The Barker Street Regulars

to have left the gigantic paw prints found near the scene of Jonathan’s murder, but there remained many more possible breeds than Hugh and Robert had expected.
    I had to admit, though, that in contrast to the looniness of Hugh and Robert’s Sherlockian speculations about missing heirs and the secrets of illustrious personages, their methods were systematic and, in a wacky way, sensible. Every bit of hair was stored in its own clearly labeled envelope, and Hugh recorded everything in a database on his laptop. The dog hairs found at the scene of the murder had, after all, been exclusively white. Kimi had confirmed the presence of a large dog. And I’d seen the immense paw prints myself. As I pointed out to Hugh and Robert, the paw prints clearly predated the homicide: The dog had been at Ceci’s during the spell of damp, mild weather we’d had during the week before the murder. On Saturday, we’d had a cold snap; by Saturday night, when Jonathan was killed, the mud must have been frozen solid. With considerable condescension, Hugh and Robert countered that preliminary experiments with Kimi’s hair and samples collected at Ceci’s indicated that the dog had been at the scene both before and after the freeze. I was skeptical. An ugly suspicion again crossed my mind. Hugh and Robert reveled in the Baskervillian features of the murder. Holmes himself had lamented the scarcity of interesting crimes. Was it possible that his disciples had turned to villainy to have something to investigate? Or were my own speculations taking a daffy Sherlockian turn? Real crime was what Kevin Dennehy investigated: the sordid slaying of Donald Lively, the drug dealer who had specialized in cocaine. I reminded myself to ask Althea what Holmes’s source had been. “Watson Was a Woman”? Fine. But “Watson Was a Dealer”? Surely not! Hadn’t he slaved to break Holmes of the terrible habit? If not Watson, who? Oh, no! Holmes’s “dirty little lieutenant,” Wiggins, and his gang—the Baker Street Irregulars. Highly irregular!
    One final word about the show. Actually, three words. Gloria and Scott. They were not there. Even in their absence, I overheard four separate conversations about Irene Wheeler. Three I caught out of the comer of my ear; they were testimonials to her uncanny powers. Oddly enough, in all three cases, she had communicated canine concerns about teeth. So much for her psychic ability to intuit my dental troubles! The fourth exchange I heard clearly. “Now, make sure and tell her it was me that sent you,” a woman emphasized.
    The response interested me. It was made in jest. “You get some kind of kickback?”
    Irene’s advocate turned bright red. In a low tone, she said, “Yeah, if you want to call it that. She’ll do the same for you. Free consult if you send someone. There’s nothing wrong with it. So make sure and tell her it was me that sent you, okay?”
    Sign on a friend. The cheap ploy would have put me off. Irene Wheeler had not tried it on me. Her accuracy in sizing up her clients riled me. Especially one client: Ceci. In the spirit of honesty, let me admit that what got to me was not any particular attachment to Ceci. If, for example, I’d seen Ceci being duped into paying the funeral expenses of an imaginary child who’d supposedly died of cancer or being wooed by some bigamous Lothario who’d vanish with her life savings, I’d have felt a sort of universal outrage with nothing personal about it. Furthermore, even if I’d known for sure that Jonathan had been murdered to prevent him from spoiling the scam, I’d have felt no sense of mission. In the eyes of the law, Ceci’s beliefs were her own business, and she was entitled to spend her money as she chose. Jonathan’s murder was, of course, police business. No, what got to me was the particular nature of the swindle: the promised resurrection of Lord Saint Simon. When it came to her dog, Ceci was a complete fool. I was the same kind of fool myself. I’d have given anything to see my Vinnie again. It drove me almost crazy to see Irene Wheeler prey on the same love and grief I felt myself.
    On Sunday, when I made an appointment with Irene Wheeler, and again on Monday, when I kept it, I knew I was making a cowardly mistake. I live with Alaskan malamutes; I am an expert on predators. I knew I failed to act like prey. I wasn’t weak, injured, or needy; there was nothing erratic about my behavior. Hiding the wounds I should have shown, I