The Case of the Invisible Dog

by Diane Stingley

  “So they didn’t shoot Matt because of us?” I asked hesitantly. It was something I hadn’t even let myself think about until now. “It was always their plan?”

  “It was always her plan for Matt to die,” Shirley said after a moment. “She knew that a simple mystery—a man shot in a parking lot—would not interest me. But doing so after creating the invisible dog? That was bound to keep my attention. If—and this was her other motivation—if I was a worthy opponent who carried the passion of my great-great-grandfather inside of me. She said she was happy to discover that I was and did. Otherwise the game would be no fun.

  “The single bark we heard the first night we went into his house? That was on purpose and for the same reason. To keep me involved. To make sure I knew that Matt was not imagining things. The money she’ll make is just a side item. That was all arranged after Matt Peterman had been chosen. I believe she is a person who will always find a way to make money out of any situation. Her real agenda was drawing me out to begin the chase.”

  “What chase?” Lawrence asked. “No offense, but you’re not making any sense to me. If anything, I’m more confused than before.”

  “Shirley,” Myra said. “This time you really have gone too far.”

  “Whatever are you talking about, Myra?”

  “This whole charade. Invisible dogs and barking doorbells were bad enough. But to stage that scene back there with the limousine and the mysterious woman from some evil corporation who only wants to talk to you. And then—surprise!—she turns out to be the great-great-granddaughter of one of Sherlock Holmes’ enemies. It’s all too much.”

  “And did I arrange for Matt Peterman to be shot?”

  “No. I think that was an unfortunate coincidence, the kind that tends to happen around you all too often. Let me tell you what else I think. I think you hired Matt Peterman to show up at your office with this ridiculous story. I think he let you put all that doggie doorbell stuff in his house. I think you hired the Browns to impersonate the evil neighbors, and I’m sure that those guns they kept waving around today had no bullets. I think Angie Berger is probably lying in the sun someplace, spending the money that you paid her to disappear for a while. I think you arranged for the limousine and the mystery woman and the existence of this Merryweather Properties. I think the police are right and his ex-wife shot him, or paid someone to shoot him, and it had nothing to do with you at all.”

  Myra slugged down the rest of her martini as Shirley gazed back at her dispassionately and took a sip of tea.

  “I think this has all been an elaborate hoax,” she said wearily after wiping the chocolate residue off her top lip. “You are incapable of living a normal life. That is unfortunate, but no longer my problem. I am done. Please, everyone, eat, drink, and be merry. It’s on me. I’m sure that we will not meet again. Shirley, you are on your own. If you want to run around acting like Sherlock Holmes, that is your business. You can believe you are Queen Elizabeth or the Pope, for all I care. I intend to enjoy the rest of my life without always having to worry about you!”

  “Myra,” Shirley said softly, the softest that I had ever heard her speak. “What you’re saying is ridiculous.”

  “I’m being ridiculous?” Myra said, shaking her head. “If you are that far removed from reality, I can’t see any point in discussing this further.”

  Myra picked up her purse. “Oh, and I will be sending you the bill for that feast our friends from the green are enjoying on my tab thanks to you.” With that she stood up and stormed out of the dining room without looking back.

  “Wow,” Lawrence said. “She’s pretty mad.”

  “Yes,” Shirley said, still using that soft tone of voice. “She’s pretty mad.”

  “So what do we do now?” I asked. “Now that we’ve had some time to think and talk things over, do we go to the police?” I really wanted to hear what Shirley had to say to that question.

  “With what?” she asked after a moment, reverting back to her normal tone of voice.

  “The woman in the limo? Maybe she can hide behind Merryweather Properties for some things. But today she kidnapped us, threatened to kill us, and confessed to killing Matt Peterman. Don’t you think the police would be interested?”

  “We have no name, no information. What do you think would happen if we were to tell Detective Owen that Matt Peterman’s killer was a mysterious woman in a limousine who confessed her crime to me? But that we have no way of identifying her other than the fact that she is descended from one of my great-great-grandfather’s enemies? And that no one else heard that confession but me?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, wavering.

