The Case of the Invisible Dog (17 page)

“Maybe we should retrace Matt's steps. He always heard the dog when he was asleep, right? I mean, the sound of a dog barking always woke him up. So maybe we should check out his bedroom and see if we find anything.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

The upstairs was even more depressing than the downstairs. One of the rooms was completely empty, and another was just a storage room filled with boxes, a couple of ratty chairs piled one on top of the other, and a treadmill covered with dust. The bathroom off the hallway had one stained towel hanging on the rack next to the sink and a pile of men's health magazines sitting on the floor next to the toilet.

I picked up the magazine on top as Shirley examined the shower. On the cover, there was a gorgeous male celebrity under the headline “You CAN Get Back in Shape!” with a picture of a Caribbean beach in the background. The guy had never been
out
of shape, and Matt had probably never been
in
shape. And even if Matt had somehow found a way to the Caribbean, he still would have had his combed-over hair and orange tan. I set the magazine back down on the floor. It was depressing. The last thing I needed was to get depressed over the broken dreams and shattered hopes of someone else. It was personal for me, but I couldn't afford to let it get too personal. I didn't want to be sad; I wanted to stay angry and focused.

When we went into Matt's bedroom it was more of the same. His bed was unmade, and the sheets were frayed and paper thin from so many washings. There was nothing on the walls, and the battered dresser was covered with receipts, a huge jar of coins, and two piles of laundry he hadn't bothered to put away. The only personal touch was a huge beer stein sitting on the side that had Oktoberfest 2008 engraved on the front.

“Wow,” I said, feeling sad all over again in spite of myself.

“Have you found something?” Shirley asked.

“No, it's just…I feel so bad for the guy. Look at this place. It's pathetic. It's…it just makes me feel bad for him.”

“If I chose to think about the kind of life that was lived here, I might find myself feeling sad on Matt Peterman's behalf, also. But that accomplishes nothing. We must stay focused on the task at hand. We are looking for clues, Tammy, and the source of the invisible dog.”

I took a deep breath, trying to shake off the sadness, knowing the only thing I could really do for Matt at this point was to try and find him some kind of justice.

“So I guess you're thinking the same thing I am, right?”

“Try to refrain from guessing,” Shirley said with a sniff. “And at least be so good as to articulate what it is that
you
are thinking so that I can ensure that we are on the same course.”

“Well, it doesn't seem likely that his ex-wife could sneak a dog into Matt Peterman's house every night without him noticing. Especially since he was such a light sleeper. So there must have been some sort of device in here, right?” I asked. “Something with a timer that would go off at certain times each night and make the noise of a dog barking?”

“Of course!” Shirley said, waving her cane toward the ceiling. “I was hoping that you would put those pieces together! A device with a timer set to go off at certain times every night to wake Matt up! A device that made the noise of a dog barking!” Shirley lowered her cane and whirled around. “So the first order of business is to search this room from top to bottom!”

We did. We searched his bedroom from top to bottom and didn't find a single thing that looked like an invisible dog device.

“Hmmm,” Shirley said when we finally had to admit defeat. “So it is not in here…but that does not mean it is not in this house. We will go from room to room until—”

“Wait!” I said.

“Tammy, please try not to interrupt me when I am thinking or formulating the next crucial step in our
investigation.”

“Sorry, but remember that first night, when we heard that bark? You heard it up here, but I heard it, too. And I was still downstairs, by the kitchen, next to the bottom of the staircase.”

“You were downstairs the entire time?”

“Yeah. And I bet the device is around there. Think about it. If the barks came from the bedroom, Matt might have figured it out eventually. Or found the device. But if they came from another part of the house, they could sound like they were outside. Especially if they woke him up and he wasn't thinking all that clearly. Should we go take a look?”

“Of course we should go take a look. Had you given me this critical piece of information earlier, we would not have wasted all this time searching his bedroom!”

“But—” I started to bring up the fact that I had been standing right there at the bottom of the stairs that night when she came running down. It wasn't my fault if she hadn't been paying attention.

I stopped myself. Everyone has a line that you cannot cross. It's different for everyone, but it's there. I knew instinctively that this was hers. This moment wasn't all that important to me; but emotionally speaking, it was life and death to her. “Sorry,” I said. “I thought I told you.”

