“Well,” Bones said, “technically, a crime hasn’t been committed yet. But one will be.”

“How do you know that?”

“Wasn’t it you who said there always is some crime or another being committed by humans? And then, I believe, you yawned.”

That did sound like me. “And just what sort of crime are you expecting?”

“If I had to guess?”

I nodded.

“A murder.”

Not exactly what I was expecting. If I had to guess, I’d have gone with some petty crime, like shoplifting something tasty for dinner or sneaking out of a restaurant without paying the bill first. But murder? That seemed a little farfetched.

“Murder?” I said, voicing my doubt out loud.

“Oh, yes,” he said as though it were nothing. “It’s what I’m most frequently consulted about.”

Before I could ask him what he meant, the doorbell rang.

“Isn’t the turtle going to get that?” he asked.

“The turtle’s name is Mr. Javier,” I said, annoyed. I may have referred to Mr. Javier as the turtle often, but I rather resented the dog doing so. As the bell continued to ring, I looked through to the living room where I saw the turtle passed out on the large Turkish area rug, the jetpack still on his back. “And no, I don’t think so. I believe Mr. Javier has exhausted himself.”

I picked up my fork again. “Anyway,” I said, “I wasn’t expecting anybody.”

“It’s probably for me,” the dog said, rising.

“For you? Why would my doorbell ringing be for you?”

“Because I left this as my forwarding address when I moved, didn’t I?” he said mildly, moving to the staircase.

“What?” I shouted, racing after him down the stairs. “You don’t even live here!”

“Well,” he said, his voice still mild, “I did tell you I was a detective, didn’t I?”

Of course he had. But I hadn’t believed him.

“I’m a consulting detective,” he said. “People come to me for my opinion when they’ve lost all hope. They’ve been coming to me ever since I solved my first case involving rampant chew-toy theft when I was just a puppy, followed soon after by a criminal case I solved involving humans; that time, the butler did not do it. Do you not read the newspapers?”

He paused, waiting for my response. What? Did he expect me to be impressed? Surely, he was making all this nonsense up, and so I merely stared back at him.

“Naturally, people need some address to come to for my consultation,” he continued when I failed to respond in the admiring way he no doubt would have liked me to. “I mean, it wouldn’t look very professional to just meet with clients on any street corner, would it?” He paused. “And the thing they come to consult with me most about?” He didn’t wait for my answer. “Murder.”

It occurred to me for the first time: the dog was delusional.

Before I could say as much, he flung open my front door.

On the stoop was a human.

It was your basic garden-variety model: a pair of legs attached to a body, a head slapped on top.

“Are you Sherlock Bones?” the human asked the dog.

“I am,” Bones said proudly.

“Telegram for you.” The human handed Bones a piece of paper. “There’s been a murder.”

Well, blow me down

.