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wheat-colored paper, which contrasted nicely with the ocher-colored living-room walls. The pictures on them, mostly landscapes, looked like original oils and watercolors. The worn nut-brown leather Chesterfield sofa and club chair sat on a fair-sized Oriental rug. A bouquet of baby’s-breath, sunflowers, and daisies sat in a polished copper vase in front of the fireplace. The mantel, painted white, was covered with photos and ceramic candlesticks.
    â€œVery nice,” I said. The place dripped with good taste, the kind it takes a fair amount of money and knowledge to accomplish.
    Pat Humphrey nodded her head graciously. “Most of the furniture is my grandmother’s. This”—she indicated the lamp to the right of the sofa—“is a real Tiffany. The table under it is a signed Stickley.” Pat tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear.
    â€œWe’re talking what? Maybe fifty to sixty thousand dollars?” I posited, realizing I’d spoken out loud. “My mother was in the trade for a while,” I explained.
    â€œPeople say I should sell this stuff and invest the money, but having it here makes me feel closer to Gran.”
    I made a noncommittal sound. I had no reason to believe Humphrey was lying about where she’d gotten the stuff, but she didn’t strike me as the sentimental type, either.
    â€œI guess I’ve been fortunate,” Pat Humphrey added as she led me into the dining room and sat me down at the table in the center.
    Maybe. Or maybe she’d made her own luck. I positioned my backpack on the table, close to where she was sitting. “No pets?”
    Pat Humphrey spread her fingers out and studied her carefully manicured nails. “I find them a distraction. I need quiet.”
    She certainly had that. Aside from the whir of the overhead fan, the only other sound I could hear was the swish of the dishwasher running. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched a metallic green beetle march its way over the fringe of an old Herez and onto the floor. When it got to the leg of the sideboard, it stopped and waved its feelers around for a few minutes, wondering what to do.
    â€œHow did you get into this line of work?” I asked her as the beetle began its climb.
    â€œI’ve always had the ability. From the time I was a little girl. I’d get these flashes. My grandmother had them, too, so I guess you could say I inherited it. This is a way to use my ability for good.” Pat Humphrey clasped her hands together and cocked her head slightly to one side. “Tell me, how can I help you?”
    â€œI thought you’d know.”
    Pat Humphrey frowned a little. The gesture brought out the furrows between her eyes. “I have lots of other clients who need to see me. If you think this is a joke...”
    â€œNot at all,” I hastened to reassure her, after which I proceeded to give her the story I’d decided upon when I’d phoned. “I’m worried about my German shepherd, Duke. He’s not eating well. He looks different. Not right. I was hoping you could tell me what’s the matter.”
    â€œHave you taken him to a vet?”
    My respect for her went up a notch. “Of course.” I allowed my voice to grow indignant. “He’s had all sorts of blood work done. Nothing’s shown up.”
    â€œI see. When was he born?”
    â€œAugust of last year.”
    â€œSo that would make him a Leo,” Pat Humphrey mused aloud as I watched the beetle clamber over a carved wooden rose.
    â€œDoes it matter?”
    â€œOf course it does. Let’s get started, shall we?” And with that she closed her eyes.
    Her face grew slack; her breathing became shallow. The only discernible movement was the occasional flicker of an eyelid. It was a good act. I wondered how long she’d be able to keep it up. Probably for a while. It seemed as if she’d had plenty of practice. I checked my watch. Two