“Not to worry,” Shirley said, softening immediately. “And perhaps I was a little harsh. You are still learning and I must have patience. Come along.”

Shirley and I went downstairs, and I walked over to the spot where I had been standing when I heard that single bark. I looked around; nothing caught my eye. Shirley took her flashlight and shone it across the floor. I then got down on my hands and knees and moved around slowly. I went to my right, and to my left, and finally, when I went backward a few inches, I felt a tiny ridge.

I crawled back until my face was over the ridge. I moved my fingers back and forth until I felt a gap where the carpet had been cut. Leaning down to examine it more closely, I could see the borders of a small square that had been stitched back together. I grunted a little, trying to get the stitches undone, but they were too tight.

“Ah,” Shirley said, kneeling down beside me. “It is just as I suspected—once I had the correct information. The vital clue was to be found here at the bottom of the stairs.”

“Yes. The carpet has been cut up and then stitched back together. But I can't get it apart.”

“Here,” she said, handing me a nail file out of the side pocket of her overalls. “I always carry one with me. It's amazing what you can do with a nail file. Sometimes, Tammy, the simplest inventions are still the most effective. I have actually made a study regarding that very thing.”

I nodded my head as Shirley continued chattering, while I used the nail file to slice through the threads. By the time I had cut through two of the sides, the carpet came loose. A metal device had been placed into a small hole drilled into the wood underneath the carpet. Two wires could be seen on the side of the metal box. I used my fingers to trace the path of the wires as they wound out of it. The path led under the carpet where the edge of the bottom stair met the wall. I laid down and looked up to see the two wires—painted white like the color of the wall—traveling into the wall that divided the kitchen from the staircase.

“And then there is the bobby pin. So common, so…”

“Shirley. I think I found something.”

“…everyday. When one looks at a bobby pin one thinks of hair. But there is so much more to the deceptively simple bobby pin than…”

“I think this is where the sound came from.”

“…just hair— What sound?”

“The sound of the invisible dog.”

“Ah, yes.”

“I'm not sure how she was creating those barking sounds yet. We have to find the other part of the system,” I said as I crawled back out from underneath the staircase.

“I don't believe
she
was making the barking sounds. I believe, Tammy, that this system of boxes and wires were the means used to produce the actual barking sounds.”

“That's what I meant—” I stopped. “Did you hear that?” Shirley looked around and cocked her head. “Sirens,” I said, leaping to my feet, ready to flee.

“Indeed,” Shirley said calmly.

“Don't you think we better get out of here?” I asked. “Maybe the Browns saw us and called the police.”

“That seems highly unlikely. We told Lawrence specifically to keep an eye out for that. And furthermore, why would the sight of a plumber's van responding to an evening emergency possibly alarm them?”

A plumber's van might not; the van we drove in, that was another matter.

“Better safe than sorry. The last thing we need is for the police to find us here. And those sirens sound like they're getting really close. I think we need to get out of here.”

“Very well. You are no good to me if you start to panic. Watson may have had his shortcomings, but he always managed to keep a calm head.”

“I'll work on that,” I said as I dashed toward the broken window as fast as my feet would take me.

“Hey,” Lawrence said when I made it outside. He was still sitting inside the front seat of the van without a care in the world. “You guys find anything?”

“Shhhh.”

“What's the problem?”

“Pay her no mind, Mr. Dunbar,” Shirley told him as she strolled up to the van. “She is letting herself get into a panic because she hears sirens.”

“Oh. Now that you mention it they do sound kind of close.”

“This is a big world, Mr. Dunbar, with many emergencies and…oh, dear, I believe Tammy may be right after all,” Shirley said as we saw the glare of headlights shining through the trees in front of the empty house next door. Whoever was running that siren was driving down the cul-de-sac and headed our way. “Now, just remember, we are Al's Plumbing Service, and we have every right to be here.”

“Got it,” Lawrence said.

I took a look at the two of them, and then I looked at our sad little homemade sign on top of the van, almost torn to shreds by this point. The logo and phone number for Pizza Hut were clearly visible. No one with the slightest grounding in reality would believe for a minute that we were a legitimate plumbing company.

