The Case of the Invisible Dog (27 page)

As we came around the start of the tenth hole, a middle-aged man was teeing off while the woman with him was still in their cart, talking on her phone. Neither of them paid any attention to us. “I think you wanted Matt Peterman out of his house,” I continued, glancing over to see Chuck's reaction. “You arranged to have a few dates with his ex-wife, conned her into believing you were nuts about her, and found out about his sleep disorder and his fear of dogs. Then you rigged up one of those doorbells that sound like a dog barking, and every time he went to sleep you rang the bell that you had hidden on the outside, behind that fake plant.”

“Hmmm,” Chuck said. “Interesting theory.”

“Am I in the ballpark?”

Chuck chuckled. “Don't worry. I'm just yanking your chain. My boss gave me the okay to answer any of your questions about what happened to Matt Peterman. Said it would save time at the other end. She has a lot of
other
ground to cover with Ms. Shirley Homes, here.”

“Other ground?” Shirley asked, startled.

“Yep. But I'm getting off track. In answer to your question…Wait. It wasn't your question. It was hers. Why is your assistant doing all the talking?”

“Because,” Shirley said with a sniff, “She is the verbal one. I am the thinker. I conserve my energy and speak only when necessary so that my brain operates at its optimal capacity. Tammy does not have to worry about such things. If I have any questions, I will ask them. Now please try not to let yourself get distracted by trivial concerns that have no bearing on the clarification of detail we are trying to accomplish.”

I winced. Shirley seemed to have absolutely no comprehension of the social skills a person might want to think about using when the person you're talking to has a gun. I wondered cynically if her attitude would be at all changed if it were
her
back with the gun pressed to it instead of mine.

“Ah, Shirley Homes,” Chuck said, sounding amused. “I wonder how brave you'll be when you meet my boss. Yes, you
are
in the ballpark. I didn't have to go outside to ring the bell, though. I did it right from the comfort of my own home. My boss had the bell set up with a remote control to work like a garage door opener. All I had to do was watch the camera until Matt went to sleep, push a button, and that activated the doorbell button on the outside of his house. That button was connected to the wires you found, and they activated the metal box that made the barking sounds. And presto, just like that, the dog barks. Gotta love technology,” Chuck said with another chuckle.

“Ah,” Shirley said, nodding her head. “It was all just as I suspected.”

“And then you killed him,” I continued. “You also poisoned the Pittfords, and with mold and termites damaged the two empty houses. It has something to do with that neighborhood. All the houses are empty now. My guess would be that the goal was to lower all the property values so the land could be bought cheap. I'm sure that whenever the Pittford house goes up for sale, and Matt's, they will both have the same sort of problems. Am I right so far?”

“Yes indeedy. We got plans for that land—big plans—but that part of it is confidential, I'm afraid.”

“How did you manage to poison the Pittfords?”

“They have their groceries delivered. A little diversion for the delivery boy in the parking lot, a few drops of something into their cans of Ensure with a needle…it wasn't that difficult.”

“What did you use?” I asked.

“The little jar my boss gave me wasn't labeled. But I'm sure it was something impossible to detect. She never leaves anything to chance. T's are always crossed; I's are always dotted.”

“And when you realized that Shirley and I were asking questions, and you knew that Angie might have seen you creeping around Matt's house to set up the system to make barking sounds, you got rid of her, too. Are you keeping her somewhere, or is she…is she dead?” I asked, forcing myself to get the words out.

“Who?” Chuck asked as we went around the curve that led to the back of the tenth hole. The course veered sharply here, and the next eight holes wound back toward the clubhouse. In the distance I could see a cart headed toward the green on the eleventh hole.

“The nurse's aide who took care of the Pittfords.”

“That inarticulate, uneducated, poorly groomed woman who used to go outside at all hours so she could smoke?” he asked, his voice dripping with scorn. “Filthy habit.”

“Is that why you killed her?” I asked. “She was outside smoking one night and saw something that she shouldn't? Like setting up that doggie doorbell system to ring over at Matt Peterman's?”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Chuck said dismissively. “She didn't know anything. When we warned her off it was just for show.” He glanced at his cell phone in the cup holder. The flashing dot at the bottom of the screen was getting closer and closer to the one at the top. Chuck started to slow down as we came to the far back side of the tenth hole where the course stretched out in a long grassy knoll ending in a line of oak trees. It was empty. Only the very worst golfer would end up with a ball anywhere near us, and she was sitting next to me in the cart. Chuck glanced at his phone again and then drove off the sidewalk and onto the grass heading toward the edge of the course.

