tricked into telling someone all that stuff about Matt—the sleep disorder, the fear of dogs. Will you please go ask her if she remembers talking to anyone in the last few weeks or months about Matt Peterman and his sleep disorder and his feeling about dogs?”

  “Not the dog thing again.”

  “What can it hurt? It will only take you a couple of minutes. If she says that she doesn’t know what you’re talking about, then we’re out of here. Forever.”

  Detective Owen cocked his head, still thinking about it.

  “Hey,” I told him, now getting a little exasperated myself. “Just because he was crazy didn’t mean that Van Gogh couldn’t paint sunflowers.”

  “Forever?” he asked after a moment.

  “Forever. I promise.”

  “I don’t get it,” Lawrence said after Detective Owen left. “Why does that guy think you are crazy? You both seem normal to me.”

  “Because,” Shirley said wearily, “there were very powerful people who went to a lot of trouble in order to make sure that no one ever knows the real story of Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Yeah? What is the real story?”

  “I am not at liberty to say,” Shirley told him primly. “Not at this time.”

  “So what if that lady doesn’t say what we want her to say?” Lawrence asked.

  “Yes, Tammy,” Shirley said curtly. “What then?”

  “He wasn’t going to listen to us. At least this way I got his attention.”

  “You take great liberties, Tammy. Liberties that Watson never would have dreamed of.”

  “It just sort of came out,” I said, not wanting her to know I’d come up with the idea the night before as I tossed and turned, thinking about how horribly wrong this visit to the police station just might go. And that I thought it would sound better coming from me. “I can’t stand the thought of someone who might be innocent sitting in jail.”

  “A noble impulse,” Shirley sniffed.

  We sat quietly then, except for Lawrence fidgeting around. He’d tap his feet, then he’d stand up and stretch and yawn. Then he’d sit back down and tap his feet again. I was about to ask him if he could please sit still when the door opened. We all looked up as Detective Owen walked in followed by Detective Addams. She shut the door behind her, and the two of them sat down across from us. They both leaned forward and folded their hands on top of the table. They both stared at us without saying anything, but I didn’t see any smirks. Their expressions were neutral but serious.

  “So,” Detective Owen said, “I just talked to Patty Peterman. I made the question as vague as possible. It took her a few minutes to remember. And then she still hesitated because she didn’t want her boyfriend to find out, the guy she was already seeing when she took up with Matt again. It turns out that one evening six weeks ago a good-looking man came into the bar where she works. He stayed for hours, flashing money around, buying everyone drinks, and hitting on her until she agreed to go out with him. The next night, on their date, he asked her all kinds of questions about her ex-husb
and. She remembers it because normally that’s the last thing a date wants to talk about. They went out three times and he couldn’t get enough. She remembers that he found it hilarious when she told him about Matt’s fear of dogs and his sleep disorder. He kept asking for all the details like it was the funniest thing he ever heard. She also remembers that she thought they had a great time. He gave her the impression that they were heading for something serious. That’s when she dumped Matt, who she’d been seeing because—”

  “Because she was going to marry him and then divorce him later so she could get half the value of his house!” I exclaimed triumphantly. “Her boyfriend was in on the plan. And then, all of a sudden, she gives it up. Says she can’t stand being around Matt, but that wasn’t it at all. She was probably getting ready to dump the boyfriend, too, thinking she’d hit the jackpot and who needs stupid old Matt Peterman or the loser boyfriend anymore. But then Mr. Wonderful never calls back! He’s gotten everything he needed!”

  I was so excited to finally have the police take me seriously that I guess I sort of got carried away. But as I finished my summary (I may not know much, but I do know the pitfalls and delusions of romance), I suddenly became aware of the silent room and four sets of eyes staring at me.

  “Done now?” Detective Owen asked as his partner glared at me stonily. I nodded my head. “He never called again and the number he gave her was disconnected. I won’t ask how you know all that information, but yes, that’s the gist of it. And her description of this mystery man matches Chuck Brown except that his hair was blond and he had a mustache.”