The board that I'd removed was lying on the patio. I ran over and placed it back where it had been so that hopefully the worst we could be charged with was trespassing instead of breaking and entering. I knew that if we were taken in, Detectives Owen and Addams would throw the book at us.

I stepped back to make sure the board stayed put and had to ask myself:
What was happening to me? When had I become someone that a couple of detectives would want to throw the book at?
The minute I went to work for Shirley Homes, that's when. And now I would have a criminal record, which would make looking for another job even more impossible. How would I possibly explain the situation to a prospective employer?

Maybe if I got down on my knees and begged for mercy, and promised to never do it again, and swore I would starve to death before working one more day for Shirley Homes…maybe the judge would reduce the charges and…

“Tammy!” Shirley hissed. “Look!”

I looked up and realized that the sirens had stopped, and the police had not pulled into Matt Peterman's driveway. I saw Shirley standing at the edge of his house, peering around the corner at the view across the street. I tiptoed over to where she stood and took a look for myself.

There
was
an official vehicle with a flashing red light parked in the Pittfords' driveway. But it wasn't a police car. It was an ambulance.

“What's going on?” Lawrence called out from the van as Shirley and I stood there watching the Pittfords' house.

“Shhhh!” we said in unison.

For a long time nothing happened, and then all at once everything happened. A stretcher was brought out and then another one right behind it. The caregiver that we'd talked to earlier came walking out behind the second stretcher, and we could see her waving her hands around as she said something to one of the paramedics. He appeared to be ignoring her.

The first stretcher was loaded into the ambulance and we heard more sirens approaching. Shirley and I both ducked our heads back behind the wall for a moment until we saw the next set of flashing lights stop across the street.

We peered around the wall again and saw that a second ambulance had arrived and was parked in the driveway, next to the first one. Then I saw that there was a third vehicle, which was parked next to the curb—and this time it was a police car.

As the second stretcher was put into the ambulance, two police officers got out of the car next to the curb and walked over to the caregiver, who stood in the driveway watching the second ambulance drive off. We stared as the police questioned her and she waved her hands around whenever she talked. One of the police officers shook his head and pointed toward their car. The caregiver shook her head. There was more conversation. The caregiver stopped waving her hands around and started walking toward their car, with the two police officers following behind.

Then she stopped and said something while she pointed frantically toward the house. One of the police officers nodded his head. She turned and ran up the lawn to the front door with both of them on her heels. I held my breath, thinking she was trying to escape. But a couple of minutes later the three of them came out of the house. She was carrying a purse, and the minute they stepped outside she pulled out a pack of cigarettes, yanked a cigarette from the pack, and puffed on it all the way down the yard until she had to stub it out and get into the back of their car.

“I think we better get out of here,” I said.

“Agreed,” Shirley said.

“Boy,” Lawrence said as Shirley and I got back into the van. “There's a lot going on in this neighborhood.” We had waited a good fifteen minutes after the police left before moving, just to make sure that we wouldn't be seen.

“Indeed,” Shirley said.

Shirley pulled the door shut and Lawrence turned on the engine.

“Where to now?” he asked.

“Back to the office,” Shirley told him. “It will be a long night for me. I'm not sure what, if anything, the Pittfords' departure means. But I believe the police suspect foul play, and I am in agreement. Does this have anything to do with our case? I confess I do not know. But I do believe that we need to entertain that possibility and, thus, rethink our theory of the case and rigorously re-examine every detail from the beginning. Don't you agree, Tammy?”

“Um-hmmm,” I muttered. And then I yawned very loudly.

I was thrown off by what had happened, too. But I had no intention of giving Shirley any idea that I'd be interested in staying up all night in her office. As bad as I felt for Matt, and now possibly the Pittfords, I had an appointment with Phil McGuire the next morning. I couldn't afford to go in sleepy. I always had to be on my toes around him to make sure he didn't trip me up and get me to reveal more than I wanted him to know. I let him help me with the small stuff; the big questions I keep to myself. Phil McGuire is my Band-Aid; I do not think he holds the key to my cure.

“Not to worry,” Shirley said. “I see that you are overcome with exhaustion. I shall burn the midnight candle alone. Unlike yourself, I am able to transcend physical limitations when necessary. When I am in the middle of solving the puzzle of a dastardly crime, I have very little need for sleep.”

