The Case of the Invisible Dog

Book 1: Shirley Homes

by Diane Stingley

Genres: Humor & Satire; Animal Cozy Mysteries; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

In the start of a charmingly imaginative cozy series sure to delight fans of Carolyn Hart and Diane Mott Davidson, Diane Stingley introduces a blundering detective who believes herself to be the great-great-granddaughter of the legendary Sherlock Holmes.
 
After failing to launch her career as a Hollywood actress, Tammy Norman returns home to North Carolina, desperate for a regular paycheck and a new lease on life. So she accepts a position assisting Shirley Homes, an exceptionally odd personage who styles herself after her celebrated “ancestor”—right down to the ridiculous hat. Tammy isn’t sure how long she can go on indulging the delusional Shirley (who honestly believes Sherlock Holmes was a real person!), but with the prospect of unemployment looming, she decides to give it a shot.
 
Tammy’s impression of her eccentric boss does not improve when their first case involves midnight romps through strangers’ yards in pursuit of a phantom dog—that only their client can hear. But when the case takes a sudden and sinister turn, Tammy has to admit that Shirley Homes might actually be on to something. . . .

Praise for The Case of the Invisible Dog
 
“A protagonist with panache stars in a delightful twist on the Sherlockian tradition. This dazzling series debut is sheer fun.”—Carolyn Hart, bestselling author of the Death on Demand series and winner of the Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity awards

“Crazy-like-a-fox Shirley Homes is the funniest sleuth I’ve read in years, and she’s sure to steal the reader’s heart as she did mine. In Diane Stingley’s fresh, fabulous, and fast-paced The Case of the Invisible Dog, the game’s definitely afoot!”—Sarah Graves, bestselling author of the Home Repair is Homicide series

“Hold on to your deerstalker as Shirley Homes channels her great-great-grandfather and leads you and her own Watson on a crazy ride—that is, investigation—looking for both an invisible dog and a murderer. Woof!”—Marty Wingate, author of The Garden Plot

Release date: May 19, 2015

Publisher: Alibi

Print pages: 385

Sample

Chapter 1

How did I end up working for Shirley Homes? One word: desperation.

Things didn’t work out with Wayne. He’d seemed so normal when we met—a regular, simple guy. I thought he was my chance to get out of my cousin Anna’s house and try on a regular, simple life. To see if I could make it work; see if I could fit in. Wayne had a good job with a cable company, upgrading systems for new dish receivers. Made a decent salary. Had a nice truck. At least I think it was nice. It was big and shiny and had a lot of legroom.
Wayne had health insurance and a cozy little house in Archerville out by Lake Gregory. Compared to the guys I had once dated in L.A., he was definitely a step down. But compared to the guys I had hooked up with since I came back to Springville, North Carolina, Wayne was a huge step up.

I wasn’t looking for true love. I didn’t want to invest my heart and soul. Been there; done that; lost just about everything. This time around I would settle for simple companionship and it would be fine. Just fine.

Phil McGuire: Where did you and Wayne meet?

Me: In a bar. Hey, don’t give me that look. (Phil denies having given me a look; but I saw it very clearly.) You and Anna both kept telling me I needed to start getting out more. I went out more.

Phil McGuire: How long have you known him?

Me: Four or five weeks.

Phil McGuire: Do you think moving in together so soon is a good idea? Isn’t that what you did with Mark?

(I have mentioned to Phil several times that I believe we have thoroughly exhausted the subject of Mark. But he continues to bring him up.)

Me: I know that’s what I did with Mark, but the situation with Wayne is totally different.

Phil McGuire: Situation?

Me: I mean relationship.

Phil McGuire: In what way is it different?

I explained that this relationship wasn’t based on passion that would fade, but on shared interests. (Not a total lie; we were both carbon-based life forms, weren’t we?) It was steady and reliable, not like the volatile relationship I’d had with Mark. I listed all of Wayne’s great qualities, such as being straight, unmarried, not in prison, and holding down a steady job. He has good teeth, too, although I didn’t mention that, and a top-of-the-line barbecue grill on his back deck.

Me: And he can actually watch Bridesmaids without whining. He even laughed at some of the funny parts.
But then Wayne and I moved in together, and we never watched Bridesmaids together again. I moved in on a Saturday, and that night we watched the first three Fast and Furious movies. Or at least Wayne did. I started dozing off by the end of the second one. The weekend after, he wanted to watch the next two after grilling some steaks for dinner. I suggested a reasonable compromise: one Fast and Furious and then one movie picked by me. He agreed. I planned on finding something I thought we could both enjoy, like Ocean’s Eleven or Gravity (if you’re noting a common theme in those two possibilities—the presence of George Clooney—you would be right on the money). But as soon as it was time for me to pick the movie Wayne hooked up his Xbox, put in his earbuds, and sat playing video games for the rest of the night.

Now, here’s the sad part: I really didn’t mind. Just like I didn’t mind that all Wayne did was work, take care of the yard, go out for beers with some of his work buddies a couple nights a week, watch action movies, and play video games. We hardly ever talked, and we never went out. And I didn’t mind.

Unfortunately, Wayne believed there was one certain exact way of doing every single thing. I mean every single thing. He was always correcting me. How to load the dishwasher. How to unload the dishwasher. How to fold the laundry. What time to turn on the porch light. When the kitchen wastebasket needed to be emptied; and not a minute sooner, or, God forbid, a minute later. Which glass is used for iced tea, which glass is used for water, and which glass is used for juice. How to separate the mail into piles based on a system I never did figure out. And—most importantly—how the toilet paper roll should operate (paper rolling over not under; apparently it’s what separates us from the animal kingdom).

