The Case of the Invisible Dog (8 page)

After everything I'd been through, I thought I'd toss and turn all night and not get any sleep. Driving back to my apartment my mind had been racing as I tried to come up with a solution to the problem of Shirley Homes. Since I couldn't afford to just quit, I had to come up with some way to start setting some very clear boundaries with Shirley. For example, running around someone's backyard in the middle of the night would be off-limits. Ditto with breaking and entering. And leaving the scene of a crime.

But I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow, and I slept straight through for six and a half hours. I couldn't remember the last time I hadn't woken up in the middle of the night at least once. Of course, I hadn't gone to bed until the middle of the night, so maybe that helped.

When I got up the next morning, I still wasn't sure what to do about the problem of Shirley Homes. According to Phil McGuire, I need to work on my problem-solving skills. But since that would involve solving a problem, I haven't gotten very far.

Phil: What is your first response when you have a difficulty?

Me: Uh, I guess I kind of put off dealing with it until the last possible minute.

Phil: And is that effective?

Me: It's very effective until the minute I can't put it off anymore.

Phil: Do you think there might be a better way to go about solving the challenges you face in life?

Me: I don't know. Let me get back to you on that.

But as soon as I got into the shower, I started seeing Matt Peterman's face. I hadn't asked Shirley how he had been killed, so my imagination kept coming up with all kinds of gruesome pictures. I have a very active imagination. I didn't really know Matt Peterman, and it's not as if he made a great impression on me. But he was a human being who had been breathing and alive yesterday, selling insurance and feeling embarrassed that he'd gone to a tanning salon. And then someone had gone into his house and killed him, and the thought of it made me sick to my stomach. Maybe it wasn't a great life. But it was
his
life, it meant something to him, and no one had the right to take it away.

I was one of the people who had seen him on the last day of his life. I might actually know something about why he was killed. It might even have something to do with the invisible dog, or with the fact that he had hired Shirley to find out what was going on. I was so upset and confused about whether I should go to the police (Would I be charged with breaking and entering? Would Shirley fire me?), I even thought about calling Aunt Ilene or my cousin Anna to get their advice. But they are so down-to-earth and normal (and I mean that in the best sense of the word). I just couldn't picture telling either one of them the story of the invisible dog. It sounded ridiculous to my own ears, and I had actually been there.

It would probably sound ridiculous to the police, too, but I knew that's what I had to do: go to the police and tell them what I knew about Matt Peterman. And I had to convince Shirley to come with me. She had to back up my story. The fact that I was relying on
her
as a witness to verify my story was not good. And the idea of walking into the police station and telling this story with crazy Shirley by my side filled me with horror.

By the time I was headed up the stairs to Shirley's office, I'm embarrassed to say that I was already having second thoughts. That poor man was lying dead in a morgue, and all I could think about was how embarrassing this would be for me. Little did I know that the decision was already completely out of my hands.

“Ah, here she is now,” I heard Shirley say as I walked inside the office and closed the door. Her office door was open, and I could see Shirley seated in the chair behind her desk. I assumed she was talking to her sister, Myra, which was about the last thing I needed that morning. “Come in, Tammy,” she called out merrily, “and meet Detective Brad Owen.”

I stopped in my tracks. For a moment I was back to being twelve years old, sitting in the living room by myself, doing my homework while my parents were out to dinner, when two detectives had shown up at the door…

“Tammy?”

The moment passed the way it always does, like waking up from a short dream. I was back to the present. Shirley must have changed her mind and called the police. In a way that was a good thing. It was a done deal. I wouldn't have to agonize over it, and I wouldn't have to talk her into it. But it had been one thing to think about talking to the police. Now it was real: me, the police, crazy Shirley Homes, and a murder…

“Come, come, Tammy,” Shirley called out. “I'm sure Detective Owen is a very busy man.”