  “In addition, the evidence from Matt Peterman’s house and the one next door, where the Browns lived, is gone. It is entirely up to you, Tammy. If you wish to give this information to Detective Owen, that is your choice. I simply think it would be a waste of time.”

  “And what about Matt’s ex-wife?”

  “If they don’t drop the charges I will see to it personally that she has the best attorney money can buy. I cannot believe she will be convicted. She was just a prop in this story. The woman in the limousine had no interest in framing her, and covered her own tracks very well. The police have no weapon, no witness, and no real evidence. If we were to come forward, do you think a jury would believe our story? Imagine sitting there in the courtroom and testifying. Imagine yourself explaining about the mysterious woman in the limousine. Imagine telling them about the invisible dog.”

  “I suppose,” I said, knowing she had a point.

  “She believes that she has gotten away with murder,” Shirley said with a grim smile. “But she is mistaken. She has only gotten away with it for now. This is just the first round. Before the game is over I will find a way to bring her to justice. If not for murdering Matt Peterman and poisoning the Pittfords, then for something else. She is clever, but she will make a mistake, Tammy. Sooner or later, the villain always makes a mistake.”

  “You’re so calm about all of this,” I said, sounding as if I thought it was admirable. I wasn’t sure that I did. I was starting to be less and less sure about a lot of things. “And even when the Browns were waving their guns at us, you stayed calm then, too. Weren’t you afraid?”

  “Certainly I was,” she said simply, startling me. “But I have a legacy to live up to. Sherlock Holmes never showed his fear, not even in the final seconds of his life. And I shall endeavor to do the same. So many people let him down, you know. I hope that I am never one of them.”

  “You know what’s weird?” Lawrence asked after a moment, and then he pointed at Shirley. “You know there was an invisible dog. And you know,” he said, pointing at me. “And I know,” Lawrence said, pointing at himself, “that there was an invisible dog. But no one else will ever believe us. We’re the only three people who know. Except for the people who did it. That makes us, like, a threesome. Me and two chicks. That’s my greatest fantasy…Sorry,” he added in response to Shirley’s rapidly darkening expression. “I always seem to put my foot in it around you.”

  “Not to worry, Lawrence,” Shirley said, her expression softening instantly, and giving his hand a little pat. “Improvement to one’s character takes time.”

  “Hey!” Lawrence exclaimed. “Aren’t you guys forgetting something?”

  “What might that be?” Shirley asked.

  “What about little Freddie? The little dog? Whatever happened to him?”

  “I don’t think there ever was a little Freddie,” I said.

  “Yes,” Shirley agreed. “I believe that Freddie was just another invisible dog.”

  Our food arrived and I didn’t ask any more questions about the case. I tried to act as natural as I could, but it took effort. I couldn’t help wondering if Myra was on to something.

  Chapter 24

  “You’ve become very quiet,” Shirley said after we pulled up in front of the office later that night and let Lawrence out to get into his cousin’s newl
y repaired taxi.

  “It’s been a long day.”

  “Yes,” she said thoughtfully. Lawrence tooted his horn as he drove past and Shirley and I both waved.

  “Take tomorrow off,” she told me, once the lights of his taxi disappeared down the street. “Relax and enjoy yourself.”

  “Tomorrow is Sunday.”

  “So it is. Then take Monday off as well. Perhaps you could spend part of the day catching up on all your favorite shows that you missed this week due to our involvement with the Case of the Invisible Dog. Myra is a devoted follower of Game of Thrones. Not my cup of tea, I’m afraid. Royalty is not what it once— But that is neither here nor there.

  “As I was saying, while waiting to tee off on the third hole, Myra explained the concept of On Demand, which she now wonders how she ever lived without. Do you know of it?”

  “Yes. Everyone— I mean, um, yes. It lets you watch programs whenever you want.”

  “Exactly! Quite clever, and it sounds just the thing. These cases of ours will demand irregular hours and inconveniences. But you still haven’t given me an answer, you know, as to whether you wish to continue your employment with me.”

