The Case of the Invisible Dog (20 page)

“I've still got a few more papers in this box. Let me get the rest of the tape off.”

That last box was torn open so loudly that it sounded as if they were clawing at it with their hands and teeth like a pair of hungry lions.

“Nothing in that pile,” Lou said.

“Damn! Damn! Damn!” Patty shrieked and another pile of papers came flying out of the room and into the hallway. I closed my eyes and tightened every muscle in my body, praying that the two of them wouldn't come out of that room to pick those papers up. If they bent down and happened to look over I would be right in their eyesight. At least Shirley was, for once, quiet.

“It's got to be here!” Patty's stilettos marched around the room and more piles of things were thrown around.

“Come on, baby, that won't help.”

“Shut up and let me think.”

“I'm just saying—”

“Don't say anything. If you want to do something helpful start putting that crap back in the boxes. I don't want anyone to know we were here.”

“Fine. But just so you know, I hate it when you get like this. It's—”

“Whoa. If the next words out of your mouth have anything to do with me getting my period you're about five seconds away from feeling the heel of this shoe stuck in the middle of your eyeball.”

“Okay, okay.”

I had opened my eyes by then and could make out the pair of stilettos standing in the center of the room across the hallway. I saw the pair of black work boots moving around. He would stop and bend down, scooping up papers and other junk, and then dump them into a box. Then he would start moving again.

After a few minutes my heart stopped when I saw those boots headed toward the hallway.

“I'll get the rest of the stuff out here,” Lou said, but Patty didn't say anything in reply.

I closed my eyes—waiting for the worst—but when all I heard was him dumping more papers back into a box, I opened my eyes again and breathed a sigh of relief. He had his back turned toward me. I had a very unpleasant view of the top of his large hairy butt hanging out of his blue jeans. If I still had a sex drive, that would have killed it for the next six months.

He scooped up another handful of papers, and I heard the stilettos moving again. Patty was blocked from my view by Lou's backside, but I knew she was headed this way.

“I guess we'll have to tear the place apart,” she said after coming to a stop. I could see the heel of one of her stilettos to his left. “We'll start with the dresser in his bedroom. Maybe he put it in his underwear drawer. That would be just like him.”

“Why would he do that?”

“I don't know. Why did Matt do any of the stupid shit he did? Maybe he dumped his papers in with his tighty whities. But I'm not leaving until I'm absolutely sure that— Uh, hey. Dumb ass?”

“You talking to me?”

“You see anyone else here?”

“No,” Lou said, but it took him a few seconds.

“What does that envelope say? The one you have in your hands?”

“Uh…it says w-i-l-l,” he told her, but again, it took him a few seconds. “Oh. But you told me it was in a white envelope. This is a yellow envelope.”

“It's called manila, not yellow. And really? That's what you're going with?”

“Well…yeah. You said white envelope. I heard you loud and clear.”

“You didn't think that big and envelope and will were the important things to look for? You thought white was the key fact? Oh my God. What if I hadn't just happened to walk out here…Never mind. Give it to me.”

I saw Patty's arm thrust forward into my line of vision as Lou handed her the manila envelope. She grabbed it and her long, fake, red fingernails curled over that envelope like a drowning woman reaching for a rope. “Throw the rest of that crap in there and we can get out of here and celebrate.
Margaritaville,
here I come.”

I started to relax a little until I saw those stilettos come around Mr. Hairy Butt and start toward the bedroom. I hoped to God that Shirley was tucked completely under the bed on her side and that she didn't have one of her toes or part of her brown cane sticking out.

I braced myself, but the stilettos went around the bed and then kept going without any sudden shriek or scream. I still wasn't relaxed, but my lungs started working again. I heard those shoes hit a tiled floor and that meant Patty had reached the bathroom. I hoped maybe she was just looking for some aspirin to get rid of the headache she must surely have by now from all that shrieking. I know I did. But no such luck. She had gone into the bathroom for the usual reason people go into the bathroom. And my bladder had to sit there and listen, and listen, and listen…What was she? A camel? How many margaritas had she consumed? She could have done the sound effects for Niagara Falls.

“Hey, babe,” Lou called out from the hallway. “I've got it all put back. I think we better roll.”