She sounded amazingly cheerful. I decided to take that as a good sign that she wasn't in handcuffs or facing imminent arrest for leaving the scene of a crime. Until now I had made a point of dressing professionally for the office: always in a well-made tailored skirt and blouse, or a dress. But after the events of the night before I had simply thrown on khakis and a turtleneck before coming into work that morning. And since I'd slept in, my hair was still slightly damp from my shower. All I'd done was clip it back in a ponytail, and I could already feel my thick curls starting to come loose on either side of my head. Being in such a rush, I was still carrying the tote bag from the night before, complete with flashlight, instead of my purse. I set it down on my desk, took off my leather jacket, and plastered a smile on my face as I went into Shirley's office.

“Hello,” I said as nonchalantly as I could, as if there was nothing strange about the circumstances.

Detective Owen sat across from Shirley, on the other side of her desk. He stood up when I walked into the room, and gave me an inscrutable smile as he said hello. It wasn't exactly warm and friendly, but it wasn't suspicious or condescending, either. I guess distant would be the best word to describe it, and who could blame him? He'd entered the crazy world of Shirley Homes and was probably still trying to get his bearings.

He extended his arm and we shook hands briefly. His grip was warm and firm but not overly so. If he hadn't been with the police, and I hadn't been conscious of the fact that I had sort of broken a law or two in the last twenty-four hours and needed to watch my step, I might have found the experience pleasant.

“Nice to meet you,” I said stupidly, wanting to kick myself as soon as the words were out of my mouth. Maybe I could offer him a cup of tea while I was at it.

Detective Owen nodded his head before sitting back down and I stood there feeling like an idiot.

“Well,” Shirley said, after clearing her throat. “Now that we've gotten the hellos out of the way, perhaps you can take a seat, Tammy, and the detective and I can continue with our most interesting conversation,” Shirley suggested, as if this was a social get-together and we were simply in the middle of some fascinating discussion of mutual interest.

I sat down in the other chair across from her desk, which put me next to Detective Owen. I didn't know whether to look at him or at Shirley, so I ended up looking down at the floor. Then I decided that would probably make it seem as if I were hiding something, so I looked over at him and smiled. He was looking right back. Our eyes locked for a moment, which made me very uncomfortable. I could feel him trying to read me, probably checking to see if I was as nuts as Shirley. I felt myself starting to blush in response, sure that he had already figured out I had something to hide. My cheeks turned red, which made me even more embarrassed, so I ended up looking back down at the floor again.

“Oh, my,” Shirley said. “If you keep blushing like that, Tammy, Detective Owen might think that
you
murdered Matt Peterman. If he were dead, that is, which apparently he is not.”

“What?” I asked, so startled that I forgot to be embarrassed. “Matt Peterman isn't dead?”

“Or are you blushing because Detective Owen is so
extraordinarily
good-looking?” Shirley asked with a mischievous grin.

Yes, I had noticed that, as a matter of fact. I'm depressed, not dead. And if I had any libido left, I'm sure all the buttons would have started buzzing. But after Wayne, the last of it had disappeared. So looking at Detective Owen was like seeing a beautiful painting in a museum that I had a distant memory of visiting on a vacation long ago.

“Ah, the human drive to procreate,” Shirley went on. “So powerful, and yet so very amusing to observe when one has no vested interest in the matter. Take a man with dark curly hair, eyes that remind one of the blue of a Caribbean bay, lips in the shape of Cupid's bow, and a physique reminiscent of a Greek statue. Place him in a room with an attractive young woman, no matter how intelligent, and within seconds she will lose all her reason and common sense and turn into a simmering soup of hormones. I would imagine, Detective Owen, that your success rate getting confessions from female suspects is the envy of your precinct.”

Then, to make matters worse, Shirley winked at him.

“If we could, uh, get back to the matter at hand,” Detective Owen said after a few awkward moments. I, for one, wanted to sink into the ground…after choking Shirley Homes to death with my two bare hands. But I decided that it would be best to delay my homicidal plans until I was no longer in the presence of a homicide detective. It's that kind of planning that separates the mere criminal from the criminal mastermind.

“Certainly,” Shirley replied without a care in the world.

“Ms. Norman,” Detective Owen stated with an impressive display of professional recovery, “I would like to get your version of the events of yesterday, starting with Matt Peterman's visit to your office.”