  “I’m still trying to decide.”

  “I understand. This is not a life for which everyone is cut out. I believe that you are, and I shall hope to see you at nine o’clock sharp on Tuesday morning. Our first order of business will be to complete the file on our first case. There are still unanswered questions, to be sure, but those answers will become clear over time. This is not the last we’ve seen of the mysterious woman in the limousine. Good night, Tammy,” she added as she opened the door and stepped onto the sidewalk.

  “Good night,” I said, uncomfortable and feeling that I wasn’t hiding it very well.

  Shirley held the door open for a moment and then bent down and leaned into the car. “If you decide to leave, I will understand. You will leave with all good wishes, a sterling letter of reference, and an added bonus for your help in solving this, my first real case. I hope that is not your decision, however. I hope you decide to stay. I would miss your good common sense and everyday wisdom.”

  Shirley shut the door and headed up the steps before I could say anything, which was just as well. I honestly didn’t know what to say to Shirley Homes or what I planned to do.

  —

  Since it was Anna’s birthday on Sunday, we all got together at her house to celebrate, and I waited until Monday morning to start thinking about what to do regarding the situation with Shirley. I thought about going to the donut shop, but decided to just stay home and have toast and coffee instead.

  After pouring myself a second cup of coffee I sat down on my couch, comfy in my faded jeans and my old Statesville High sweatshirt, threw the afghan over my legs, and began to start my list.

  I got the idea from Phil McGuire. It sounded kind of simplistic to me when he first suggested it: writing a list as a useful technique when having to make difficult choices. Listing the pros and cons would supposedly help clarify my thinking. Like, sure, Phil, why didn’t I think of that? All I have to do is make a list and the answer will be crystal clear.

  Is Life Worth Living? A list. By Tammy Norman.

  But making a list had actually been pretty helpful when deciding whether or not to cut my hair. At the time I was growing it out from a short style that had looked great on the model in the magazine, but not so much on me. My hair had arrived at that horrible length when you can’t do anything with it. My dilemma: should I cut it again and hope for better results this time? Or should I tough it out and be patient while my hair grew a couple more inches? I went with the growing-it-out option and never regretted my decision.

  I had a lot to figure out that morning. Should I work for Shirley Homes? Could I work for Shirley Homes? Was the Case of the Invisible Dog one big charade that she had planned from beginning to end? Could she be that crazy? Could she be that smart? Were Chuck and Nancy Brown working for her? Was she the real owner of Merryweather Properties? I knew from my time in L.A. that if people have enough money, it’s amazing what they can make happen.

  Had she arranged for the woman in the limousine to show up in order to bring the case to a close? Was Matt Peterman’s murder an unfortunate coincidence—a robbery, or a random shooting, or a case of mistaken identity?

  Or was it all real? And if so, should I go to the police and tell them what had happened with Chuck and Nancy Brown and the woman in the limousine? Would they believe me? Should I do it anyway, just because it was the right thing to do?

  I began my list. The number one reason to stay with Shirley Homes was the money. The number two reason was…hmmm. I paused. Then my doorbell rang.

  I put my list down and went to the door, asking who it was when I got there, hoping it was a creditor or a salesman or even a Jehovah’s Witness, just as long as it wasn’t anyone even remotely associated with Shirley Homes.

  “It’s Dr. Morgan.”

  I hesitated for a moment, wanting to tell her to go away and leave me alone. But then curiosity got the better of me. Plus the fact that I knew she’d keep pleading with me or badgering me until I let her in. Might as well get it over with.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, after opening the door just wide enough to see her.

  “May I come in?” she asked with a smile that was more like a twitch and barely lasted for a second.

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t want to disturb you at home. I hate to be a bother. I’ve been waiting out in my car. I wanted to catch you outside when you left for work. But it’s almost ten now and…aren’t you going into work today?”

  “No.”

  “You haven’t quit?” she asked nervously.

  “Shirley gave me the day off.”

