“How do you know that?” I asked.

“Let me guess,” the dog said, not bothering to wait for Inspector Strange’s response. “Over the secretary’s body was written the German word for ‘revenge,’ RACHE. Despite what I’d told you when we’d seen that written over the first body, you continued to believe that it was an incomplete writing of a woman’s name. But when you saw it a second time, even you couldn’t convince yourself that the writer had once again been interrupted at precisely the same moment. And so, despite your reluctance to admit it, you were forced to see that I was right all along.” He paused. “Am I right?”

“Sad to say,” Inspector Strange said, “that pretty much sums it up.”

“Oh, the poor secretary,” I said.

“Why the poor secretary?” Inspector Strange asked.

“It’s the way he died,” I said. “I should think it would be bad enough, spending your life working in service to another being.” I paused, looking at Mr. Javier and thinking about what I’d just said. I shook the thought off—it was one for another time. “But then, on top of that, to be murdered just like your employer, as though paying for what he did—”

“Oh,” Inspector Strange cut me off, “I’d say the secretary had enough of his own sins to pay for.”

“And what does that mean?” I demanded.

Instead of answering, Inspector Strange sniffed the air. “Do I smell Chinese food?”

“Yes,” I said. “We were just sitting down to eat when you came to call.”

“I am a bit hungry,” he hinted.

Having had my meal interrupted by news of a second murder, I realized I was still hungry myself.

“Would you like some?” I offered, leading the way toward the dining area. “We have wonton soup, spareribs, egg rolls, shrimp with—”

But as I saw when we stepped over the threshold into the dining room, we didn’t have any of those things anymore. All we had were a pile of empty takeout containers and one very full-looking public detective.

“Inspector!” I said, appalled. “You ate all the food? Yourself?”

“I’m sorry,” Inspector No One Very Important said with a burp, looking ashamed at his own behavior. “I couldn’t help myself.”

“Oh, Inspector.” I shook my head. Now what were we going to do? “Mr. Javier!” I bellowed.

“Yes, Boss?”

I jumped back a step. The way he could now just suddenly appear in a room did take some getting used to.

“I’ll need you to get us some more food,” I said, “since some of us can’t seem to control ourselves.”

“The takeout, Boss?” Mr. Javier was eager. “Can we do the takeout again, please?”

“Yes, fine, whatever you want,” I said brusquely. “Just not Chinese again. That didn’t work out so well the first time.”

“Right away, Boss.”

And he was gone.

To his credit, the crash was a little quieter this time.

“Now where were we?” I asked as we four took seats at the dining room table, still covered with empty takeout containers.

“Inspector Strange was about to explain to us what he meant when he said the secretary had his own sins to pay for,” the dog provided.

“Yes,” Inspector Strange said. “Funny thing. Outside of the dead body and the message on the wall, there was hardly anything else in the room. In fact, the only things the secretary had on him were a book and a pipe—smoking is a filthy habit—and a box with pills in it.”

“Pills?” Bones said.

“Huh,” Inspector Strange said. “I’d have guessed you would be more curious about the book.”

“Why would I be curious about the book?”

“Because it might be an important clue? Don’t you even want to know the title?”

The dog snorted. “The only thing the presence of the book indicates is that the secretary hated waiting in line, and always brought a book with him whenever he went anywhere in order to keep his mind occupied. Which is exactly what I do. It’s a habit I highly recommend. Of course, now that I have Mr. Javier, I shouldn’t think I’d need to worry about doing my own shopping anymore.”

“You don’t have Mr. Ja—” I began to object.

But the dog cut me off. “No, the book doesn’t signify anything more than that the secretary had an active mind. Of the three items mentioned, the only one that does potentially signify anything are those pills. Now, what did you do with them? Bring them to the lab? Have them analyzed?”

“No.” Inspector Strange produced a pillbox. “I have them right here.”

“You have them right … Are you insane?”

“Why is it that, at least once every case, you ask me that question?”

“Because I suspect it might be true?” The dog shook his head. “I can’t believe you are just strolling around the city with what is undoubtedly the best clue we’ve uncovered yet.”

“We’ve—” Inspector Strange began to object.

But the dog cut him off with a snap of the paw. “Hand that over, please.”

Inspector Strange obeyed.

Bones opened the lid on the pillbox, studied the contents inside.

“Unless I’m wrong,” he said, “and that’s highly unlikely, one or more of these pills contain poison.”

“How can you be sure?” I asked.

“That’s the thing,” the dog said. “Without further testing, it’s impossible to know for certain.”

He shifted his attention from the pillbox to everyone sitting around him at the table, considering each of us in turn.

“So,” he said finally with a grin so wide he could have swallowed a small cat, “who wants to volunteer?”