  “A disguise, no doubt,” Shirley interjected. “Albeit a rather amateur one.”

  Detective Owen cleared his throat. Detective Addams nudged him.

  “Go ahead,” she said. “Get it over with.”

  Detective Owen cleared his throat for a second time. “I can’t believe I’m saying this,” he finally managed to spit out, every word seeming to hang in the back of his throat before making a reluctant appearance. “But I’d like to hear everything that you know about the invisible dog.”

  Chapter 21

  Neither of the two detectives gave any indication as to whether they believed us or what they would do from there. They asked a lot of questions about small details; and made me repeat things over and over. Detective Addams took extensive notes, and Detective Owen asked most of the questions. I thought that Shirley would keep interrupting me, but for once she didn’t. Lawrence told his story without flinching, although he did ask them about getting the charges against him dismissed since he’d been on a quest for justice (wonder where he got that phrase?). Detective Owen said he would look into it. I couldn’t tell if he was serious about that or not. I told them about the mold and the termites and my theory that someone had done all this so they could buy up the houses and property at a low price.

  “Maybe there’s some big development project Merryweather Properties wants to do,” I added. “Maybe you should look into that.”

  “Thank you for the information,” Detective Owen said. I didn’t know whether he had taken my idea seriously or not. But I didn’t push it. I figured it was a miracle that they had listened to me at all.

  And then, just like that, we were dismissed.

  When we got up to leave, Shirley as usual led the way, and once we were outside, she stopped at the bottom of the steps and whirled around.

  “Tammy? If you were Detective Owen or Addams, what would you do next?”

  “Well…if they actually believed us they’d want to see if the stuff Lawrence found is still at the Browns’. Since there’s no way the Browns would give permission for the police to come in and look, I guess the first thing I would do would be to get a search warrant.”

  “Excellent. Now, can you think of some way that we could observe this activity?”

  “Um, no. I don’t think that would be a very good idea. The detectives made it pretty clear that they would take it from here.”

  “Yes, they did. Unlike Scotland Yard, they are unwilling to let me witness the fruits of my labors. But obtaining a search warrant will take some time, so I estimate we have at least two hours before they arrive in Matt Peterman’s neighborhood. And there is nothing that I am aware of on the law books that says we cannot enjoy a refreshing game of golf at the same time.”

  “I’ve always wanted to learn how to play golf,” Lawrence said eagerly.

  “Golf?” I asked, surprised. It didn’t seem like Shirley to give up so easily. I was ready for her next harebrained scheme, where we would end up antagonizing the police all over again…and then I realized what she was trying to say: the Sturdy Oaks Country Club golf course—the one we’d parked beside the first time we tried to search Matt Peterman’s house—was located right next to the cul-de-sac. “Oh,” I said. “Golf.”

  “I see you understand what I am driving at. I suggest that you and Lawrence go retrieve your car while you let me borrow your cell phone to call Myra. I will sacrifice a few brain cells in pursuit of our noble cause.”

  —

  “Why are these people with you?”

  Those were Myra’s first words upon seeing us when we arrived at the Sturdy Oaks Country Club. Apparently Shirley hadn’t bothered to mention on the phone that Lawrence and I would be joining them.

  Myra wasn’t dressed in her usual, flamboyant style. She wore an A-line knee-length royal blue skirt; a crisp, pale blue shirt with a blue and white collar; royal blue golf shoes; and a pretty green visor with a blue and white trim.

  Shirley, Lawrence, and I all wore white polo shirts, khaki pants, yellow visors, and white tennis shoes. We had stopped on the way to purchase our outfits at Belk Department Store after Shirley told us Myra had explained the club’s dress code to her in excruciating detail during their phone conversation. It was the first time I had ever seen Shirley wearing anything other than her usual wardrobe, and I could almost imagine she was just a regular person. Almost. I had also taken out my hair clips and purchased a scrunchie so I could pull my hair into a ponytail at the nape of my neck and avoid the discomfort of an itchy scalp and the inevitable “hat hair” I’d have once I took the visor off. Shirley’s more manageable hair hung loose around her shoulders.

