The Barker Street Regulars by Susan Conant Page A

she’d married him. Since then, her physical contact with other human beings must have been limited to Ceci’s sisterly embraces, the pokes and prods of doctors, the handshakes of friends and strangers, and, lately, the ministrations of the Gateway staff. Or so I imagined. Maybe she’d actually had torrid affairs with Hugh, Robert, and dozens of other Sherlockian men.
    Hugh accompanied Rowdy and me to the door of Althea’s room and followed us a few steps down the corridor, where he gestured to me to wait a moment. After clearing his throat, shuffling his feet, smoothing his mustache, and making what seemed to be an effort to compose himself, he whispered very loudly, “There’s more that no one said!”
    “Does anyone know who murdered him?” I asked. “Do you have any idea what happened?”
    “As yet, very little.” Hugh’s eyes sparkled. His plump middle moved in and out as he breathed. He licked his lips. “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 malamutes? 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 myconcern 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 reportedlyon 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