“You scared Angie Berger for show?” Shirley asked, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“That part gets complicated. It will be part of the discussion that you'll be having with my boss.”

“Do I have the rest of it right?” I asked, wondering why he would admit everything else but draw the line at Angie Berger.

“Let's just say you see the trees, but you still don't see the forest.”

“And you kept tabs on us,” I continued, wanting to get as much of the story verified as I could. “You were always watching. Every night after we left you'd go in and see if we'd found anything. After you saw that we had discovered that spot in the carpet where the metal box had been hidden, and you saw me go outside and find that doorbell button, you came in behind us and cleared the equipment out. But I still don't understand why you went to all that trouble in the first place. Why torment Matt Peterman if you were going to kill him anyway? Did you just get impatient?”

“Another part of the forest,” Chuck said after glancing at his phone. “Hold on, folks. This next bit might be a little bumpy.”

I recognized this section of the course from our many trips back and forth to Matt Peterman's house and remembered that it wasn't fenced. It was landscaped with the original oak trees and dense shrubbery and butted up against a small road that divided it from a large tract of undeveloped land—the undeveloped land that sat on the other side of Matt's cul-de-sac. Maybe that was why they wanted the houses, because they sat next to all that acreage. As we came off the grass and onto the landscaped area, Chuck slowed his speed, glancing at his phone continuously. I looked down and saw that the two flashing dots on the screen were now almost touching.

“What is that?” I asked, thinking that if I got out of this alive I really should look into getting a new phone. Apparently great advances had been made.

“Isn't it great?” Chuck said proudly. “Totally cutting edge. It locks the location of my boss' phone into mine and then guides me right to her. It's not even out on the market yet for the rest of you poor slobs. My boss doesn't just have money. She knows people.”

“I do have a question,” Shirley said suddenly as we bumped along over the dirt and bounced around between the bushes and trees. “How did you know we would be here at this golf course?”

“We followed you.”

“Impossible. If I had been followed, my good man, I most certainly would have been aware of it. Do you think I can detect a person's entire life history based on keen observation of small details everyone else misses, and yet remain unaware that I am being followed?”

“Nancy and I have been following the two of you for days.”

“Impossible!” Shirley proclaimed huffily as she crossed her arms over her chest.

“Really? You sure know how to put away a Barn Buster waffle!” Chuck let out a guffaw and Shirley sniffed and turned her head to look the other way. “Nancy was there in court yesterday. Disguised, of course. That's how we knew where the little guy put the doorbell. My boss gave me hell about that doorbell getting taken, I can tell you! We were sitting on you that night, waiting for you to leave your office. Didn't occur to us to follow the little runt when he came out and got in his taxi. That was a close call. Get the cold sweats every time I think about it. Good thing the boss finally gave us the okay to go home and get some shut-eye. Got there just in the nick of time. That's when the boss ordered us to clean everything out. No rest for the weary, right? And then when she found out about the search warrant that detective got today after you went to see him, she said it was time to bring this whole thing to an end. We were going to pay you a little visit at the office, but when you headed here my boss liked that idea even better. Good thing she's a member. The wife and I had some great games here while we were waiting for things to get started with Shirley. Work hard, play hard; that's my motto.”

“Found out about the search warrant?” Shirley asked, whirling her head back around. “How on earth did she do that?”

“Money,” Chuck said with a shrug. “That's how she does everything.”

“And she knows people,” I muttered.

“That's it!” Chuck said, slapping the steering wheel and chuckling. “Eyes and ears everywhere. When you have money and you know people, the sky's the limit!”

Chuck glanced over at his cell phone again and then suddenly wrenched the wheel sharply to the right around a large bush. I grabbed on to the dashboard and we came to an abrupt stop as we reached the outer edge of the golf course. That put us in front of the small road directly across from those acres of undeveloped land that sat next to Matt's cul-de-sac. And sitting in front of all those acres—right next to the dirt driveway leading into them that a construction company had bulldozed before the deal fell through—sat a brand-new sign. Merryweather Properties, the sign read. No Trespassing. Violators Will Be Prosecuted to the Full Extent of the Law.