“Okay,” I said, looking his way but careful not to lock eyes again. “But just so I'm clear, Matt Peterman is not dead?”

“No,” he said.

“The foolish man was so tired of not sleeping that he took four sleeping pills and knocked himself out. But he might have been,” Shirley added, nodding her head slowly up and down. “If we had not been there last night, I am firmly convinced that he might very well be dead today.”

“Ms. Homes,” Detective Owen said wearily, “we've been over this. Matt Peterman does not want you anywhere near his property again. He considers you a menace. He believes that you coerced him into believing in the existence of this invisible dog. Unless you pay to have his door fixed, he intends to file suit against you for damages. He will now be seeking medical treatment for what is obviously some kind of sleep disorder, which caused him to have nightmares about a barking dog.”

“
Obviously
?” Shirley asked with a snort, as if Detective Owen had just informed her that the moon was made of cheese. “It is not
obvious
to me. There is far more to this case than an invisible dog. Why does this dog, a dog that no else has ever seen, only bark when Matt Peterman falls asleep? How is it that the very thing he fears the most—dogs—is the very thing that keeps him awake every night? Were you aware, Detective Owen, that Mr. Peterman has an overwhelming fear of dogs? He tried to pass it off in this office as mere dislike. But it was more than that. I have an uncanny ability to read human nature, and I tell you, Matt Peterman is terrified of the canine species. Most likely a result of an unfortunate childhood incident, as these things so often are. An amazing coincidence, don't you think? I think not. I think the fact that Matt Peterman is awakened each night by the very thing that scares him the most is a little too handy, Detective. A little too handy, indeed.”

Detective Owen sighed and closed his notebook.

“Ms. Norman,” he said, looking over at me as he stood up. “May I speak to you in the other room?”

“Um, sure,” I said as he walked over and then stopped next to the door. It was pretty much the last thing on earth I wanted to do, but saying no would make me look even guiltier. Guilty of what, I wasn't sure, but in my case that isn't unusual.

“It's no use,” Shirley said as I stood up. “I will not be stopped. Even if you manage to scare Tammy away, Detective, and I have to work alone, I will carry on. But I do not think that you will succeed. Tammy has backbone. Tammy will stand by me.”

I didn't even know what to say to that, so I just walked out of her office. I went over to my desk and took a deep breath to center myself as Detective Owen quietly shut Shirley's door. He stood there for a moment, no doubt trying to recover from the trauma of dealing with Shirley. I could feel my hands fidgeting, so I opened my tote bag and took out my cell phone, pretending to check and see if any one of my numerous friends or ardent suitors had left a message.

“Well,” Detective Owen said, startling me as I looked up and saw him standing in front of me. I flipped my piece-of-crap phone closed—the one I'd had to buy after I left my Android at a Denny's while driving home from L.A.—and dropped it back into my tote bag.

“Well,” I repeated, not sure where this conversation was going or what it was he wanted from me.

“Shirley Homes is a
very…interesting
person.”

“I guess you could say that,” I said awkwardly. Before this went any further I needed him to understand that I wasn't crazy—at least not Shirley Homes crazy. “I just started working here a couple of weeks ago. I needed the money. It's been hard with the economy and everything. I used to live in L.A. And then when I came back, the only job I could find was this crappy receptionist job. And honestly, I think the only reason they hired me was because I had a great wardrobe, and they thought I classed up the place. Not that I think I'm all that classy. Or that I'm especially into clothes or whatever. But I had this friend in L.A. who worked in a boutique, and she got me great discounts. And then I went from that to waiting tables, which was even worse.”

I knew I was rambling, but I couldn't seem to stop. I needed him to understand why I was here and that there was a world of difference between Shirley and me. “I was afraid I'd end up going into debt if I quit. I knew when she hired me that she was a little off. But she pays quite well. And the benefits are great. I didn't think it would get this out of control. I'm really a normal person—a regular, normal person.” I was basing that statement simply as a comparison with Shirley Homes, so it was kind of true. Then I realized that had I been twisting one of my loose curls over and over with my right hand during the entire time I'd been talking to him. Letting go of the curl I leaned back against the desk placing my hands on the edge to balance myself.