The Barker Street Regulars

“But I must tell you that near Jonathan’s body were found”—here he paused for what I knew was effect—“the footprints of a gigantic dog.”
    I suppressed the Robert-like urge to correct him. Mr. Holmes, I wanted to say, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound.
     

Chapter Nine
     
    R OWDY AND KIMI BEING the models of canine perfection that they are, I had a hard time dreaming up an excuse to consult Irene Wheeler. Yes, if I left a bowl of fruit on the counter, they staged a raid and scattered orange rinds and banana peels all over the house, and yes, I’d had to get rid of my bird feeder because Kimi caught songbirds on the wing, but who’d hire a clairvoyant to find out that malamutes were mala-mutes? Besides, to unmask Irene Wheeler as the fraud I knew she was, I’d do better to claim that one of the dogs was sick. Raw superstition held me back. How would I feel if my deception succeeded and, a week later, Rowdy or Kimi fell ill? Alternatively, I could blurt out the truth about missing my wonderful Vinnie and aching for one more glimpse of her. It felt wrong, however, to profane my bond with Vinnie by pretending that our spiritual connection depended on some Joker who promised access to the Netherworld Web in return for this world’s currency. I’d settled on a compromise. When Irene Wheeler answered her phone on Monday morning, I was prepared to burble about my concern for the dogs’ karma, auras, spirits, souls, and any other occult entities I could conjure up.
    No explanation was required. On the contrary, Irene Wheeler seemed to take it for granted that I required professional help to understand my dogs. In a cordial, businesslike manner, she wasted no time in offering me an appointment at three o’clock that afternoon. The presence of the dogs, she explained, would be unnecessary. Indeed, she worked most effectively from color photographs. Irene Wheeler’s fee for an initial consultation was precisely what Rita charges for a fifty-minute hour of psychotherapy. Rita, however, bills her clients; she doesn’t ask for cash up front. Also, Rita doesn’t work from photographs.
    Once having committed myself to being ripped off by Irene Wheeler, I employed myself in the manner of a hardworking freelance writer by taking Rowdy and Kimi around the block, refilling their water bowl, making fresh coffee, and reading the morning paper. The New England News Briefs column—truly that’s what it’s called, “Briefs,” just like underwear—carried a paragraph about the murder of Althea and Ceci’s grand-nephew, Jonathan Hubbell. I read:
     
Newton Joggers Discover Body
 
NEWTON—Law enforcement officials are investigating the death of Jonathan Hubbell, 31, of St. Paul, Minnesota, whose body was discovered early Sunday morning by two Boston College students as they jogged through the Norwood Hill section of this quiet suburb. The deceased was reportedly on a visit to his great-aunt, Mrs. Cecilia Love, 80. The joggers made their find in Love’s yard. Traces of a white powder believed to be cocaine were found on the body. Preliminary reports indicate that death resulted from head trauma.
     
    New England News Briefs: not just underwear, but skimpy underwear, practically a g-string. For example, there was no mention of the paw prints of the gigantic dog. Or had Hugh and Robert imagined them? In spite of the scantiness of the newspaper account, I drew the obvious conclusion that this cocaine-dusted grand-nephew, Jonathan, had used his elderly great-aunts as an excuse to come to Boston for a drug deal and that he’d been murdered when it had gone wrong. Althea and Ceci had both deserved better than what this Jonathan had inflicted on them. Althea had been eager to welcome the only relative she and Ceci had left. For Ceci, too, the impending visit had probably been a major occasion. I could almost see her fussing around planning special meals and rearranging the pillows and the knickknacks in her guest room. And if this damned grandnephew had to do drugs and get murdered, couldn’t he have been considerate enough of Althea’s reverence for the Canon to pick an abusable substance other than Sherlock Holmes’s very own cocaine?
    The phone interrupted my work. I’m always afraid not to answer it. I’m on the list of Alaskan Malamute Rescue people who get calls about dogs in trouble. If I don’t pick up, a malamute owner who wants to dump a dog may not bother to leave a message or may have the