The Case of the Invisible Dog (24 page)

“You take great liberties, Tammy. Liberties that Watson never would have dreamed of.”

“It just sort of came out,” I said, not wanting her to know I'd come up with the idea the night before as I tossed and turned, thinking about how horribly wrong this visit to the police station just might go. And that I thought it would sound better coming from me. “I can't stand the thought of someone who might be innocent sitting in jail.”

“A noble impulse,” Shirley sniffed.

We sat quietly then, except for Lawrence fidgeting around. He'd tap his feet, then he'd stand up and stretch and yawn. Then he'd sit back down and tap his feet again. I was about to ask him if he could please sit still when the door opened. We all looked up as Detective Owen walked in followed by Detective Addams. She shut the door behind her, and the two of them sat down across from us. They both leaned forward and folded their hands on top of the table. They both stared at us without saying anything, but I didn't see any smirks. Their expressions were neutral but serious.

“So,” Detective Owen said, “I just talked to Patty Peterman. I made the question as vague as possible. It took her a few minutes to remember. And then she still hesitated because she didn't want her boyfriend to find out, the guy she was already seeing when she took up with Matt again. It turns out that one evening six weeks ago a good-looking man came into the bar where she works. He stayed for hours, flashing money around, buying everyone drinks, and hitting on her until she agreed to go out with him. The next night, on their date, he asked her all kinds of questions about her ex-husband. She remembers it because normally that's the last thing a date wants to talk about. They went out three times and he couldn't get enough. She remembers that he found it hilarious when she told him about Matt's fear of dogs and his sleep disorder. He kept asking for all the details like it was the funniest thing he ever heard. She also remembers that she thought they had a great time. He gave her the impression that they were heading for something serious. That's when she dumped Matt, who she'd been seeing because—”

“Because she was going to marry him and then divorce him later so she could get half the value of his house!” I exclaimed triumphantly. “Her boyfriend was in on the plan. And then, all of a sudden, she gives it up. Says she can't stand being around Matt, but that wasn't it at all. She was probably getting ready to dump the boyfriend, too, thinking she'd hit the jackpot and who needs stupid old Matt Peterman or the loser boyfriend anymore. But then Mr. Wonderful never calls back! He's gotten everything he needed!”

I was so excited to finally have the police take me seriously that I guess I sort of got carried away. But as I finished my summary (I may not know much, but I do know the pitfalls and delusions of romance), I suddenly became aware of the silent room and four sets of eyes staring at me.

“Done now?” Detective Owen asked as his partner glared at me stonily. I nodded my head. “He never called again and the number he gave her was disconnected. I won't ask how you know all that information, but yes, that's the gist of it. And her description of this mystery man matches Chuck Brown except that his hair was blond and he had a mustache.”

“A disguise, no doubt,” Shirley interjected. “Albeit a rather amateur one.”

Detective Owen cleared his throat. Detective Addams nudged him.

“Go ahead,” she said. “Get it over with.”

Detective Owen cleared his throat for a second time. “I can't believe I'm saying this,” he finally managed to spit out, every word seeming to hang in the back of his throat before making a reluctant appearance. “But I'd like to hear everything that you know about the invisible dog.”

Neither of the two detectives gave any indication as to whether they believed us or what they would do from there. They asked a lot of questions about small details; and made me repeat things over and over. Detective Addams took extensive notes, and Detective Owen asked most of the questions. I thought that Shirley would keep interrupting me, but for once she didn't. Lawrence told his story without flinching, although he did ask them about getting the charges against him dismissed since he'd been on
a
quest for justice
(wonder where he got that phrase?). Detective Owen said he would look into it. I couldn't tell if he was serious about that or not. I told them about the mold and the termites and my theory that someone had done all this so they could buy up the houses and property at a low price.

“Maybe there's some big development project Merryweather Properties wants to do,” I added. “Maybe you should look into that.”

“Thank you for the information,” Detective Owen said. I didn't know whether he had taken my idea seriously or not. But I didn't push it. I figured it was a miracle that they had listened to me at all.

And then, just like that, we were dismissed.

When we got up to leave, Shirley as usual led the way, and once we were outside, she stopped at the bottom of the steps and whirled around.

“Tammy? If you were Detective Owen or Addams, what would you do next?”

“Well…if they actually believed us they'd want to see if the stuff Lawrence found is still at the Browns'. Since there's no way the Browns would give permission for the police to come in and look, I guess the first thing I would do would be to get a search warrant.”

“Excellent. Now, can you think of some way that we could observe this activity?”

“Um, no. I don't think that would be a very good idea. The detectives made it pretty clear that they would take it from here.”

“Yes, they did. Unlike Scotland Yard, they are unwilling to let me witness the fruits of my labors. But obtaining a search warrant will take some time, so I estimate we have at least two hours before they arrive in Matt Peterman's neighborhood. And there is nothing that I am aware of on the law books that says we cannot enjoy a refreshing game of golf at the same time.”