Lawrence backed slowly down the driveway, leaving his lights off, and then pulled out onto the street. When we got to the end of the street he turned on his lights and I took a look out of the side-view mirror. Still no sign of anyone awake at the Brown house.

It was only when we'd been driving for a few more minutes that it hit me: there had been a lot of noise going on with all those sirens. Why hadn't the Browns—always so nosy until now—come out to see what was going on? Or at least looked out their window? And in spite of my original plan to block out any thoughts about this case for the rest of the night, that question led to more questions. Why had the police taken that caregiver away? Why would the Pittfords both need an ambulance at the same time?

I tried to think of some simple explanations. The Browns were out for the evening, or they were out of town. The Pittfords were both elderly; there was a bad flu bug going around. Maybe they had both come down with it, and due to their age they needed to be seen in the emergency room. The caregiver would turn out to have been simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, and the suspicions of the police officers completely
unfounded…That's
what I hoped, but I couldn't get rid of the cold feeling in the pit of my stomach.

And there was something else, something that had been nagging at me for the past couple days. Something that Shirley had said…but I could never remember what it was. Only that it was something I should have paid more attention to at the time.

I really needed to think about my appointment and what topic I wanted to bring up. I like to direct my conversations with Phil McGuire as much as possible. He likes to do the same. It's a little game we play. So far I'm winning…at least I'm pretty sure I'm winning.

But instead of concentrating on my session, I kept thinking about the Case of the Invisible Dog. I couldn't fight a growing sense that we were still on the wrong track.

There's a very good reason why I went to the hospital the next morning to check up on the Pittfords and see what I could find out. Lawrence had dropped us off in front of Shirley's office the night before after we returned from searching Matt Peterman's house.

“I just want to say one thing,” he told us as Shirley opened the door to the van. “I did exactly what you said. I stayed in the van. There were sirens going off and all kinds of shit—sorry, I mean stuff—going on, but I did not move. So if you ever was to hire me that's what you could count on. I would do whatever you told me to. Until I learned the ropes, I mean, and could make my own decisions. I'm just saying.”

“We will keep that in mind, Mr. Dunbar,” Shirley told him before handing over a fifty-dollar bill. “And I thank you for your assistance this evening.”

“So you think you might be having any openings in the future? Or the near future?” he asked eagerly, stuffing the fifty-dollar bill inside one of the side pockets on his ski jacket.

“Perhaps.”

“And you'll keep me in mind?”

“Certainly.”

Shirley actually sounded serious. Was she kidding? I was tempted to ask her, but that might mean another long, drawn-out conversation, which I was not up for. All I wanted to do was forget about this case for now and get a good night's sleep.

That's where I stood when I took a shower and put on my nightgown. That's where I stood when I turned off my light to try to sleep. I fell asleep right away, but then I had a horrible dream about a funeral being held for the Pittfords. I was the only one there besides a minister and two maintenance men who wore white overalls with striped shirts underneath. As they started to lower the Pittfords' coffins into the ground, I saw a big sign over their graves that read, “WHO DID THIS?” in capital letters. I woke with a start, my heart pounding, and tried to block that dream from my mind.

I finally got back to sleep around five and slept until seven-thirty. And the minute I opened my eyes and turned off my alarm, that dream was still crystal clear in my mind. I called the hospital as soon as I got out of bed, but they wouldn't give me any information about the Pittfords when I said that I wasn't a relative. I should have lied, but I hadn't had any coffee yet.

I ate some cereal and gulped down a quick cup of coffee before driving over to Phil McGuire's office without my usual mental preparations.

Phil McGuire: How is the situation at the new job?

Me: What situation?

Phil McGuire: The one you called me about on Tuesday.

(I had to think back to remember that conversation. A lot had happened since then.)

Me: Oh, that situation.

Phil McGuire: You sounded distraught when you called me. Are things better now?

Me: I was not
distraught.
That was just a bad day. I've gone through a lot of changes in a pretty short amount of time, and things just kind of came to a head. I'm getting a better handle on it. And I'm thinking maybe I can handle
her.
My boss. And it's only for a year at the most.

