Evil Breeding

wasn’t she? Also, wasn’t she his sister? Anyway, the big painting was lush and, despite the rape theme, joyful. It actually got to Steve, who studied it for a few minutes and then suggested that I might want to gain a pound or two.
    Since we found ourselves on the third floor, we wandered around, leaned over the open gallery to get a high view of the courtyard, then meandered into the room that contains the best-known portrait of Isabella Stewart Gardner. According to my guidebook, it was painted by John Singer Sargent in 1888, when Mr. Gardner was still alive. Although his wife was forty-seven at the time, the painting made her look about twenty years younger, and her husband apparently didn’t like the halo around her head, the plunging neckline, or the loving portrayal of her alluring body, so he decided that the painting shouldn’t be exhibited in public.
    Maybe Mr. Gardner was right. On his knees before the John Singer Sargent portrait was the art student from the café. His head was tilted upward. His face wore an expression of unabashed adoration. He was kneeling not to examine the brushwork or the technique. He wasn’t worshiping John Singer Sargent. No, he knelt in worshipful prayer before, perhaps even to, Saint Isabella Stewart Gardner.
     

Chapter Four
     
    I FOLLOWED THE NORMAL morning routine of a hardworking freelance writer by drinking coffee and reading the paper. Among the death notices was the name MOTHERWAY—Christina (Heinck), beloved wife of B. Robert, as the paper called her. She had died at home after a long illness. Funeral services and interment would take place at Mount Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge. Christina Motherway’s death came as no surprise; Mr. Motherway had made it clear that his wife was dying. He’d been determined to keep her out of an institution. His desire had been granted; she had died at home.
    MountAuburn Cemetery was no surprise, either. It’s so beautiful and so upper-crust that it almost seems a shame its permanent inhabitants are in no position to enjoy the verdant gentility of their surroundings, not to mention what would undoubtedly be the stimulating company of such famous and diverse neighbors as Mary Baker Eddy, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, B. F. Skinner, Winslow Homer, and Isabella Stewart Gardner. It is also the final resting place of Rowdy’s previous owner, Dr. Frank Stanton, whose grave I visit occasionally to deliver updates on Rowdy’s accomplishments. When I take Rowdy to visit his former owner, I have to sneak him in, because Mount Auburn prohibits dogs. Live dogs, that is. Remains, too, I believe. Art, however, has achieved a symbolic triumph over the ban by populating the garden cemetery with splendid representations in stone of mastiffs, sheepdogs, and other noble canines, as illustrated in photographs and described in words by yours truly in a Dog’s Life article people still compliment me on. Mount Auburn also forbids bicycling, skating, and picnicking, but actively encourages what Rita informs me is properly termed “birding” rather than “bird watching.” To my initial astonishment— Rita is anything but outdoorsy—she had recently enrolled in an introductory course on the subject. My amazement faded when I discovered, first, that she was going on guided walks at Mount Auburn rather than plunging through wilderness and, second, that she found it impossible to do so much as glance at a house sparrow, never mind identify one, unless she was attired in one of a variety of fashionable new earth-toned outfits chosen, I suspected, more to attract the human male members of her birding group than to fool the avian population of Mount Auburn into mistaking a psychotherapist for a tree, a shrub, or some other natural entity.
    So Christina Motherway had been close to death, and the move from the Motherways’ aristocratic colonial house to the equally elite grounds of Mount Auburn was about as minimal a discontinuity as such transitions ever are. The surprise was this: According to the death notice, Christina Heinck Motherway, beloved wife of B. Robert, was also survived by her devoted son and daughter-in-law, Peter B. and Jocelyn Motherway, and a grandson, Christopher Motherway. The sullen kennel help? Peter. The silent maid? Jocelyn. Maybe I should have guessed. After all, Mr. Motherway hadn’t said of Jocelyn, as employers do of maids, that she was just like one of the family.
    Christina Motherway’s funeral was scheduled for