I glanced over at Shirley, but she kept her eyes straight ahead, her arms crossed over her chest. I looked back at the new sign, studying it with a growing sense of dread—how much land did Merryweather Properties own in
Springville?—until
Nancy pulled up next to us in her cart and the present moment once again occupied my full attention. She and Chuck nodded to each other and then both carts proceeded side by side across the street. We turned onto the dirt driveway, where towering oak trees surrounded us on both sides, their thick branches just beginning to sprout new leaves. Chuck pulled back ahead so that we were once again in front of Nancy's cart. After driving along for a minute or two, Chuck honked the tinny-sounding horn on his cart three times.

We came around a large curve in the dirt drive, and as we did I saw a long white limousine idling underneath one of the tall oaks. The windows were tinted a smoky gray, making it impossible to see who might be sitting inside.

“Who is that?” Shirley asked, sounding genuinely curious as she stared at the limousine.

“My boss. She's been waiting a long time to meet you. A very long time.”

Chuck laughed softly to himself, as if he was in on a hilarious joke that the rest of us were about to discover. I had a feeling I wouldn't find the punch line funny at all.

Chuck brought the cart to a halt about six feet away from the limousine. We sat there for a moment, not saying anything. I tried to think of some way to escape from the cart, but nothing came to mind that concluded with me, Shirley, Myra, and Lawrence still alive and uninjured.

Nancy pulled up next to us in her cart, and she and Chuck nodded at each other again. It seemed they did not require words to communicate with each other. That's normally the sign of a healthy relationship. If I lived to see another day, I'd have to ask Phil McGuire how it was possible for two homicidal maniacs to make their marriage work. I wouldn't tell him why I was asking; I'd just let him sit and stew about it.

“You,” he said, pointing at Shirley, his previously jocular tone now completely abandoned. “Shirley Homes. Get out of this cart and walk over to that limousine. If you try to run, your assistant is in for a very painful experience.”

“Like my great-great-grandfather before me, Mr. Brown,” Shirley said haughtily as she stepped out of the cart, “I run from nothing.”

Great. Give him more attitude, Shirley, while I'm left sitting here with his gun in my back.

Shirley took a few steps forward and then stopped, turned around, and gave me a quick, jaunty smile before resuming her progress toward the limousine. Still no sign of fear that I could see, and I didn't know what to make of that. I looked over at Myra and Lawrence to see how they were holding up. Myra kept her head turned as far to the right as she could, with the rest of her body erect and motionless, but I could see that her hands were trembling. Lawrence's hands gripped the side of the cart, his knuckles turning white with the effort. He craned his neck aggressively to the left and right—as if help was bound to arrive at any moment—while sweat dripped profusely down his face.

The back door to the limousine opened just slightly, and I heard a woman's voice—a surprisingly warm and melodic voice—tell Shirley to get in. Shirley lowered her head and stepped into the limousine. The door closed.

It seemed pretty obvious to me that there was only one outcome to this little meeting: Shirley, Myra, Lawrence, and me lying dead on the ground. I would die in the pursuit of justice—which, if reincarnation was true, might give me big karma brownie points. But what if reincarnation wasn't true? What if there was just this one chance, and the step over to the other side led straight into the face of God and His judgment? What if God was like a bigger, smarter version of Phil McGuire?

God: So, Tammy Norman. What do you have to say for yourself and your life?

Me: Um, well…

God: Spit it out. I don't have all day. I
have—literally—thousands
of people waiting to see me.

Me: I'm not sure what You want to know.

God: I'm God. I want to know everything.

Me: I thought You already
did
know everything.

God: No one likes a smart aleck.

I realized it was up to me to try and do something to get us out of this mess; Myra and Lawrence were helpless, and Shirley appeared to be blissfully unaware that we were in any danger. But with Shirley inside the limousine and Lawrence and Myra in the other cart, the logistics were complicated. Even if I could evade Chuck, that still left the three of them in danger. Maybe if I could climb off the cart, and somehow get Chuck's gun, then at least I'd have some leverage. But how could I convince him to let me out? I was stuck. It reminded me a little bit of how trapped I felt during the road trip Aunt Ilene had taken Anna and me on after my sophomore year. Naturally she hadn't had a gun on me. But she was so determined to make it to the Grand Canyon in four days that we drove for hours at a time without stopping. The only way I could get her to stop was when…it was worth a shot.

“I have to pee,” I said, squirming around in the cart and wincing dramatically.

“Hold it,” Chuck said.

“I
have
been holding it. I really, really have to pee. I've crossed the point of no return. If you don't let me go behind one of those trees, I will wet my pants.”

“Right. I'm just going to let you wander over there to pee, and you'll come right back like a good girl.”

