Stud Rites

you don’t know the difference between a dog and a human! Sick!”
    With a dignified snort that damned Gladys as an unworthy opponent, Harriet marched off.
    ”We do know the difference,” I said quietly. ”It’s just—”
    Someone tapped my shoulder. ”Holly!” Leah said insistently.
    I snapped at her. ”What?”
    ”Holly, about Comet. Who exactly owned...?”
    ”Leah, not now. I’m busy. If you want to know the exact details, the expert is Harriet Lunt. She’s that grayhaired woman over there with her arm in a sling. She’s the one who was attacked last night.”
    Without a word, Leah vanished.
    ”We’re in the way,” I told Gladys Thacker, who docilely followed me as I stepped back and thus ended up in front of the rescue booth. In the space behind the table, Betty continued to guard the lamp from Detective Kariotis. The policeman’s face was damp with exhaustion.
    ”Betty,” I said, ”I want you to meet Gladys Thacker. Mrs. Thacker, Betty Burley. Mrs. Thacker has just had a run-in with Sherri Ann Printz. We have been having a discussion of the difference between dogs and human beings. Mrs. Thacker is James Hunnewell’s sister. She’s come here to, uh, accompany his body.”
    ”To bring him home,” Gladys amended. ”When they let me,” she added, glaring at Kariotis.
    ”Mrs. Thacker,” he said, ”we have explained to you that, given the circumstances—”
    ”Given that he was here with nothing but strangers,” she replied acidly, ”and given that his own sister’s here to take him home—”
    ”I assure you that when the formalities have been completed, the body...” His voice trailed off. Gladys was stolid. ”Family is family.”
    ”And?” I asked.
    ”The deceased,” Kariotis reported somewhat grudgingly, ”left clear instructions regarding his wishes in the event of his death. As I have informed you, ma’am, we are obliged to go by the document found in your brother’s possession. It clearly stated that in the event of his death, his lawyer in Charleston was to be contacted. Acting on those wishes, we contacted the lawyer, who made the deceased’s wishes plain. As I explained to you, they make no reference whatsoever to you and no provision for shipping the body to Missouri or anywhere else. You have no authority whatsoever to act in the matter.”
    ”Your brother’s your brother,” Gladys stubbornly insisted, ”your sister’s your sister, blood’s thicker than water, you can’t change that, and I come all this way to get him, and I’m not leaving him here!”
    Betty and I exchanged shrugs.
    ”Cremation?” Betty asked.
    Kariotis nodded. ”And the ashes sprinkled over one of these, uh, malamute shindigs.”
    ”Some people find the idea of cremation very repugnant.” Betty sounded sympathetic. ”It really all depends on your point of view.” She cleared her throat. ”Speaking of which, Mrs. Thacker, why don’t you step back here, behind the booth, and have a seat? Because you and I need to have a long talk about everything, including James, and the dog that you bought from Mrs. Printz, and her, uh, feelings on the subject.” With one hand resting protectively on the remains of Northpole’s Comet, Betty gestured invitingly to two folding metal chairs. When Gladys Thacker complied, Betty lifted the lamp, placed it on the floor, and seated herself in front of it. ”Now,” she said resting one elbow on a stack of handouts about the evils of puppy mills, ”the first thing to get out in the open here is that what we are experiencing, you and I, is a radical clash of cultures, if you will, and I, for one, see this situation as a golden opportunity to hear your point of view. But let’s start with your brother. You came here because you wanted to get his body, isn’t that right? To bury at home? With, uh, other members of the family?” Gladys Thacker nodded. ”With his own people.”
    ”Except that once you got here, you discovered that you have no authority in the matter, because... He didn’t leave you anything, did he? You must have felt very hurt, that your own brother went and...”
    ”It’s crazy,” Gladys said. ”Jim’s brain wasn’t right, you know. He’d go on and on about dogs. But it wasn’t him—it was his brain! It wasn’t getting oxygen. He hadn’t been right for a long time. You could tell. I’d call him, and he’d go on and on about dogs—not that I’ve got anything against dogs; I’ve got dogs myself—and at