Phil McGuire (curious): What changes at the end of a year?

Me: Well, that's my deadline. I mean, um…(nervous now, but trying to hide it; that was a bad slip, I should have had another cup of coffee)…in my head, I think a year should be long enough to figure things out. About the job, I mean. And to find another one if I have to.

Phil McGuire: That seems rather arbitrary.

Me (shrugging as if it's no big deal): It's just a number.

Phil McGuire: And what happens if you don't find another job at the end of the year?

Me: I'll cope. Isn't that what I'm here to learn? How to cope? So I guess how well I react would depend on how well you do your job.

Phil McGuire: Do you think that it might also depend on how well you
let me
do my job?

Me: So I have to pay you
and
help you do your job?

Phil McGuire (ignoring my last comment): Like now, for instance. I think there is more going on here than you're telling me. And if you don't let me know what's really going on, I can't help you.

Me (looking honestly puzzled): I can't think of anything that I'm not telling you. Maybe I'm in denial. But if I am in denial, I wouldn't know that I'm in denial. Isn't that, by definition, the nature of denial? So how could I possibly tell you something that I am not consciously aware of?

(I sit back, pleased with the strong argument that I have made, but giving the impression of a person deep in thought.)

Me: Boy, that denial is a bitch, isn't it?

Phil McGuire (after a minute of silence spent staring at me; but I don't break that easily): So, what else is going on in your life?

The moment I walked out of Phil McGuire's office I started thinking about the Pittfords again. I tried telling myself that the police would get to the bottom of everything. They had good reasons for ignoring Shirley and me. I'm sure that if I were in their shoes, I'd think we were crazy, too. But what if the Pittfords hadn't come down with the flu or whatever…what if the Pittfords were dead…or someone had done something to make them become ill…but what possible reason could Matt's ex-wife have for hurting the Pittfords? It didn't make any sense.

I decided to go to the hospital to try and see if I could find out what had happened to them. If they had simply gotten ill then Matt's ex-wife went back to being the logical suspect and we could make one last visit to his house. But if not…if they
had
been the victims of foul play, then something else was going on, although I had no idea what.

“Yes,” I told the nurse with a straight face. “I am Lola Pittford, Mr. and Mrs. Pittford's
granddaughter.”

“Your parents got here a few minutes ago.”

“They did?” I asked, squeaking a little on the word did.

“Yes. You can go right on in. They just spoke to the doctor, so they can fill you in.” The nurse pointed to room 335.

“The thing is,” I said, lowering my voice, “that's actually my dad and my
stepmom
. My dad left my real mom. He left this stupid little note that didn't explain anything.
At all.
Just said he needed to find himself. Whatever that means. There was a messy divorce, and my mom had to work three jobs to keep a roof over our head. But did he think about that when he left? About how hard it would be on her? No. (I lifted this plot from a
Lifetime
movie I'd been up for.) So I'd really rather not speak to them. I'm sure you can understand. I'd just like you to tell me how my grandparents are doing and what led to their
hospitalization.
The flu? Or something else.”

“I'm confused,” the nurse said. “I thought the Pittfords were
her
parents.”

“Her?”

“Your stepmom.”

“No. I'm pretty sure that they're my dad's parents.”

“No. When they came in she said—”

“You must have misunderstood. I think I know my own grandparents.”

The nurse peered up at me from under her reading glasses. “I think it would be better if you spoke to your father.”

“And I think it would be better if you spoke to
me
,” a man's voice said behind me, sounding extremely irritated.

Uh-oh.

I turned around to find the very unhappy face of Detective Owen staring at me.

“You've saved me a trip,” he said after ushering me into a small conference room down the hall, which the nurse said we could use. She didn't seem very surprised to learn that a police detective was anxious to talk to me.

“I have?” I asked casually as I kept my eyes on the painting of a lake hanging on the opposite wall. It was quite fascinating. There was a little rowboat, too.

“Did you really think we wouldn't know it was you guys?”

“Us guys who?”

“It's no use. As soon as we put you in a lineup, Debbie Slack will recognize you.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” I said, trying desperately to ignore the words put you in a lineup. “I don't even know who this Debbie Slack person is.”