The Barker Street Regulars (18 page)

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 corner 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 kept Vinnie’s picture in my purse. Equal to equal, I offered Irene Wheeler a photograph of the cat.

If one of us seemed vulnerable that day, it was Irene Wheeler. Greedy spring sunlight ate its way through the closed blinds of her office. Lines showed around her eyes, and the whites were shot with red. Her hair had a damaged look, as if she’d overused a curling iron. She wore the kind of cream-colored outfit that’s become popular in Cambridge since the allergy craze hit: a baggy top and loose skirt of what I guessed was organically grown unbleached cotton. Am I making this up? No. Seriously. There are people here who shop as if they’re expecting a famine that will force them to eat their clothes. The fabric looked as nutritious as bed sheets, and it drained the color from Irene Wheeler’s face. I wondered whether she might be recovering from a cold. Or maybe she’d recently awakened from an especially exhausting trance.

“I rescued it,” I said as I reached across her desk to hand her the picture of the cat. “I didn’t set out to get a cat, at least not this cat. If I had, I’d have gotten something big and tough that would stand a chance against the dogs.”

“Let us concentrate on this image of the ideal cat,” she suggested, closing her eyes. “The ideal cat is large.”

Wow! I’d just said so, hadn’t I?

“The color I see is gray,” she continued. “And amber! A strong amber! Yes,
amber eyes!
”

My whole body gave an involuntary twitch. I was glad Irene Wheeler still had her eyes shut. But I’m a truthful person, especially when I’m in shock. “Yes.”

She opened her eyes and studied me. “You are surprised,” she remarked lightly. As if taking it for granted that she’d read my mind, she turned in businesslike fashion to the photo of the real cat. “You are obviously disappointed,” she said.

I hedged. “Well, more or less. The problem is … Well, there are a couple of problems. One is that I never intended to keep this cat, but no one else will take it, so it has nowhere else to go.”

“It?” she asked.

“It doesn’t have a name.”

“I meant the sex,” Irene Wheeler said.

“It’s a—” I started to say.

“Female,” she said matter-of-factly. Focusing on the picture, she added, “I sense pain. Yes! An ear. I sense something wrong with one of her ears.”

This time, I couldn’t hide my astonishment. The cat’s bandage had been removed. In taking the portrait, I’d zoomed to get a profile shot of the side with the intact ear. Irene Wheeler’s eyes were on me. “She has a torn ear,” I said. “How did you know that?”

“It’s a gift. For example, this cat has double paws.” The photograph, I remind you, was a close-up of the cat’s face.

“Yes,” I stammered.

“But let us move to what matters. This animal needs far more attention than she is getting.”

The cat was still stuck in my office. Worse, I found myself doing most of my work at the kitchen table. I cleaned the cat’s litter box. I provided food, water, and veterinary care. Now and then, for maybe ten seconds, I tried to make friends. If the cat had been a dog, she’d have learned the rudiments of obedience by now. If she’d been a dog, of course, she’d have liked me. They all do. There’s nothing supernatural about the attraction. My pockets are always filled with dog treats. Also, I know how to talk to dogs, and I do it all the time. With the cat, I had made shamefully little effort.

“I have to protect her from the dogs,” I said.

“This animal is frightened,” Irene Wheeler told me. “What I feel from her is fear. Mistrust.”

“In the case of my dogs, it’s justified.”

“Let us discover,” said Irene Wheeler, “the dogs’ perceptions of the matter.” She reached a hand toward me.

I caught on. Digging into my purse, I found my wallet. Taking care to leave Vinnie’s picture where Irene Wheeler couldn’t see it, I pulled out a photo of Rowdy and Kimi that I’d once used on a Christmas card. In the background was a field of snow. The dogs wore red harnesses and were hitched to a dogsled. Irene Wheeler took the photo from me, studied it, and closed her eyes. I discovered myself annoyingly eager to hear what she’d say.

“They are naturally curious about the presence of the cat,” she said. “Their curiosity is heightened by your attitude of alarm. They find your response extremely interesting.”

“They probably do.”

“They are used to being taught what to do,” she
said. “They wonder why, in the presence of this new animal, they are given no guidance. They say that you ordinarily communicate your wishes. They wonder why you are not doing so now.”

“Because I don’t trust them, that’s why,” I said.

“They understand that.”

“And the reason I don’t trust them,” I said, “is that when it comes to cats, they are not trustworthy.”

“They are eager to learn,” said Irene Wheeler. “Their feelings are hurt. They would like you to make an effort.”

Thus I left Irene Wheeler’s with the most improbable piece of advice anyone could have offered me: the sensible suggestion that I, of all people, start training dogs.