Wayne never got angry. He never raised his voice. He just quietly made it clear from his measured tone, the glint in his eyes, and the way he crossed his arms rigidly over his chest, that there was no room for discussion. First he would demonstrate what I had done wrong; which unwritten rules of the universe I had violated. Then he would redo it the correct way. And the next time I tried to do whatever it was, he watched. One morning, after a month of this, I went to the bathroom and used up the last of the toilet paper. As I went to change the roll I realized that I was finding it hard to breathe. Literally.

Phil McGuire: So how are things going with Wayne?

Me: I’m moving out.

Phil McGuire: Oh? (For just a second or two he looks startled, and maybe a tiny bit smug, as if he’s dying to say If only you’d listened to me, but he quickly recovers his neutral expression. Phil is nothing if not a professional.) But I thought you said things were going so great with the two of you.

Me: Er . . . (this is true; that’s exactly what I’ve been saying for the last month) well . . . no. Anyway, I found this really cheap apartment over in Springville. That’s where I should be anyway since that’s where my aunt lives and she’s getting older. Not that she’d ever admit she needed any help. She’s very independent. But I’ll feel better being nearby. My cousin, Anna, and her husband, Paul, are going to move me out on Monday while Wayne’s at work.

Phil McGuire: He doesn’t know you’re leaving?

Me: God, no. He’d probably tell me that I wasn’t following the correct procedure to break up with him.

Phil McGuire: I see. (That is therapist code for What you just said is kind of crazy and, although I will exhibit no visible dismay or concern, I will make a note of it in your file for future reference.)

Me (offended that Phil doesn’t see what a healthy decision this is): I know what you’re thinking. First she moves in with him too fast. And now she’s moving back out and doesn’t even have the courtesy to tell Wayne that she’s leaving. But Wayne isn’t someone you can talk to. And, okay, I should have known that since I’m still kind of shut down emotionally I’d attract someone who is also shut down. Maybe that’s even what I liked about him. That probably was what attracted me. And I shouldn’t have moved in with him so fast. I’ll give you that. That’s probably why I kept trying to pretend everything was fine, because deep down I knew that I should have listened to you (every once in a while I like to throw Phil a bone). But Wayne is a control freak. Every little thing has to be done a certain way. Stupid little things that don’t even matter. It’s exhausting.

And he isn’t going to understand why I’m leaving. So that whole conversation would be long and drawn out, and no matter how long it went on it would be pointless. He won’t get it. Also, and unfortunately, for some weird reason the sex is still really good.

(Actually, the reason wasn’t all that weird. Sex was the one area where Wayne’s insane attention to detail and obsession with doing everything in precisely the right way actually worked in my favor. By the time he got through with his end of things there was little or nothing that I needed to contribute to the effort. It was a real win-win.)
Me (on a roll now): So I’d end up feeling guilty and we’d have sex. And then he’d try to talk me out of leaving, and I’d get exhausted trying to explain myself. And then we’d have sex again. And it would just go on and on and on. But I’m going to call him as soon as my stuff is out. I’m not going to have him walk inside his house and find out I’m gone. And I will tell him I’m sorry and that it’s not him—it’s me. I’m just too much of a mess right now to be in a relationship. Wayne will totally buy that as the only logical explanation.

Phil McGuire did not say that my reasoning was well thought out, sound, and in the best interest of everyone involved. He just kind of nodded and wished me luck and said our time was up. He also didn’t say, “I told you so.” I’ll give him that. But he did miss a valuable clue. He didn’t ask me why I didn’t need to be at work on Monday.
He must have assumed that I had some sick time or vacation coming. I did not. The morning that I woke up and realized I couldn’t take it anymore—that I had to leave Wayne—I also realized that regular life wasn’t simple or easy. Even with extremely diminished expectations, it was still hard. Maybe too hard. Maybe I wouldn’t be able to adjust. Maybe I wouldn’t have the courage. I’d lost all those years that other people spent working on their careers and their relationships. Then I remembered that I had three days of sick time built up. It was just sitting there going to waste. And getting out of bed seemed like a lot of trouble for nothing.

When I was on day five of calling in—I know, I’m sorry, but the doctor said this flu bug is a killer—I made the mistake of going over to Redbox to rent a couple of DVDs. In my mind this was a great step forward—Hey! I am out of bed and it’s not even noon! Unfortunately, the coworker on an early lunch break who spotted me as she came out from CVS had a completely different take on the situation. So did my boss, who called me shortly thereafter to terminate my employment.

I didn’t tell Phil or anyone else that I had been fired but was choosing to move into an apartment on my own anyway. I didn’t want to explain about not getting out of bed or how most days I feel as if I have twenty-pound weights on my back every time I take a step. Or how painful it would be to move back in with my cousin, Anna, who works full time, raises two children, has a stable marriage, and thinks sleeping in means letting the sun come over the horizon before brewing your coffee. I imagined whispered conversations late at night between her and her husband, Paul. That’s what you said when she first came back, that it would just be for a while, until she got on her feet. But she can’t even hang on to a receptionist job, for God’s sake.

But even if my cousin’s family had been delighted to have me back in their house because I was a ray of sunshine that brightened up all their lives, I still wouldn’t have moved in with them. I needed to be alone; I needed time to think. I always had big dreams to carry me through the rough spots, and now they were gone. I didn’t know if I had the energy to start over; or the endurance for ordinary life.

I haven’t told Phil McGuire how I really feel or how hard I am struggling. The last thing I want is for Phil McGuire to become concerned.