  Lawrence, however, still managed to stick out like a sore thumb. Because of his short legs and big belly, we hadn’t been able to find a pair of pants that fit exactly right. After many trips to the dressing room, we finally had to settle on knee-length khaki shorts from the big-and-tall men’s department, which turned into pants on Lawrence. Pants that were a little too big in the waist in order to have enough length to pass (barely) for pants on his short legs. That meant he needed a belt, which he kept tugging on every time his polo shirt started to ride up over his beer belly.

  Since Lawrence had taken so long to get his outfit put together, Shirley quickly grabbed three visors from the women’s department on the way to the check stand. Unfortunately, Lawrence’s visor did not fit well around his big head, his thick wiry hair (think S.O.S pad) stuck out in bunches around the edges, and he couldn’t keep the Velcro clasp secure in the back, so his visor kept slipping down on his forehead. Between the belt-tugging, shirt-riding, and visor-slipping, Lawrence was managing to make an even worse first impression than usual.

  “Tammy is a valued colleague who has been working quite diligently,” Shirley replied as Myra gave me the once-over and then pursed her lips as she did the same to Lawrence. “And this is Mr. Lawrence Dunbar, another colleague who has been most helpful.”

  “Really?” Myra asked with a sneer. “In what way?”

  “In many ways. As I got ready to join you here, it suddenly seemed very unfair to leave them behind at the office while I was out in the fresh air enjoying a delightful game of golf. And as you warned me that we had to make our tee time, I didn’t want to waste precious minutes calling you a second time. I honestly didn’t think you’d mind if I brought them along. The more the merrier, as you always say.”

&n
bsp; “Not this time,” Myra said, turning her back to Lawrence and me as if we didn’t exist. I wondered if Shirley would be able to talk Myra into letting us stay. Probably—if there was one thing Shirley knew how to do, it was wear people down. But I had to give her credit for loyalty. She must have known Myra would nix the idea of Lawrence and me coming along. And she could have easily avoided all this drama with her sister by simply leaving us behind.

  “I had to use all my influence to obtain a slot for us since we had no reservation,” Myra continued in a huffy tone. “It is very lucky for you that I am active on the tournament committee. And that late afternoon is when the club prefers to book newcomers to the game, such as yourself. After much persuasion on my part, they fit us in before their last reservation of the day. Fortunately I am an excellent player, and there was enough of a gap between the two groups that they were confident we shouldn’t hold anyone up. However, that slot was for a twosome, not a foursome, with only one inexperienced player to slow things down. You. And only you. So I am afraid that it won’t be possible for either one of these people to join us.”

  A lengthy negotiation between Myra and Shirley then took place. It was decided that Lawrence and I would be allowed to ride along in a separate cart—which Shirley would pay for—and watch the two of them play.

  “And you will do so quietly,” Myra ordered. “Golf requires great concentration.”

  “You won’t hear a peep out of me,” Lawrence told her, running his forefinger across his mouth.

  Myra raised her eyebrows and then told Lawrence and me to stay put in the lobby—quietly—while they went to arrange for another cart and to rent a set of clubs for Shirley. When they returned, Shirley did have a set of golf clubs, but she no longer wore the simple yellow visor she’d purchased earlier, the first hat that I had ever seen on top of her head and not hated. Instead, and to my horror, she now wore what can only be described as a monstrosity: a golf-style beret covered with a mix of bright orange and lime green stripes, topped off with a tangerine ball of yarn that bobbed along on top of her head as she walked, with the ends of her dark shoulder-length hair bouncing underneath. As we made our way outside there were certain moments when the sunlight would beam down from the bobbling ball onto her hair, giving one the momentary impression that she had just visited a styling salon owned by Ronald McDonald.