“Coming,” Patty told him over the sound of running water. If she ever needed a character witness, my bladder and I could both testify that after using the restroom, Matt's ex-wife did a very thorough job of washing her hands.
Very
thorough. I was starting to wonder if she had decided to scrub each individual talon when the water went off. A few seconds later she clicked out of the restroom on her precariously high heels, probably not the most practical choice for a night of burglary. She was halfway across the carpet when she stopped. “Oh, look. Here's that stupid Oktoberfest beer mug I got him for his birthday that one year. He kept it. What a schmuck. What the hell. I'll take it for old times' sake. I can toast Matt with it when I get this place sold. At least he did one thing right.”

Patty snickered and I heard the beer mug sliding across the dresser before she resumed walking across the carpet. “Good enough,” she said after stopping in the hallway for a moment. “Let's hit the road.”

The second that I heard the door close downstairs I rolled out from under that bed like it was on fire and ran into the bathroom. I probably should have waited to make sure they were gone for good. And I definitely should have closed the door.

“Well, well, well,” Shirley's voice boomed.

I looked up and there she stood in the doorway, leaning on her cane.

“Uh, Shirley, could I have a little privacy?”

“Privacy? It is just the two of us here. Oh, I see. I do apologize. I got so carried away now that the case has been solved. Do you know that the desire to relieve oneself privately is almost completely universal? A bodily function that every single human being shares, and yet this strange desire for privacy persists. You might think that it was only as humanity started to form civilizations and cities that this desire for privacy arose. But even in those tribes that still hunt for their food out in the jungle and wear little in the way of clothing, you will find that they relieve themselves behind a bush. At least when releasing the solid form.

“And yet—and here is another irony—men in the civilized world, who are relieving themselves in the liquid form, stand in rows next to one another. I have often wondered if they are embarrassed, but feel they must pretend not to be. Any thoughts?”

“Absolutely none.”

“Unfortunate. I shall adjourn to the other room, and wait for you to rejoin me when you are through. We have much to discuss.”

Once we made it safely out of Matt Peterman's house and started across his yard toward the Pittfords', I noticed that the lights were on at the Browns. They hadn't been on when we arrived.

“Come on,” I whispered to Shirley. “The Browns are back home. We better hurry. The last thing we need is for them to call the cops again while we're still here.”

“The Browns?” she asked. “Oh, yes. I should know better than to let myself get distracted in the world of
thought—interesting
as my thoughts might be—while I am walking. An occupational hazard.”

We darted across the street and then did our usual routine—no headlights, coasting down the driveway, and not starting the engine until I was almost to the end of the street. It wasn't until we were safely out of Matt's neighborhood that I felt as if I could breathe again.

“And so, Tammy,” Shirley said, staring out the window with a pensive expression as she cupped her chin, “the Case of the Invisible Dog appears to be coming to its inevitable conclusion. The ex-wife has been caught unawares and implicated herself beyond all reasonable doubt. Ah, the dramas and pitfalls of romantic love—such high hopes in the beginning, only to descend into hatred, invisible dog machines, and eventually murder.”

I suppose that was one way of putting it.

“Food for thought, Tammy, food for thought. Speaking of which, it suddenly occurs to me that I am in need of nourishment. I became so absorbed in the task of creating my disguise this
evening—without
strict attention to the tiniest of details a disguise becomes nothing more than a silly costume—that I neglected to obtain any dinner. I believe I should rather enjoy a return trip to the humble establishment of Waffle Barn. My treat, of course. For some peculiar reason I have developed a great fondness for their quite ordinary, one might even say mundane, and yet somehow completely satisfying, food.”

Cora came over to our table a few minutes after we were seated. She was wearing her hair in the same braided style as before, this time with a sparkly gold butterfly clip pinning back the loose ends and an orange butterfly earring clamped onto each earlobe. I waited a lot of tables in between acting jobs when I was in L.A. so that I wouldn't wipe out my Rainy Day Fund. Upon seeing us Cora's expression was anything but festive, and I could imagine what she was thinking as clearly as if she said it out loud.

In order to make the best money, a server always wants to develop a set of “regulars.” I moved around so much—quitting every time I got a bit part or an audition that I just couldn't pass up—that I never really did. I'm also not so good with the small talk. But the career servers—the good ones—know how to look fascinated as they hear about grandkids, family vacations, and the hilarious antics of the new puppy. But even the best of servers has a limit; and Cora had already reached hers with Shirley.

Seeing the expression on her face, the one she quickly tried to hide, I wanted to reassure Cora, to let her know that it was merely a coincidence Shirley and I had been seated in her section again. We hadn't asked for her by name. She didn't have to face the horror of Shirley and me becoming her “regulars.”

