The Barker Street Regulars (23 page)

Again, who was I? In real life I was the professional writer in the group. In unconscious imitation of Watson, I asked, “Are we intruding?”

“Of course not!” Althea assured me. “You and your colleague”—she smiled—“are more than welcome.”

Althea used words carefully. “Colleague?” I smiled. “Isn’t that Holmes’s word for Watson?”

“Indeed,” said Althea, accepting Rowdy’s paw.
“My friend and colleague,”
she informed Rowdy. Shifting her gaze from Rowdy to me, she said, “We could use your expertise. Would a puzzle interest you?”

“If it’s a question about the Sacred Writings,” I said, “I’ll have to pass. I’m not in your Red-headed League.”

Althea was delighted. “A dog puzzle,” she said. “A game.”

“I’ll try.”

“Gigantic paw prints,” Althea said, “which I am told that you observed for yourself. The evidence of the
sundial, so to speak: a tall dog, probably a large male dog. White hair and white hair only. Let us put that description together with a protective dog, at any rate, protective of the vehicle in which he rides. A dog that gives a deep, loud bark when strangers approach his territory.” To Hugh and Robert, she said, “Now, the two of you say not one word! What I’m after here is an expert opinion independent of the conclusions you have drawn from your data. Holly?”

“I can’t give you a definite answer,” I said. “But—”

“Holly, for heaven’s sake, stop hedging!” Althea ordered.

“Okay,” I conceded. “There are three likely breeds. One: komondor. Hungarian sheepdog. Guard dog. Big and white, with a corded coat.” In response to expressions of bafflement, I elaborated, “The hair forms long, uh, ringlets, I guess you’d say. So the dog looks as if his coat is made of hundreds of thin ropes. Second, kuvasz. Big white dog. Also developed in Hungary. Guard of the nobility. More popular than the komondor, but still pretty unusual. But I think it’s neither of those breeds. Among other things—”

“Holly!” Althea chastised.

“Okay! Great Pyrenees,” I said. “On raw probabilities, a giant white dog is more likely to be Great Pyrenees than a komondor or a kuvasz because there are more of them. There are about as many Pyrs as there are malamutes.”

“Forty-fourth,” Robert said.

“What?” I asked.

“We consulted the registration statistics of the American Kennel Club,” Robert explained. “The Great Pyrenees ranks forty-fourth in popularity, whereas the kuvasz is one hundred and fourth, and the komondor
one hundred and twenty-first. As you undoubtedly know.”

“The three coats are fairly distinctive,” I said. “You must have gotten samples at the show. The sample from a Great Pyrenees was the best match for the hair you found in Ceci’s yard. Right?”

The two men still flanked Althea. Rowdy had sunk to the floor and lay at her feet. Althea’s expression was gentle. Robert’s, however, was now inexplicably hostile or suspicious. Hugh, in contrast, seemed to be gloating. I felt mystified.

The task of challenging me fell to Hugh, who now held the sheaf of photographs. With no warning, he suddenly thrust one at me. “The time has come!” he announced melodramatically. “We know that this man, the owner of the presumed Great Pyrenees, is, as you admitted to us yesterday, a friend of yours.”

I tried to cut in. “My friend—”

Hugh went on as if I hadn’t spoken. “We know that this same man, the driver of a dark panel truck, regularly visits the psychic, Irene Wheeler. You, too, have called on her. We further know that
you,
while accusing others of efforts to dupe the innocent Mrs. Love, have gone out of your way to ingratiate yourself with her as well as …” He glanced briefly at Althea.

Robert took up the task. Pointing to the picture Hugh had thrust at me, he said severely, “We demand to know the precise nature of your relationship with this individual.”

The photograph had obviously been taken from the Holmesians’ aerie opposite Irene Wheeler’s house. It showed the dark panel truck. Opening the driver’s side door was the man with the bulbous forehead.

“My
relationship
with this man,” I growled, “is that he tried to drown my cat.”

Conflict is of immense interest to dogs. Rowdy, suddenly alert, rose to his feet and shook himself all over. I expected him to move neatly to my side. Instead, after conducting what looked like a swift survey, he planted himself next to Althea, raised a paw, and rested it on the arm of 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.”

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 pre-registered 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
sit!
”

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 will be served rather soon now.”

Institutional life, I’d noticed, had a peculiar way of turning people into dogs. Like Rowdy and Kimi, everyone at the Gateway lived for mealtimes. But I complied with Althea’s request by summarizing what I’d worked out. A week ago Monday, I said, Irene had staged the appearance of a spectral dog in Ceci’s yard. I emphasized that there had certainly been a real dog there, a white male of a giant breed.

“Ah hah!” Althea exclaimed. “‘The Copper Beeches’! But I am leaping to conclusions. Proceed.”

