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treasures of Fenway Court. The covert message was, I guess, that I should read about museums instead of dragging him to them, but I wasstill grateful. I insisted that before we left, we had to go up to the third floor to see the museum’s most famous painting, Titian’s
Europa.
For some mysterious reason, the robbers had left it. Maybe it was too big for them. The canvas alone must be at least five feet by six feet. Or maybe no one had ordered it: One of the many hypotheses about the heist was that the robbers had arrived with a shopping list dictated by a nefarious mastermind who arranged to have particular works stolen on commission for wealthy collectors.
    “If so,” I said to Steve as we stood before the grand canvas, “you’d think that this would’ve topped the list.”
    What it shows is a plump nude woman riding a bull through the sea. The full title is
The Rape of Europa.
As my brand-new book informed me, Zeus, the father of the gods, stumbled across the beautiful Europa while she was strolling by the sea. To seduce her, he transformed himself into a gorgeous, tame white bull, and in that guise, lured her onto his back and then took off with her to Crete. Archaic date rape. As I recalled, Zeus was always running around with young women. You could hardly blame him, really. His wife, Hera, was a shrew, 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 thecafé. 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—C HRISTINA (H EINCK ), 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.
    Mount Auburn 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 asymbolic triumph