“I've always wanted to learn how to play golf,” Lawrence said eagerly.

“Golf?” I asked, surprised. It didn't seem like Shirley to give up so easily. I was ready for her next harebrained scheme, where we would end up antagonizing the police all over again…and then I realized what she was trying to say: the Sturdy Oaks Country Club golf course—the one we'd parked beside the first time we tried to search Matt Peterman's house—was located right next to the cul-de-sac. “Oh,” I said. “Golf.”

“I see you understand what I am driving at. I suggest that you and Lawrence go retrieve your car while you let me borrow your cell phone to call Myra. I will sacrifice a few brain cells in pursuit of our noble cause.”

“Why are these people with you?”

Those were Myra's first words upon seeing us when we arrived at the Sturdy Oaks Country Club. Apparently Shirley hadn't bothered to mention on the phone that Lawrence and I would be joining them.

Myra wasn't dressed in her usual, flamboyant style. She wore an A-line knee-length royal blue skirt; a crisp, pale blue shirt with a blue and white collar; royal blue golf shoes; and a pretty green visor with a blue and white trim.

Shirley, Lawrence, and I all wore white polo shirts, khaki pants, yellow visors, and white tennis shoes. We had stopped on the way to purchase our outfits at Belk Department Store after Shirley told us Myra had explained the club's dress code to her in excruciating detail during their phone conversation. It was the first time I had ever seen Shirley wearing anything other than her usual wardrobe, and I could almost imagine she was just a regular person. Almost. I had also taken out my hair clips and purchased a scrunchie so I could pull my hair into a ponytail at the nape of my neck and avoid the discomfort of an itchy scalp and the inevitable “hat hair” I'd have once I took the visor off. Shirley's more manageable hair hung loose around her shoulders.

Lawrence, however, still managed to stick out like a sore thumb. Because of his short legs and big belly, we hadn't been able to find a pair of pants that fit exactly right. After many trips to the dressing room, we finally had to settle on knee-length khaki shorts from the big-and-tall men's department, which turned into pants on Lawrence. Pants that were a little too big in the waist in order to have enough length to pass (barely) for pants on his short legs. That meant he needed a belt, which he kept tugging on every time his polo shirt started to ride up over his beer belly.

Since Lawrence had taken so long to get his outfit put together, Shirley quickly grabbed three visors from the women's department on the way to the check stand. Unfortunately, Lawrence's visor did not fit well around his big head, his thick wiry hair (think S.O.S pad) stuck out in bunches around the edges, and he couldn't keep the Velcro clasp secure in the back, so his visor kept slipping down on his forehead. Between the belt-tugging, shirt-riding, and visor-slipping, Lawrence was managing to make an even worse first impression than usual.

“Tammy is a valued colleague who has been working quite diligently,” Shirley replied as Myra gave me the once-over and then pursed her lips as she did the same to Lawrence. “And this is Mr. Lawrence Dunbar, another colleague who has been most helpful.”

“Really?” Myra asked with a sneer. “In what way?”

“In many ways. As I got ready to join you here, it suddenly seemed very unfair to leave them behind at the office while I was out in the fresh air enjoying a delightful game of golf. And as you warned me that we had to make our tee time, I didn't want to waste precious minutes calling you a second time. I honestly didn't think you'd mind if I brought them along. The more the merrier, as you always say.”

“Not this time,” Myra said, turning her back to Lawrence and me as if we didn't exist. I wondered if Shirley would be able to talk Myra into letting us stay. Probably—if there was one thing Shirley knew how to do, it was wear people down. But I had to give her credit for loyalty. She must have known Myra would nix the idea of Lawrence and me coming along. And she could have easily avoided all this drama with her sister by simply leaving us behind.

“I had to use all my influence to obtain a slot for us since we had no reservation,” Myra continued in a huffy tone. “It is very lucky for you that I am active on the tournament committee. And that late afternoon is when the club prefers to book newcomers to the game, such as yourself. After much persuasion on my part, they fit us in before their last reservation of the day. Fortunately I am an excellent player, and there was enough of a gap between the two groups that they were confident we shouldn't hold anyone up. However, that slot was for a twosome, not a foursome, with only one inexperienced player to slow things down.
You
. And only you. So I am afraid that it won't be possible for either one of these people to join us.”

A lengthy negotiation between Myra and Shirley then took place. It was decided that Lawrence and I would be allowed to ride along in a separate cart—which Shirley would pay for—and watch the two of them play.

“And you will do so quietly,” Myra ordered. “Golf requires great
concentration.”

“You won't hear a peep out of me,” Lawrence told her, running his forefinger across his mouth.

