Gaits of Heaven

monstrous!”
    “Yes.”
    “Ted? Or Eumie?” She paused. “Holly, Caprice would never do that. Never.”
    “There’s also Wyeth, not that he’d care about bird feeders, but—”
    The conversation ended abruptly when Caprice and Lady entered through the back door. Lady was wiggling all over and tossing happy looks to Caprice, who was flushed and damp. When Sammy ran up and greeted her with a deep woo-woo-woo , she said, “You’re still speaking to me, huh?”
    “Sammy will love you forever,” I said. “He’ll remember the feast and forget everything else.”
    “I wish I could.”
    “Consider yourself redeemed,” I said.
    As I was refilling the water bowl that Lady had emptied, Kevin Dennehy’s signature rap sounded on the back door, and Leah let him in.
    “I heard voices in here,” he said.
    “Maybe you should see someone about that,” Leah told him.
    “Ha-ha. The three of you were chirping like birds. I thought maybe Rita was here. It’s a semiofficial visit.”
    “What’s she done?” Leah asked.
    “Nothing. A building up the street was entered last night. One of those places crawling with shrinks. It’s near where her new office is, and I thought she ought to know. If she’s got patient records there, she ought to get them out.”
    “I’ll go get her.” In seconds, Leah’s feet were pounding up the back stairway.
    “Coffee?” I asked. “Kevin? Caprice?”
    They both accepted, and I went ahead and made Dunkin’ Donuts for Kevin, Bustelo for me, half caffeinated and half decaf Peet’s House Blend for Rita, and Trader Joe’s French roast for Leah and Caprice. Cambridge! On the one hand, we’re affected and precious, but on the other hand, we’re wildly considerate. Kevin took cream, and Leah and I liked milk foamed in a clever pitcher-cum-plunger gadget that Steve had given me. Caprice usually drank her coffee black, as did Rita when she was dieting. But there were limits. I hate the bitter aftertaste of artificial sweeteners, and I won’t serve them with coffee unless someone asks or unless a guest has diabetes. Also, I’d recovered from the all-things-French phase I’d gone through after our honeymoon in Paris and thus was no longer buying those rough lumps of brown and white sugar that look ever so continental but won’t dissolve in liquid.
    As I look back at the five of us who were soon sitting around my kitchen table drinking coffee and talking about the neighborhood burglary, I realize that a stranger would have seen us as an ill-assorted group. Kevin and Caprice were about twice the size of anyone else. Kevin had the height and bone structure to carry to his bulk, but there was nonetheless a lot of him, as befitted his personality and, I suppose, his occupation. A frail cop? Dandy. On someone else’s block. Rita was the smallest of us, in weight and build, and although Kevin was wearing fresh chinos and a starched oxford cloth blue shirt, Rita was the only one who’d bothered to dress, in her sense of the word. By her standards, the black linen pants and top were informal, as were the flat-heeled black sandals she wore. Leah was an artist’s model from the Pre-Raphaelite era anachronistically costumed as a Parisian existentialist in hot weather, while Caprice wore a floor-length cotton dress that suggested membership in an agricultural commune of the 1970s. In my battered jeans, their pockets filled with clickers and treats, and my Alaskan Malamute Assistance League sweatshirt, with our motto, We Pull for Them , lettered across the back, I was unmistakable: a contemporary dog trainer and breed-rescue devotee. Sammy and Lady were timeless and, need I say, well-groomed.
    “There are twelve of them in the building.” Kevin sounded as if he were describing an infestation of alligators, maybe, or some other unexpected and unwelcome species of animal. “It looks like the front door got left unlocked. They’re confused about who was supposed to lock up for the night. No alarm system. The door to this particular office was locked, but the guy kept the key on the door frame just above the door, so it didn’t take a genius to work out where it was.”
    “Whose office was it?” Rita asked.
    “Guy named Hershberg. Myron Hershberg. You know him?”
    “I’ve heard of him. I don’t know him.”
    “Anyways, there’s minor vandalism, stuff tossed around. All that’s missing are some old diskettes and CD-ROMs.“
    “With patient records,” Rita said. “Oh,