The Barker Street Regulars

he’d rest his chin on it, savor its scent, and nibble now and then like a puppy with a full stomach who still enjoys being close to Mama. And that’s how he settled himself now with the dinosaur until Kimi opened her eyes, rose, stretched, strolled over to him, snatched his toy, and casually returned with it to her original spot.
    “Why does he let her get away with that?” Kevin demanded.
    “She’s no threat to him. It’s a game she plays. He indulges her. I assume that in some way, he thinks that this is the price he pays for having her around.” I paused. “In other words, they both know what’s going on, everything is voluntary, and no one is being taken advantage of.”
    Wearing what I’ll admit was a hangdog expression, Rowdy patiently eyed Kimi, who clasped the dinosaur between her forepaws and eyed him back. “You are a good boy,” I told Rowdy. “You want another toy? I’ll get you one.”
    When I returned a few seconds later with a second toy dinosaur identical to the first, Kevin asked, “This old lady, she mentally competent?”
    “Ceci? Here, Rowdy, here’s your toy. You are a very good dog.” Peace between malamutes is not something I take for granted.
    “She know who she is, where she is?” Kevin was still pursuing the subject of Ceci. “What day it is? Whose money she’s spending? On what?”
    “Yes, absolutely, except that what she’s spending it on is—”
    “Her own business,” Kevin said. “She got any complaints?”
    “No, she’s overjoyed. There isn’t a more satisfied consumer in the entire Commonwealth of Massachusetts. She’s totally delighted. And, Kevin, I understand that there’s nothing illegal about psychics. I don’t think there should be. I think that most psychics genuinely believe in their own powers and probably do a lot of good. But this business with Ceci isn’t about psychics in general, it’s about Irene Wheeler. And Irene Wheeler is a fraud. She isn’t just conveying spiritual messages that she might honestly believe were coming from the dog. What she’s done is to convince Ceci that the dog is appearing in the flesh, and if you ask me, that’s fraud. Furthermore, she is preying on loneliness and grief and love. And that is evil.”
    Slowly moving his big head back and forth, Kevin said, “If I gotta go and arrest everyone who’s out there promising resurrection, I’m—”
    “Be serious! Kevin, there is no comparison. Irene Wheeler has been deliberately staging the so-called materialization of Ceci’s dog in an effort to get more and more money from her. There is nothing religious about it. The whole enterprise is a travesty. If anything, it’s heresy.”
    “Lady left the gate open. A dog came in and peed.”
    “And, minor point, a man was murdered, a man who was trying to defend his elderly great-aunt from a con artist. You know, Kevin, there’s a pattern here, as Rita would say. This is the same thing you did, or refused to do, about the evidence I carefully preserved when I rescued the cat. I kept the pillowcase and the twine and the stone for you to send to the police lab, I showed those things to you, and for all you’ve done, I might as well have thrown them in the river. I do not understand why you are taking such an obstructionist attitude lately.” Huffing himself up, Kevin said, “Hey, obstructionist? Me? Is the lady being conned? Damned straight she is. But let me give you a couple of facts. First of all, when what you’ve got is a case that’s got nothing to do with religion, you still got trouble. Phony charities. Get-rich-quick schemes. Romance. Geez, Holly, the lonely people out there. Half the world’s a charter member of the Eleanor Rigby Social Club. Pretty housekeeper convinces her elderly gent he’s Cary Grant, marries him, he knows it’s for love, and what’s his family do? Drag it into court? Yeah, some of the time. She says she loves him, he says she loves him, family looks like a pack of piranhas. End of story. Or a smooth talker convinces an old lady to sign over her estate to build a palace for homeless pussycats.”
    “Where?” I asked.
    Kevin ignored my interruption. “Old-timer fancies himself a whiz at crossword puzzles, only these days he’s a couple of blanks short of an answer. Opens his mail. Special invitation to enter a crossword contest. All’s he has to do to enter is complete this puzzle and, by the way, send a check. Five dollars. Ten dollars. One across: three letters,