The Barker Street Regulars

her wheelchair.
    Ignoring Rowdy’s implicit comment on the situation, I battled on. “My relationship with this man is that two days ago, on Wednesday evening, when I spotted him on upper Mass. Ave., he recognized me. And the second he did, he bolted. He knocked some innocent person to the sidewalk, and then he threw the shopping bags he was carrying at someone else who was chasing him. And he got away. My relationship with him is that I went back and looked at the shopping bags. They contained two dozen bottles of women’s hair coloring. Black hair dye. And that is a full account of the precise nature of my relationship with this fiend, whose name I do not even know!”
    Althea brought the dispute to an end. She spoke with tremendous dignity. At first, I thought she was addressing me. “My home,” she said in low, patrician tones, “now consists of half a shared room, a bed, a night-stand, a handful of books and objects, these few chairs for guests, and the wheelchair in which I spend my days. It is my home nonetheless.” She raised a long, big-boned arm in what looked like a gesture of blessing. Her arm descended. With her huge hand, she covered Rowdy’s paw. “Thank you,” she said to Rowdy. “Thank you for remembering.”
     

Chapter Twenty-six
     
    I F MY LATE MOTHER happened to tune into the episode while on a break from her labors as Head Trainer at the Celestial School of Dog Obedience, she must have felt proud of Rowdy. Robert, Hugh, and I, in contrast, would arrive at the pearly gates of my martinet mother’s obedience ring to find ourselves preregistered for an ultra-sub-novice class in the rudiments of civilized conduct. I could hear her. Truly, I could. You got into a shouting match? She, of course, was not shouting. She was whispering in tones of horrified incredulity. A scrap? With two elderly men? While making a therapy dog visit? To a ninety-year-old woman in a nursing home? Young lady! You may have been raised at a kennel, but your were not raised in one. Or am I mistaken about that? Do correct me if I am wrong, but...
    “Althea,” I said, “I am terribly sorry.” She looked so thoroughly the retired schoolmistress that I had visions of being required to stay for an hour’s detention at the Gateway.
    Before I could continue to grovel, Robert drowned out whatever apology Hugh was uttering by saying, “Unpardonable of all of us.”
    “You are forgiven,” said Althea, “provided that the three of you come to your senses, sit down, and reason this entire matter out. Holly, it is perfectly all right to sit on the bed.” To Hugh and Robert, who still flanked her, she said, “I do not require an armed guard. Please sitl” In response to the familiar word spoken in an authoritative tone, Rowdy squared himself. If Hugh, Robert, and I had been dogs, we, too, would have earned the reinforcement I gave him. “Good dog, Rowdy,” I said, popping him a treat from my pocket.
    “Bad people,” said Althea. “With good intentions. The road to hell is paved with efforts to protect elderly ladies from things that might upset them. As a consequence, a great many elderly ladies die of nothing more complicated than boredom. Now, I take it that this affair began with my sister.”
    “It began, really,” I said, “with the death of Ceci’s last dog, Simon. She couldn’t accept Simon’s death. She was lonely and vulnerable. She began to consult a psychic, a woman named Irene Wheeler. At first, the psychic channeled messages from Simon.”
    “Oh, dear God,” sighed Althea. “How much of Ellis’s money did this psychic get her hands on?”
    “At first, not much,” I replied. “Your sister went to Irene Wheeler’s office in Cambridge. She probably saw her once a week or so. Then Irene Wheeler started going to Ceci’s house in Newton. She built up to what I gather are daily or almost daily visits. My impression is that to keep her customer satisfied, she had to come up with something that went beyond simple messages from the dog. I think she started by cultivating the hope of closer contact with him.”
    Althea shook her head sadly. “My sister has always been such a tightwad.”
    “She got offered something she thought was worth paying for,” I countered. “And the psychic, Irene Wheeler, is...” I broke off. “She seems,” I reluctantly admitted, “to have genuine, uh, telepathic gifts.”
    “Piffle,” said Althea. “Holly, I must ask you to move your account along. Lunch