The Barker Street Regulars

“ Man! Not machine. ”
    Pressing the power button on the laptop, Hugh cryptically replied, “Jupiter nonetheless arises.”
    Robert was livid. “Ascends! Jupiter nonetheless ascends ! ”
    “Pay no attention to them,” Ceci advised me. “I never do. Ellis was just the same. I put up with it from him for a great many years, and—”
    “Fifty-nine,” Hugh said. “You and Ellis were married for fifty-nine years, Ceci. We attended your Golden Wedding anniversary.”
    In an odd voice, Ceci said, “Jonathan was there.” She sounded puzzled, as if some unreliable person were trying to convince her of her grandnephew’s presence on the occasion. “I had entirely forgotten, well, almost entirely, until the subject came up in our”—her voice dropped to a whisper—“recent communications.” Brushing a hand lightly across my sleeve, she murmured, “And you? Have you sought Irene’s assistance?”
    Before I could answer, Robert broke in to warn me not to get Kimi, or Toby, as he called her, until the first stage of the investigation was complete. Ascending like Jupiter, I suppose, Hugh announced that it was about to begin. It started where Jonathan had evidently left the house: at the large plant-filled alcove at the far end of the living room. As Robert quickly sketched the area on a sheet of paper fastened to a clipboard, Hugh drew it on his laptop. I just looked at it. The alcove, I observed, was formed by sets of French doors. Those on each end were windows, really, and angled to create the bay. The doors gave onto a brick terrace. Ceci flipped a switch that turned on large lights that must have been mounted high on the back of the house. Peering out, I saw a vast yard that sloped downward and disappeared into darkness.
    Leaving Ceci indoors, I zipped my parka, pulled on gloves, and followed Hugh and Robert onto the terrace, which was elevated about two feet above ground level. It was about ten feet wide. A flight of brick steps led from the terrace to the rear of the property. On the sides, the terrace stopped abruptly where the alcove ended. Systematically casting back and forth on the empty terrace, Robert reminded me of an advanced obedience dog working his scent articles. The examination of the terrace seemed like a waste of time. Not so much as a stray leaf was visible, and any outdoor furniture Ceci kept there, a wrought-iron table and chairs, perhaps, had been stowed elsewhere for the winter.
    Undiscouraged, the Sherlockians next turned their attention to the garden beds that ran along the foundation of the house. I should explain that if you faced the back of the house, to the left ran a brick walkway that eventually passed between the house and the garage, and led to a white wood fence with a sturdy gate. The flower bed to the right of the terrace ran parallel to the back of the house, turned the corner, and ended at another length of the same high white fence. Robert and Hugh hovered over the path to the garage and the flower bed next to it. I observed nothing except a thick layer of fir bark, the leafless branches of small azaleas, the emerging shoots of daffodils, and the foliage and blooms of dozens of crocuses and snowdrops, their blossoms tightly closed, as if the February night had forced the harbingers of spring to fashion makeshift parkas out of pastel petals. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. That mulch is ubiquitous in the suburbs, where expensive lawn services convince homeowners that bare earth, dirty as it is, should never be seen unclothed.
    On the other side of the house, however, the corresponding bed of fir bark, dormant azaleas, daffodil shoots, and early bulbs drew enthusiastic exclamations from Hugh and Robert: “Features of interest!” In my skeptical eagerness to see whether the men had found a genuine clue, I had to be shooed away so I wouldn’t trample the flowers, if not the evidence. As it turned out, mashed blossoms and squished daffodil shoots were the evidence. Along most of its length, this mulched bed looked identical to the one on the garage side of the house. Near the angled French door that formed this end of the alcove, however, broken foliage lay flat on the fir bark. I found myself in agreement with Robert and Hugh: The appearance of the ground honestly did suggest that someone had stood there to peer through the glass.
    As Robert was taking close-ups and distance shots, one of the French doors opened. Ceci, apparently alerted by the flashes of the