The Barker Street Regulars

of the gate, and Jonathan’s was found in his great-aunt’s yard, and there are zillions of other differences. Even so, in both cases, what’s found near the body?”
    In his effort to swallow the lump he’d been chewing, Kevin turned so red that I was afraid it had lodged in his throat. A doctor once told me that a person who is choking can’t speak; people who say they’re choking are fine. “Kevin, are you all right? Say something!”
    He didn’t.
    Lucky for Kevin that I’d recently watched an excellent video on first aid! Rising swiftly from my seat, I said, “Relax! I know what I’m doing. Stand up!” I ordered. “I can’t reach you. Stand up!” As Kevin started to comply, I added, “I know everything about the Heimlich maneuver. I just watched a video about it. It was called ’How to Save Your Dog’s Life.’ I practiced on Rowdy and Kimi.”
    I didn’t have to touch Kevin. My words alone performed a sort of verbal Heimlich. As soon as they left my mouth, the lump of gristle flew from Kevin’s and landed in the middle of my swordfish. Kevin gasped for air. By now, a crowd of waiters and concerned fellow patrons had gathered. Embarrassment turned Kevin’s face a deeper shade of crimson than choking had done. Shooing everyone away, he glared at me.
    Once again seated across from him, I said quietly, “Now, Kevin, anyone can choke. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. And it’s the restaurant’s fault, really.” Between clenched teeth, he demanded, “ ’How to Save Your Dog’s Life’?”
    “I was trying to reassure you that I knew what I was doing.”
    “With you around, who needs the Heimlich maneuver?” he growled.
    “You might have, for one,” I replied with dignity. “Anyway, as I was saying, in both cases, what was found near the body?” Since Kevin seemed inexplicably disinclined to answer, I continued. “The footprints of a gigantic hound. Or a giant dog, anyway. But there’s more!”
    A waitress appeared. “Done?” she asked.
    “Yes,” I said. I felt almost grateful to Kevin for ejecting the lump into the dinner I’d otherwise have had to make a show of finishing.
    Nothing ruins Kevin’s appetite. As the waitress removed his plate, he ordered strawberry shortcake and asked whether I wanted dessert. I asked for chocolate ice cream. How could even the worst restaurant ruin that? By repeatedly thawing and freezing it until it’s a mass of ice crystals. Or that’s my guess, anyway. I picked at the ice cream. Kevin devoured what looked like strawberry jam topped with shaving cream.
    “So we have the yew hedge, the gate, the evening stroll, paw prints near the body,” I persisted. “The paw prints of a giant dog. And, Kevin, and , it so happens that the entire neighborhood where Jonathan was murdered, where his great-aunt Ceci lives, in a fancy section of Newton, has gaslights. Gaslights! Sherlock Holmes, right?”
    “Invitation to crime,” pronounced the voice of Law Enforcement.
    “Well, they don’t provide much light,” I admitted. “But they’re very charming. And the traces of cocaine on the body? Holmes again.” Echoing Althea, Hugh, and Robert, I said, “He is everywhere.”
    “What’s God got to do with it?” Kevin asked sourly.
    “Not God. Sherlock Holmes.”
    “Cocaine.” Kevin’s voice was ripe with disgust. “I keep telling you, I got no use for—”
    “And I keep telling you! Neither did Dr. Watson. Anyway, there’s more. Over and over in the stories, there’s this theme of the victimization of the innocent. The Sign of Four, ’The Speckled Band,’ ’The Engineer’s Thumb.’ In probably half the stories, maybe all of them somehow or other, there’s some innocent person who’s being taken advantage of by the forces of evil. Here, it’s Ceci who really is being victimized by Irene Wheeler, okay? Even if nobody but me seems to give a damn about it. Except Jonathan Hubbell. And Jonathan was murdered, maybe because just like Sherlock Holmes, he was trying to protect his great-aunt. Maybe. And the particular con game is also very Holmesian. Halfway through the stories, what happens to Holmes? He plunges to his death at the Reichenbach Fall. Supposedly. Except, of course, that Holmes was resurrected. Really, Conan Doyle made the mistake of killing him off, but the public just wouldn’t tolerate losing him, so Conan Doyle had to bring him back. And resurrection is Irene Wheeler’s con game: bringing Ceci’s dog back from the