"Don't ask, Ben. Don't make me be the one to call it quits. I know the good we're doing. God, just this week . . . It would be so unfair to so many people if we quit, but God almighty, it's difficult and scary."
"You're not alone. From the very first time we did this, all the emotions were as mixed up as my grandmother's soup."
Betsy brushed her eyes. "It's like we try to do good and theses unintended side effects occur; the deputy sheriff in Alabama, that Youngblood jerk in California, plus the parents murdered just so the discovery of their child's abduction would be delayed. God, how many deaths are our responsibilities?"
"There's no way we could have known. We've saved scores of lives." I could hear Molly returning so Betsy offered no rebuttal. While I dared not say it for fear of being accused of insensitivity, I wondered if the death of Gladys Gillespie might enhance her credibility, reducing the number of those chasing the real Psychic Tipster.
While Molly looked troubled when she returned, Bumpus was just the opposite, hopping around like he'd just retrieved a ball and would win a reward.
"What's the matter?" Betsy asked.
"A man stopped to talk to us and tried to pat Bumpus. He growled and showed his teeth. He's never done that before. He's let other people pat him. I was afraid he'd bite the man and I'd get in big trouble. It scared the man."
Betsy gave Molly a hug. "Don't be too concerned. Maybe the man owns a dog himself and Bumpus smelled the scent on him."
"Or perhaps Bumpus was protecting you," I added, concerned. "You know about strangers I presume."
"Yes," she said, with a hint of do-you-think-I'm-stupid look on her face. "There were even other people on the street and all he did was stop. I wouldn't go anywhere with someone, or get in a car or stuff like that." She added, "Howie preaches that all the time."
A ringing telephone interrupted us. The call was from California and Howie was on the line, apparently distraught.
"Calm down, Howie," Betsy said. "It can't be that bad." My wife proceeded to say how sorry we were about his mother's death. However, she quickly learned that wasn't Howie's main concern. She motioned for me to pick up the extension which I did.
"This aunt I never met . . . or maybe I did but don't know it . . . she thinks I'm like practically a priest and she wants me to do all this stuff at the memorial service, for our side of the family! Ronnie doesn't know any of those people and he keeps saying I should step up to the plate, like it's the least I could do 'cause he already tolerates me like a bad case of hemorrhoids."