In “The Copper Beeches,” a young woman, Violet Hunter, is offered a position as a governess and consults the Master for advice about whether to take the job. What worries Violet Hunter is that to accept the offer, she will be required to cut her long, beautiful hair very short. She must also agree to wear any dress given to her by her prospective employers. She takes the position, cuts her hair, and wears the dresses. As it turns out, what her evil employers really want isn’t a governess, but an unwitting impostor to be used in ridding the household of a devoted and persistent suitor.

“A white dog,” I said. “A Great Pyrenees. At first, the color was all right, because after all, this was supposed to be a ghostly dog. But Lord Saint Simon was an entirely black Newfoundland. Eventually, he’d have to begin looking like himself. The black hair dye.”

“Elementary,” said Robert rather snottily.

Althea ignored him. “Chronology, please? Holly?”

“Simon first, uh, appeared on the Monday before Jonathan was murdered. Ceci was so utterly convinced that Simon had come back that she couldn’t keep the news to herself. She told me about it when I first met her. She just couldn’t contain herself. Anyway, on Tuesday, Jonathan happened to phone Ceci, and she blurted out the joyous news. I think she made him promise not to tell you.”

Althea nodded.

“I think,” I continued, “Jonathan realized she was being conned. And he decided to come to Boston and stop the whole business.”

“Jonathan was a rational soul. He must have been livid. He’d have had blessed little patience with Ceci’s blather about the reincarnation of a dog. Oh, my, no. No patience whatsoever. No more than I have.”

“Once he got here, on Saturday, he had his fears confirmed. He was anything but tactful with Irene Wheeler. The two of them met. Ceci told me so. As I work it out, Jonathan arrived on Saturday, heard what Ceci had to say, and went …” I caught myself. “Became very angry. But he didn’t shake Ceci’s faith in Irene Wheeler. So maybe Ceci insisted that he meet the psychic and judge for himself. Or maybe Jonathan insisted. In either case, Irene Wheeler would hardly have refused the request to meet Ceci’s grandnephew. Ceci must be one of her best clients. Irene is sharp. She must have, uh, intuited that this was a major threat. And she probably thought that she could pull it off. I’m almost surprised she didn’t.”

“Not everyone,” Althea said censoriously, “swallows poppycock. What on earth has this woman done to convince
you?
And don’t tell me she hasn’t! I always
used to tell my students, ‘I have eyes in the back of my head.’ Now, they’re virtually the only ones I have left, but their vision remains as unclouded as ever. I have no difficulty in seeing through this paranormal malarkey and no difficulty in seeing that a web of it has been spun over your eyes.”

Reluctantly, I said, “She told me things she couldn’t possibly have known except … Althea, she told me things that I would have sworn on Rowdy’s head that she couldn’t possibly have known.”

“Indeed,” said Althea.

I described my infatuation with the beautiful gray cat. “Irene Wheeler described that cat perfectly.” I gulped. Yes,
purr-fectly.
Sorry. Rita informs me that punning is a symptom of anxiety. “I’ve thought of every possible way she could have found out about that cat. I don’t really believe in mind reading, but … Althea, every other possibility is totally farfetched, practically impossible. And when you eliminate the impossible …”

“Half the residents of this facility,” Althea cut in, “were identically infatuated with that foolish cat.” Sweeping an arm toward her roommate’s empty bed and toward the television, she added, “Helen used to ooh and ahh whenever that commercial was on. She even managed to remember the cat from one moment to the next. Gray thing. With big yellow eyes.”

“Yes.”

“That commercial ran incessantly. Every animal lover who has turned on a television during the past year is smitten with that cat. This so-called psychic took a guess. You were an animal lover. Therefore, you, too, were enthralled with that cat. What was true of you was true of millions of people, especially people
like
you.
Did you happen to mention a cat to her before she produced this bit of mind reading?”

“Yes,” I admitted.

“Well, there. So much for
that
bit of mumbo jumbo.”

After a silent consultation with Robert, Hugh picked up the interrogation. “We are wondering,” he said, “what prompted you to bring up the subject of cats. It has been our observation …”

“That I am obsessed with dogs,” I finished. “You aren’t the first to notice. I asked Irene Wheeler about a cat because I rescued one.” Here, I gave a succinct account of saving Tracker. I described the man who had tried to drown her and the episode of the bottles of hair color. Robert and Hugh were bug-eyed. “So I showed Irene Wheeler a picture of the cat,” I continued, “a close-up shot, in profile. The damaged ear didn’t show, and neither did the double paws. And without being told, she knew that the cat was a female, and she knew about the ear and the paws and a lot else. I was bowled over. It seemed like a genuine miracle.”