  “Oh, well…that was nice of her. Shirley told me about the ordeal you went through on Saturday. A woman in a limousine?”

  “She told you about that? I thought you two didn’t talk anymore.”

  “I took your advice and got in touch with her. I told her how fond I’d become of her over the years and that I agreed she was no longer in need of my professional services. I offered her my friendship, instead, which she accepted. The two of us ended up having a very long phone conversation last night. I’d really feel more comfortable continuing this discussion inside. May I come in? I promise not to take up too much of your time.”

  “I guess,” I said, not thrilled to have her there, but still curious. Dr. Morgan smiled at me gratefully as I opened the door to allow her through.

  “So what Shirley told me was true?” she asked once we were both seated on opposite ends of my couch. “About the couple who abducted you on the golf course? And the woman in the limousine?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.” Dr. Morgan shifted in her seat and then looked at me with an expression that I’m very familiar with. I’ve seen it on Phil McGuire’s face many, many times. I couldn’t tell if it was genuine. But then again, I don’t know for sure that Phil McGuire means it, either. “How are you doing?” she asked as if my answer was the only thing in the world that she cared about.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Good, good,” she said absently, the concern disappearing in an instant. “And since she has given you the day off, is it safe to assume that you have decided to remain on as her assistant?”

  “I still haven’t made a final decision.”

  “After the events of this weekend, no one could blame you for leaving. And yet…it changes everything, doesn’t it? It seems that Shirley has been telling the truth about her identity.”

  “Yes,” I said, studying her carefully. “It seems that way.”

  “Ah,” Dr. Morgan said, the lines around her eyes and mouth smoothing out as she looked suddenly relieved. “I believe we may be thinking along the same lines.”

  “Are we?”

  “I believe that we are. I think you are wondering whether or not she staged that scene. And perhaps everything else
that has happened?”

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  “Oh, dear. It really is the only logical explanation, isn’t it? I should have taken this more seriously. I should have reached out to her sooner. I had no idea that her fantasy could carry her to such extremes. I am very concerned.”

  “Are you?” I asked, watching her reaction very carefully.

  “Yes. If I knew that you were staying on I would feel so much better. You seem very sensible and down to earth. And Shirley likes you. She mentioned that several times in our conversation. How long do you think it will be before you make your decision? I feel that it is very stressful for Shirley to be kept waiting. I am also concerned about Myra and what she plans to do next. Especially after that scene at the country club yesterday.”

  “You know about that, too?”

  “Yes. As I told you, it was a lengthy conversation.”

  Was this part of the charade, too? Was Shirley behind these appearances of Dr. Morgan? Was it another ploy to make her story seem convincing to me? Another mysterious person showing up who was not what they seemed? More evidence that she had enemies intent on revenge for the deeds of her great-great-grandfather? I sniffed the air for any telltale scent of lilacs before realizing that there was no way Dr. Morgan—or whoever she was—could have impersonated the beautiful, slender woman in the limousine. I continued staring at her for a moment. There were no signs of deceit: nothing flashed in her eyes, no rapid blink of her eyelids or twitch at the edges of her lips. She didn’t recross her legs or squeeze her hands together.

  Nevertheless, I had to decide who I believed. Shirley Homes drove me nuts, true. By regular, everyday standards her behavior was not normal. Was she the great-great-granddaughter of Sherlock Holmes? Had he been a real person, not just a fictional character? I had absolutely no idea; I thought the odds were slim.

  But sometimes all you can go on is what your instincts are telling you. And underneath all the craziness and annoying habits, I believed that Shirley Homes meant no harm. But even if Matt’s murder was completely unrelated, what about the Pittfords? She never would have put them at any kind of risk. Never. If she had staged these events, but somehow things had gotten out of hand, and she had any shred of information about who killed Matt Peterman or poisoned the Pittfords, or why Angie Berger had disappeared, she would have gone to the police and told them, regardless of the consequences. Shirley may be crazy, but she lived and breathed for justice. That’s what I believed—not what I knew or could prove, but what I believed.