I
ARRIVED HOME FROM
Irene Wheelers profoundly unnerved. I was, among other things, peculiarly angry about having gotten precisely what I’d paid for: the all-too-real sensation of encountering genuine psychic powers. Having made their acquaintance, I didn’t like them one bit. After greeting Rowdy and Kimi in an unusually perfunctory fashion, I pulled out my wallet, extracted the picture of the cat, held it up near the kitchen window, and examined it in the daylight. Did the cat look feminine in a way I’d missed? It didn’t have the jowly look of an adult torn, but to my eye, it could still have been male. The double paws were, of course, out of the picture. Furthermore, in the photo, the cat looked misleadingly relaxed. I’d said that I’d rescued the cat. My tone could have alluded to sinister circumstances; Irene Wheeler might have guessed about the cat’s fearfulness. And the ear? Nothing in the picture, nothing in my voice or my manner could possibly have suggested the torn ear. Unless … Could I have unconsciously raised a hand toward one of my own ears? As an experiment, I tried lifting my right
hand, then my left, in the sort of movement I might have made. The gesture felt unfamiliar. To the best of my knowledge, I wasn’t in the habit of talking with my hands. A lifetime of dog handling should have taught me to keep my body language to a minimum. My mother had always emphasized the importance of controlled handling. To this day, I’d hear her authoritative reminder to keep my elbows in. And if I’d become sloppy, an obedience instructor or a dog-training friend would have taken me to task. How on earth had Irene Wheeler guessed about the cat’s torn ear? Or the double paws? How had she known that the cat was female?

And how could she possibly have known about the gorgeous gray cat with the huge amber eyes? I’d told Steve about the TV commercial right here in my own house. I’d seen the ad months ago, and I’d immediately asked Steve about the gray cat’s breed. Even if Irene Wheeler employed spies to sneak around eavesdropping and ferreting out bits of obscure information about her clients, she’d hardly have sicced her agents on me long before she and I had ever heard of each other. She certainly didn’t collect random pieces of inside knowledge about the entire population of Greater Boston just to be prepared for the clients who showed up in her office. Had I mentioned my ideal TV cat to anyone other than Steve? I remembered telling Leah about the gray cat, but we’d been in the car on the way to a dog show; no one could possibly have overheard. I might have mentioned the cat somewhere in public where, by weird coincidence, Irene Wheeler had happened to be listening in. I couldn’t remember any likely occasion. I hadn’t run into her anywhere since our first consultation. Then, I’d had no sense of ever having seen her before. And neither Steve nor Leah had any reason to
go around talking about my infatuation with the beautiful gray cat. How had Irene Wheeler known?

From Ceci! Scrounging everywhere for a home for the damned little cat, I’d offered it to Ceci on the night Kimi had served as Hugh and Robert’s supposed tracking dog. Just before leaving Ceci’s, I’d stopped in at the house to thank her for her hospitality. In passing, I’d mentioned the cat. She hadn’t been interested. Had I said anything about the torn ear? I’d been trying to foist off the cat, hadn’t I? It would have been unlike me to stress its bad points. I must have described it as needy. I’d probably focused on what a wonderful home Ceci could provide for it. In my eagerness to place the cat in what really would have been a perfect situation, could I have gotten carried away to the extent of comparing it to the gorgeous gray cat in the television commercial? I didn’t think so. But I just might have told someone at the Gateway about the big, handsome TV cat. A few of the people Rowdy and I visited preferred cats to dogs. I’d definitely discussed cats with Helen Musgrave, Althea’s roommate. Althea could have been listening. There was a television mounted high on a wall in Helen and Althea’s room. I constructed a little scenario. The TV is on. Ceci is visiting Althea. The cat-food ad appears. Catching sight of the beautiful gray cat, Ceci exclaims and gushes in characteristic fashion. Althea remarks that Holly, too, is enamored of the commercial’s captivating feline star. Improbable? Yes, but less improbable than what I wanted to view as the outright impossible—mental telepathy.

I just had to know. I’d never talked to Ceci on the phone before. The musical tone of her voice had escaped me. She sounded happy to hear from me and asked about Rowdy and Kimi. She seemed in no rush to find out why I was calling.

I said, “I’ve had an odd experience.”

“Oh,” she said merrily, “you’ve been to Irene Wheeler!”

“Yes. I am really quite—”

“Unnerved!” She made the sensation sound marvelous. “I was myself.”

“What I’m wondering is …” I faltered. “Do you happen to have seen a cat-food commercial on TV? With a, uh, beautiful gray cat with big amber eyes.”

“I usually watch Channel Two. Or Forty-four.” Those are our local PBS stations. “I am positively
addicted
to ‘Wall Street Week in Review.’ If the truth be known, I have a mad crush on Louis Rukeyser! Oh, and the evening news, but most of the commercials are for, well, not at all what I care to contemplate anywhere near dinnertime and, really, not the sort of thing that has any place in a public forum, and, well, by comparison, cat food would be appetizing. So if the commercial was on, I might not have been watching, although a dog might have been another matter—that would certainly have caught my eye!—because, as you know, I am essentially a
dog
person—it’s a matter of the solar plexus—not that I have anything against cats, naturally, or anyone or anything else, for that matter, except this cold-blooded murderer whom Jonathan attempted to apprehend during the course of what would otherwise have been an armed robbery, and I find it very difficult to forgive myself for the unkind thoughts I had about poor Jonathan before I knew, although all is now forgiven, of course. And Jonathan is extremely sorry for the terrible things he said to Irene. Like most of the world, he simply did not understand.”