The Barker Street Regulars

Steve about Gloria and Scott, but decided against it. After the hullabaloo they were making about how he’d ruined their show dog, he obviously knew that they might be around. With luck, they’d gone home by now.
    They hadn’t. It was outside the ring during the judging of the Working Group that we encountered them, if that’s the right word for suddenly hearing Gloria holler from only a yard or so in back of us, “Jesus Christ! Hey, you! You, Delaney! You got a nerve showing your face here.”
    Standing next to Steve, I could feel his whole body tighten. But he kept his eyes on the ring and on Rowdy, and said nothing, even when Gloria muscled her way through the crowd and planted herself right next to him-“You deaf or something?” she demanded. “You didn’t hear me saying you got a nerve showing your face here?
    “It’s a dog show,” I informed her. “Not a face show. If it were, you wouldn’t have been allowed in.” I was immediately sorry.
    “Oh, yeah?” Gloria roared. She reminded me of the gruesome dog treats. She looked like an emaciated sow that had sacrificed its ears.
    Steve gently took my elbow and, murmuring gentlemanly apologies to everyone we passed, moved me away from the ring and out of Gloria’s range. “Rowdy looks good,” he said placidly.
    “The judge doesn’t think so,” I grumbled.
    “You ought to handle him yourself. He responds better to you than he does to Faith.”
    “Faith is a thousand-times better handler than I am. Rowdy adores her.”
    As if to vindicate me and retain his handler, Rowdy surprised me by going third. Kimi’s win? Rowdy’s Best of Breed? Now, a group placement? It takes a lot to ruin a day like that. Well, Gloria almost succeeded. As I thanked Faith and took Rowdy’s show lead and ribbon from her, I noticed Gloria making her way from person to person. She was handing out cards. For once, her voice was quiet. And I assure you that people were listening to her. She was talking about Irene Wheeler. She was handing out Irene Wheeler’s business cards. I didn’t need a card, of course. Ceci Love had already given me one. I intended to use it. Tomorrow, I vowed, I d make a phone call. I’d make an appointment. Gloria lacked the brains to plan the campaign she was carrying out. I wanted to meet the power behind her. Who was that power? Irene Wheeler. No shit, Sherlock.
     

Chapter Eight
     
    I WAITED UNTIL NOON . For all I knew, psychics lolled in bed on Sunday mornings. Or did they go to church? Besides, I didn’t want Steve to overhear. As I puttered around killing time until he left, it occurred to me that when Holmes undertook an investigation, he never had to hang around until Watson departed or worry that his partner would tell him to mind his own business. On the contrary, whenever Holmes announced that the game was afoot, Watson sprang up like a walk-hungry dog at the sight of a leash. Rowdy or Kimi, I decided, would make a far better Watson than Steve. My game, after all, was seldom afoot. It was almost inevitably a paw. Sorry about that.
    I got Irene Wheeler’s answering machine. Her message was disappointing. “This is Irene Wheeler,” said a pleasant, ordinary voice. “I can’t come to the phone right now, but please leave your name and number after the beep.” What did I expect? Weird background music, that’s what: silver trumpets, creepy violins, harps plucked by angelic canine loved ones. Just how was the caller supposed to know that the angelic harpists were canine? Irene Wheeler was supposed to say so. “Irene Wheeler,” I wanted her to whisper breathlessly, “cannot come to the phone because she is fully occupied in marketing the hope of eternal companion-animal life while practicing veterinary medicine without a license.” I hung up without leaving a message. I didn’t want my call returned when Steve might answer the phone or overhear me as I made an appointment.
    Frustrated in my effort to schedule a consultation with Irene and thus to meet the damned troublemaker face-to-face, I decided to settle for secondhand information. Last Sunday afternoon, Ceci had been paying what might be a regular weekly call on her sister, Althea. With no encouragement, Ceci had been voluble about Irene Wheeler’s psychic powers. Maybe I’d find Ceci at the Gateway today. If so, I’d pump her.
    When Rowdy tried to bound ahead of me into Althea’s room, I came to a halt, heard a male voice, and finally remembered that on Friday,