“Yes, I will. Your wife is still holding a gun on my friends.”

“Friendships can die real fast under these
circumstances.”

“Then you can come with me.”

“I don't want to watch you pee,” he said, horrified. “That's just gross.”

It's always good to meet a man with standards.

“Then don't look. Keep the gun pointed at me, and look the other way. I can't stand it one more minute. I think I'd rather get shot than sit here any longer with my bladder ready to explode,” I whined in a deliberately high-pitched voice, as I increased the intensity of my squirms.

“All right, all right. Anything is better than listening to you whine. But I've worked too hard—nights, weekends, even a couple of holidays—to let anything happen now. So fair warning: if you try any funny business, I won't hesitate to shoot you.”

“And then I will shoot
him
,” Nancy said, pointing at Lawrence. “And her,” she added, pointing at Myra. Good old Nancy; always a team player.

“Got it,” I said.

I climbed out of the golf cart, not sure I was doing the right thing. But it was better than doing nothing. I had a glimmer of a plan starting to form as I made note of everyone's location. Chuck climbed out on the other side with his gun and his eyes on me at all times. I started walking toward the trees to the left and back of the limousine.

“That first tree right there will do just fine,” Chuck snapped. I nodded my head and stopped next to the tree that he'd indicated. “Go on. We don't have all day.”

“Right. It's just, well, this is kind of embarrassing. I guess I didn't think it all the way through about how I would have to pull down my pants with you standing right there.”

“Come on, come on. This was your idea.”

“I think I'd feel more comfortable with a woman. I know this is a lot to ask, but do you think there's any chance that your wife would switch places with you?”

“I am a patient man, but you are starting to push me to my limit.” Chuck grabbed my arm and pulled me roughly over to the side of the golf cart where Nancy sat glaring at me.

“She wants
you
to go with her,” Chuck said.

“This is ridiculous. Just let her pee her pants.”

“I'm the one that will be stuck in the cart with her. You know I have a very sensitive sense of smell.”

“You and your sense of smell. Honestly, I think it's all in your head.”

“That's not fair. The doctor said— We don't have time for this right now. Just switch places with me, and let's get this over with.”

Nancy shook her head and then pulled her gun out from behind Myra's back. As she got ready to switch places with him, Chuck stepped back, and there was one, brief second when neither of them actually had a gun pointed at anybody.

“Snake!” I yelled, pointing right at Nancy's cart, hoping for the best and counting on her and Myra to react in the sensible manner of all women everywhere when they hear the word snake: with total and complete panic.

Myra and Nancy both looked over, saw where I was pointing, and screamed the way I hoped they would. Their screams gave me the momentary opening I needed to make my move on Chuck—the move a technical adviser from the military once showed me on a movie set. I wasn't even sure if it would work. I was just an extra that he was trying to impress. But I figured I had nothing to lose at that point. The worst that could happen would be getting shot a few minutes earlier than Chuck and Nancy originally planned.

So, totally on instinct and adrenaline, while he was momentarily distracted by the screaming, I chopped the back of Chuck's neck. To my amazement it worked. Chuck crumpled to the ground next to the cart like a rag doll, letting go of his gun in the process. (It was only later, thinking about everything that happened, that I realized I could finally say my years in Hollywood hadn't been a complete waste.)

As I bent down to retrieve Chuck's gun I saw a jumble of colors in the other cart out of the corner of my eye and a flurry of frantic, chaotic movement. I grabbed the gun and took a hurried look at Chuck to make sure he was still out. Standing back up with Chuck's gun firmly clutched in my hand, it took me a couple moments to grasp what I was seeing: Myra and Lawrence were no longer visible in the other cart. And Nancy looked as if she'd been knocked out cold. Her head lay crookedly against her left shoulder, her eyes were shut, her mouth was hanging open, her left arm hung loosely out of the side of the cart, and her right arm was flung across the back of the cart, the gun dangling off her fingertips.

I ran to grab Nancy's gun before trying to locate Lawrence and Myra. I figured that they couldn't have gone too far. And I hadn't heard a gun go off, so they must be okay…As I gently lifted Nancy's gun off the ends of her
fingertips—which
evoked no response from her whatsoever—I saw the tops of two heads leaning against the bottom of the right side of the cart. The owner of the first head—Myra—was readjusting her blue and green visor back to its proper spot. The owner of the second
head—Lawrence—no
longer had a visor on and kept rubbing the top of his skull over and over.