But there was no diplomatic way to do that. I would just have to make sure she got a generous tip. Anyone who has to wait on Shirley Homes deserves at least that much.

“I would like a cup of hot tea,” Shirley told her. “Many times when I order hot tea I do not receive water that could, by any stretch of the imagination, qualify as ‘hot.' Often it is tepid.”

“Tepid?” Cora asked wearily, trying desperately to maintain her smile.

“Yes. You are probably familiar with the more common word: lukewarm. However, lukewarm water cannot produce hot tea. It produces
tepid
tea. Or—again, as you would most likely think of it—lukewarm tea. Are you with me so far?”

“Yeah,” Cora said. The smile had now officially disappeared.

“I have never been here before.” Shirley said firmly as Cora narrowed her eyes. Shirley was still wearing her nurse's
uniform—including
the cap—and was obviously convinced that Cora had absolutely no idea who she was. “So perhaps this fine establishment does not make that mistake. But could you please make sure the water for my tea is piping hot before you bring it to the table?”

Cora sighed. She looked over at me. All I could do was smile. It was a smile of solidarity.
I'm with you, sister. Yes, the woman that I'm with is a giant pain in the ass. But, unfortunately, we both appear to be stuck with her. So let's try and make the best of it. And also, I promise to leave you a very generous tip.

“Of course,” Cora said, and then we placed the rest of our order.

I waited until the water arrived, was tested, and passed the Shirley-temperature test before bringing up the case.

“So,” I said carefully. I wasn't ruling Patty out as Matt's killer, or ruling Angie Berger out as her possible accomplice. But I wasn't feeling satisfied. The invisible dog setup seemed out of their league. Rotten eggs thrown at his house? Signing him up for subscriptions to home decorating magazines, or pizza deliveries showing up at his door that he hadn't ordered? That seemed more their style. I couldn't shake the feeling that there was still something I'd
missed—something
I couldn't put my finger on, something hovering on the edge of my mind that kept nudging me. “I'm having a hard time wrapping my head around this case. Even after everything we've learned, I feel like I have more questions than answers.”

“Naturally,” Shirley said after taking a sip of her tea. “With your inexperience and untrained mind, that is to be expected.”

“Could you walk me through everything and help me put the pieces together?”

Shirley took another sip of tea and set down her cup. I waited as she gazed off into the distance for a minute. “Tammy, I take my heritage very seriously. It is a burden in many ways, but one that I have accepted. However, my great-great-grandfather was not perfect. He made mistakes. In his own
autobiographical
notes—not the ones from that Doyle person, but the real stories—he admits that. And one of his mistakes was to always leave Watson waiting until the bitter end before revealing the identity of the villain. If only he had taken Watson into his confidence during the case that became his downfall…”

Shirley cleared her throat and took another sip of tea before continuing.

“However, since you were hiding right next to me underneath that hideous bed, and heard every word that I did, and since everything Matt's ex-wife said confirmed our theory that she was guilty, I am unclear as to what your questions are. The only question I have is whether or not we should waste our time and energy talking to the police, or simply let them bumble along and hope they stumble onto the truth.”

“Well…oh, I get it,” I said, giving Shirley an exaggerated wink. “This is a test, right? You want to make me figure it out for myself, at least as much as I can. Okay, I'll play along.”
You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make it drink
, as Aunt Ilene always likes to say. I'd have to try and lead her as far as I could. “From what we heard, the boyfriend isn't involved. So Patty either acted alone or used someone else, that person probably being Angie Berger. We assumed that she killed him because he ended their relationship, a woman scorned, etc. She claims it was the other way around. But now we know she wasn't interested in him, just the money she could get from the house. She couldn't stand the idea of having to marry him so she takes the easy way out and just kills him. She thinks she will inherit the house, which is fully paid off. She must have had no idea that he'd taken a second mortgage out on it.”

“Excellent line of reasoning thus far!” Shirley exclaimed.

“Oh, yes, at first it seems that way,” I hurried on before she could continue. “And I could imagine someone else leaping to that conclusion. Someone with a commonplace mind. But they wouldn't take into account the invisible dog, would they? And that's what you figured out to be the key to this whole case. It has to have something to do with the invisible dog. Everyone else dismissed it. They wanted to call it a ‘sleep disorder' or ‘bad dreams.' But not you. Not Shirley Homes.”