Myra raised her eyebrows and then told Lawrence and me to stay put in the
lobby—quietly—while
they went to arrange for another cart and to rent a set of clubs for Shirley. When they returned, Shirley did have a set of golf clubs, but she no longer wore the simple yellow visor she'd purchased earlier, the first hat that I had ever seen on top of her head and
not
hated. Instead, and to my horror, she now wore what can only be described as a monstrosity: a golf-style beret covered with a mix of bright orange and lime green stripes, topped off with a tangerine ball of yarn that bobbed along on top of her head as she walked, with the ends of her dark shoulder-length hair bouncing underneath. As we made our way outside there were certain moments when the sunlight would beam down from the bobbling ball onto her hair, giving one the momentary impression that she had just visited a styling salon owned by Ronald McDonald.

We got into our carts, settled, and set off—Shirley and Myra in one golf cart, Lawrence and myself in the other. I did my best to focus on the landscaping, but out of the corner of my eye I could still see that tangerine ball bobbing along. When we arrived at the first hole and Shirley got ready to tee off, a smiling Myra attempted to give her a few tips. Since Shirley's only goal was to reach the part of the golf course where we would have a good view of Chuck and Nancy Brown's house—and as quickly as possible—she paid absolutely no attention to Myra's advice and shooed her away. Based on our numerous trips to Matt's house, we figured his cul-de-sac was near the end of the right side of the course. That meant we needed to get to the eighth or ninth hole in order to see what was going on.

The search of the Browns' would bring our case to a successful resolution. It had been more than a couple of hours since we left the police station. For all we knew the detectives might have obtained their search warrant by now and would already be there. Neither of us could stand the idea of not seeing that conclusion—the fruits of our labor—with our own eyes.

Unaware of Shirley's agenda, Myra stood off to the side and then watched in mounting disbelief as Shirley took quick swings over and over until she finally made contact with the ball, which veered off down the fairway to the right and into a line of pine trees.

“You should have—” Myra started to say. But Shirley was already running down the course toward the line of trees as if a swarm of bees were hot on her trail.

“We have a cart!” Myra called out. “Shirley!”

“Wow,” Lawrence said as we watched from our cart sitting well behind the green. “Look at her go.”

Myra did not seem quite as impressed with Shirley's speed or athletic prowess. I don't know exactly what she was muttering under her breath when she got into her cart, but I can wager some pretty good guesses.

For the next two holes Shirley continued to ignore all of her sister's attempts to help her, and proceeded to run through the course like a maniac. Myra became
progressively…um,
let's say
frustrated
, as the game wore on. She repeated the phrase What are you doing? with greater and greater frequency, to which Shirley would reply, “You play golf your way, and I will play it my way.” The few times she and Shirley ended up in their cart together were filled with either bickering or hostile silence. By the time we reached the fourth hole, Shirley finally had to slow down as there was a foursome in front of us still on the fairway. While we waited for them to finish Myra laid down the law.

“Either you behave like a civilized human being,” she told Shirley, “or I shall terminate this game immediately.”

“I am hardly behaving like a barbarian,” Shirley replied, tapping her fingers impatiently against the side of the cart as she peered off into the distance.

“You are playing like a deranged monkey. Why are you in such a hurry? If you don't want to be here, just say so, and we can end this charade.”

“Myra, that is ridiculous. This is
exactly
where I need—I mean want—to be. And if I am playing too quickly for your taste, it is merely a difference in our basic nature. It is very difficult for me to move at the leisurely pace you prefer.”

“Listen to me, Shirley,” Myra said with quiet but extremely firm conviction. “For once in your life listen very carefully. You will not play golf
your way.
There will be no more running. No more swinging your club like a maniac. I am not kidding. This is a golf course, not a running track. There are rules and there is etiquette. These are essential elements of the time-honored tradition of golf, and I take both of them very seriously. If you cannot respect the game and its rules, then I will drive us right back to the clubhouse this very minute. Understood?”

Shirley glanced over at her sister. “Understood,” she said after taking in the expression on her sister's face. “Although it is not in my nature, I will try to slow down and relax.”

The next three holes went fairly
well—considering—and
Myra started to calm down. Shirley didn't take more than two or three swings at a time, and she stopped running between shots. But once we made it down the fairway of the eighth hole and came around a large curve that brought us in sight of the green, Chuck and Nancy's house came into view through the wire fence on the edge of the course.

While Myra took her next shot the rest of us huddled together to regroup. Since there was no sign of a search going on, and it didn't seem feasible that the detectives could have gotten their search warrant and gone through the entire house by now, our plan was to try and linger here for as long as possible and hope the detectives showed up. It wasn't a great plan, or especially well thought out, but it was all we had.

Myra's shot landed her ball on the edge of the green. Lawrence and I got back in our cart, parked over on the sidewalk near the green. We were situated next to the front end of Matt Peterman's cul-de-sac. The Browns' house was down at the other end but still clearly visible.

And then it was Shirley's turn.

“Say, Myra,” she said casually, “I realize that until now I may have been a little shortsighted. Before I take my shot I would genuinely appreciate any advice you could give me on improving my swing.”

“Really?” Myra asked, thrilled. “All right, then. Let's start with your stance.”