“You guys okay?” I asked softly, darting over to them from around the back of the cart. Lawrence was sitting next to it, his visor smashed on the ground next to him, rubbing his head and mumbling to himself. Myra sat a few inches apart from Lawrence and looked awful. Her skin was gray and ashen, and there were beads of cold sweat across her forehead.

“The snake?” Myra asked in a hoarse whisper. “It's gone?”

“There was no snake,” I said quickly. “I just made it up to distract everyone.”

“Oh,” she said, looking greatly relieved. “A clever plan, in its way, but I need a moment to regroup. I have an absolute phobia of snakes. It's my only real weakness.”

“Ah,” I said. “Your only real weakness.” Then I clamped my mouth shut. Who was I to judge another person's denial? For all I knew I had a bunch of character flaws that I wasn't aware of, either. Although I'm sure Phil McGuire would have no trouble providing me with a full and complete list.

“Phobia?” Lawrence said, shaking his head. “That's putting it mildly. As soon as she heard the word snake she went psycho!” Lawrence pointed his thumb in Myra's direction. “She was like a crazy person. I didn't know someone could move in so many ways all at once. Arms here, and then there, and all the time she's shaking like we're in the middle of an earthquake. Before I know what's happening I'm flying right out of the cart. And then, like, two seconds later, here she comes out of the cart, too, crashing right into me. No offense, lady, but you're pretty big.”

“None taken,” Myra told him haughtily. “I'm sure that most of the world seems fairly large to someone of your petite stature.”

“Well,” I said, giving Lawrence a pointed look, “somehow in the middle of all that it looks as if Myra managed to knock Nancy Brown out cold.”

“I do have a vague memory of the side of my foot colliding with something hard as I dove to safety. Perhaps it was her head?”

“Probably. And I'd say we both owe you a debt of gratitude. Right, Lawrence?”

“Sure,” he muttered without much conviction.

I took a couple of deep breaths and then glanced over at the limousine. It remained silent and closed. I wasn't sure if that was a good sign or a bad one, but I had two guns. I was in a position to negotiate. Unfortunately, I would have to give one of those guns to Lawrence and hope for the best. But considering that we'd managed to blunder along so far without being killed, I was almost ready to believe that someone out there was on my side. Almost. “Shirley is still in the limousine. Myra, you're going to take this gun, go back over there, and hold it on Chuck. Lawrence, you'll take this other one. Don't take the safety off. Don't put your finger on the actual trigger. Don't wave it around. Keep very still, hold on to it firmly, and just keep it pointed at Nancy. Okay?”

“I know how to use a gun,” Lawrence said, offended. “I been hunting with my cousins since I was, like, five.” One of the problems in North Carolina is that there are actually too
many
deer; now I knew why.

“And what will you be doing?” Myra asked as she stood up and then took the gun from me.

“I will be trying to get Shirley out of that limousine alive.”

“And I will be here, probably dying of my concussion, or suffering permanent brain damage,” Lawrence muttered as he rubbed the top of his head and got to his feet. “But that's okay,” he added as he tugged on his pants belt. “Don't worry about me.”

I gingerly handed him the other gun once his pants were resituated and he pointed it at Nancy's prone form. I waited until Myra had walked around the golf cart and over to where Chuck lay on the ground. She nodded her head, and I took a final check on Nancy. She was still completely out, which was a good thing, as Lawrence kept rubbing his head and did not appear up to the task of intimidating her, armed or not. I took a deep breath—you have to work with what you have—before stepping to the side of the limousine. I crouched down, then tapped on the window. It immediately rolled down.

“There is a gun pointed at Chuck Brown,” I said quickly so that hopefully no one would shoot me before our negotiations got under way. “And another one pointed at Nancy.”

“Well done,” Shirley said calmly as her face came into view underneath her ridiculous hat. I peered inside the limousine as the window continued down. Sitting beside Shirley, holding a sleek handgun at her head, was a glamorous woman in her late thirties or early forties. She had ash blond hair pulled back into an elegant twist and clear, light blue eyes shaped like almonds. Her skin was ivory-toned and poreless, with just a hint of makeup. And she wore a shimmering pearly white silk blouse over pale gray tailored slacks; both were so well made and conformed so perfectly to her shape that they seemed more elegant than some of the Oscar gowns I'd seen. And I'd seen a few. (The first couple years that I was in L.A., I was one of those people who waited outside to watch the movie stars arrive on the red carpet. I
thought
it would be fun to look back on one day. It isn't.)