The Case of the Invisible Dog (32 page)

BOOK: The Case of the Invisible Dog

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“In the meantime, you are making progress. Slow progress it is true, but steady. Read Mr. Olson's book, absorb its contents, and by the time I return your knowledge should be much improved. Of course, now that we have successfully solved our first case, there are bound to be numerous phone calls and perhaps a desperate visitor or two seeking our services. Please make careful notes about all our potential clients for me to peruse, and assure them all of my imminent return next week. But make no rash promises; not every mystery is worthy of my time and attention.”

“Will do,” I said, thinking we'd probably have about as many requests for her services next week as we'd had during the current week: zero. “Well, have a good trip,” I told her, standing up and heading toward the outer office before another topic would get underway.

“Thank you, Tammy,” she said. I walked over to my desk and got my purse out of the bottom side drawer. I heard Shirley behind me, locking the door to her office. I grabbed my jacket off the back of my chair, ready to make my exit and head home for that hot bath I'd been dreaming about since three
P.M.
I was inches from the door when I heard heavy footsteps start lumbering up the back staircase that led to our entrance.

“Ah!” Shirley exclaimed happily. “At last. I was beginning to get worried. Who do you think that might be?”

“Myra?” I asked, stepping back from the door as visions of bubbles and candles faded out of view once again.

“As a witness to the rather sordid scene that took place recently in the dining room of the Sturdy Oaks Country Club, you are surely aware that my sister and I are not currently speaking.”

I had, unfortunately, been a witness to that event, which ended with Myra stalking out after telling Shirley that she wanted nothing more to do with her. I assumed their fight had blown over by now because I had never yet seen the two of them together without some sort of argument taking place.

Shirley's sister was an enigma to me. Physically they might have been twins with their striking brown eyes, dark hair, and Romanesque noses. Both were tall, too, with the only real difference being that Shirley was slim, while Myra was not so slim. They even had similar personalities, which could be summed up with the words I don't ever have to listen to anyone else because I am always right.

Myra did not share Shirley's belief that their great-great-grandfather was Sherlock Holmes, and wasn't shy about expressing her opinion that Shirley was off her rocker. There had been references made about other obsessions (Myra called them “games”) that Shirley had undertaken in the past. I had no idea what form those obsessions had taken. I had no idea, in fact, whether anything Myra said could be trusted.

“You're still not speaking?” I asked, surprised. “I guess I thought that you two hadâ¦no. Okay, could it be, um, a new client?” I thought that seemed about as likely as a visit from a Martian, but I was out of guesses. Shirley didn't have the most active social life.

“A possibility to be sure, and every possibility must be considered. But then one uses deduction to narrow down the possibilities until one comes to the most likely conclusion. I am leaving on a journey. That journey will begin at the train station. I do not drive. I have not asked you to drive me to the train station. Myra and I, as stated, are currently not speaking. So how do you suppose that I will be traveling to the train station?”

“Well, I guess you would call a cabâ¦” And then, right before the door was flung open and I heard his unmistakable voice, I knew who it had to be coming up the stairs. “Lawrence Dunbar,” I said, bracing myself. “I should have known.”

“Yes, Tammy,” Shirley sniffed. “You most certainly should have.”

“Hey, there,” Lawrence said in his familiar nasal tone once he'd slammed the door shut behind him and marched into Shirley's office. “Lawrence Dunbar at your service,” he added with a clumsy bow toward Shirley and a wink that quickly turned into a grimace when he went to straighten up.

Lawrence was short and stocky, with dark hair, ever-present stubble on his chin, and oddly spaced eyes hovering on each side of his face. He wore his usual outfit: a Carolina Panthers jersey that was too long, blue jeans that were too short and frayed at the ends, and battered and scuffed white tennis shoes. But today he'd added a brown leather hatâthe kind normally worn by someone in a convertible who made their living as a secret agent of international renown. Why was it that I was currently surrounded by people wearing weird and annoying hats?

“Hello, Mr. Dunbar,” Shirley said cheerfully, before bending down slightly and pulling a small black and brown plaid cloth suitcase out from the bottom cabinet drawer of the right bookshelf.

“I'll take that,” Lawrence said, running over to Shirley's side. “Hey, notice anything different about me?” he asked as she handed it to him.

“Is that aftershave I smell?” Shirley asked, sniffing the air.

“Yeah, but what else?” Lawrence asked eagerly, cocking his head slightly to the left.

“The hat,” I said.

“Right on the money. And do you know why I'm wearing this hat?”

“Naturally,” Shirley told him. “It is blatantly obvious, to me at least,” she said with a quick look in my direction. “And to anyone who takes the time to observe changes in their surroundings. There is a small spot forming at the back of your head where your hair is starting to thin. I noticed it during the time I spent in the back of your cab as we endeavored to solve the mystery of the dog that barked but was never seen. The hat is a simple but effective way to cover up your spot of thinning hair.”

“Nah, that's not it,” Lawrence said sadly, losing the bravado he'd walked in the door with. “I didn't even know I had that spot you're talking about. Man. It's always something. Every time I think I'm getting somewhereâ¦no. Lawrence Dunbar, do not do that to yourself. Okay. Deep breath. The reason that I'm wearing this hat is because of a great CD I listen to now when I'm in my cab waiting for a fare. Pretend To Be Great. The idea is you pretend to be better than you are, and if you pretend enough, it starts to become real. I wear this hat and pretend it's a chauffeur's hat. I know it's not a real chauffeur's hat, but you try finding one of those. It's, like, virtually impossible. But anyway, wearing this hat is, like, I'm not a cabdriver, I'm a chauffeur to somebody rich and famous.”

“And is this hat-wearing experiment working out as you'd hoped?” Shirley asked.

“Yeah. As soon as I put this hat on I feel like a different person.”

“Fascinating. Although perhaps the knowledge that your spot of thinning hair is covered may be what has improved your self-esteem. Well, Tammy,” Shirley said, taking her long dark winter coat off the coat rack by the front door. “I shall see you back here in a week, at which time I shall have a most thrilling and wonderful surprise for you.”

“See you then,” I said, with a sinking sensation in my stomach. Shirley's “wonderful and thrilling surprises” usually didn't turn out to be so wonderful and thrilling for me.