“Well, yes,” Shirley said. “Of course. One cannot ignore the invisible dog—”

“Anyone can shoot someone in a parking lot,” I said, interrupting before that horse started wandering down the wrong trail. “And anyone can dupe a poor schmuck like Matt Peterman into believing they wanted him back. Going out with him a few times. I'm sure that explains the new furniture on the patio and the big-screen T.V. He probably invited her over for a barbecue or something and wanted to impress her. And that magazine he was reading, the one in the bathroom, he probably had visions of the two of them going on a cruise to the Caribbean. While all she was interested in was conning him into remarrying her because he'd inherited that house. And then she'd dump him after a while and sue him for divorce again, and half the value of the house.

“But the invisible dog, that's something else entirely,” I continued so Shirley was forced to listen. “If she decides that she can't marry him, that she's going to kill him, why bother with the invisible dog? Unless she just liked the idea of tormenting him, which might be possible. But I'm sure it's obvious to you—if it's obvious to me it
has
to be obvious to you—that this scheme with the invisible dog took some planning. Not only did someone have to figure out how to do it, they had to sneak into his house and set it up. So why not grab the will then, when she was sneaking around? And she seemed really surprised by that beer stein—but she'd have had to have seen it before if she'd been watching his bedroom every night. And,” I said, realizing it just at that moment, “if we eliminate her as a suspect, that brings us back to the Browns. But they wouldn't have known about his dog phobia. Plus, we're back to the original problem of motive. Why would they want to torment Matt Peterman? So the only conclusion I can come up with is that there is something we're just not seeing.”

I picked up a sugar packet and took my time tearing off the top and pouring the contents into my coffee. Then I pulled three little plastic creamer containers from the small white bowl on the edge of the table, and took my time opening each one before stirring it in my coffee several times until it was all blended.

“As you know, Tammy,” Shirley said as I took my first sip, “it has always been my desire to offer you opportunities that Watson was, unfortunately, denied by my great-great-grandfather. I want you to be a full participant in our
investigations,
at least to the extent that you are capable. In order to increase your skills, I think it would be a good exercise for
you
to tell me what you think we know so far. We will start from the beginning and examine every detail. And then I can help you put the pieces together as we go along so that we can figure out just what it is that
you
are not seeing.”

“Really?” I asked, taking on the role of grateful-employee-honored-to-have-such-a-supportive-mentor. “Thank you. That would be so great.”

“Ah. I see Cora approaching at a rapid pace. We shall eat first and then attempt to put together the various pieces of the jigsaw puzzle until we have one clear picture.”

“What is the minimum amount of sleep that you need in order to function properly?” Shirley asked when she was finally done eating. Midway through her meal she had ordered a second Barn Buster waffle for herself and now she seemed to be having trouble keeping her eyes open.

“I can get by on five or six hours if I make up for it the next night.”

“It is just after midnight. These delicious waffles have made me very drowsy. I fear the waffles of Waffle Barn are revealing the family tendency toward overindulging. My great-great-grandfather had his
cocaine—unfortunately
that part of the Doyle stories is true—and I have my waffles. I propose that we get some much needed rest and meet at the office tomorrow morning at eight a.m. We will go over the case thoroughly and carefully and then decide what to do from there.”

The bill came to sixteen dollars and eighty-nine cents. Shirley left a five-dollar tip. When she went to visit the restroom after we paid our bill, I went back and left Cora another five. It was the least I could do.

Shirley had just gotten out of my car and was about to close the door when it suddenly hit me—the thing that had been bothering me for days.

“Shirley!” I shouted a second or two after she had slammed the door shut with her usual zeal. “Wait!”

Shirley didn't hear me and was already barreling her way toward the side of the building. I almost let it go. It had already been a long night, and I could always tell her in the morning. But now that I had finally remembered what had been nudging at me, I wanted to get it off my chest. I pulled open my door, hopped out of the car, and raced after her.

“Shirley! Hold up!” I called out as she started up the back steps.

“What is it?” she asked, whirling around as I reached the bottom of the staircase.

“Something has been bugging me and I just remembered what it was. It's something Angie said when she came to tell you about how the Browns had threatened her.”

“
Allegedly
threatened her, Tammy. We have been over this before.”

“Right. But remember how Chuck Brown supposedly ended the conversation?
Your friends won't always be around to protect you.
Why would Angie put it that way? As far as she knew we should have been strangers to him. She was the one who made up that whole story about why we were in the Pittfords' driveway in the first place.”