The Wicked Flea

one pet. Anyway, my proximity to Harvard and my, shall we say, positive attitude toward dogs were central to Gabrielle’s dispersal plans for the late Professor Beamon. She had decided that we were going to avoid arrest under Chapter 114 of the General Laws of Massachusetts, Cemeteries and Burials, Miscellaneous Provisions, Section 43 M, Permanent Disposition of Dead Bodies or Remains, by disguising ourselves as dog walkers.
    “Disguising ourselves?” Gabrielle was offended. She sat at my kitchen table drinking a cup of strong coffee with tons of cream and sugar. In her lap was her bichon, Molly, who is spoiled rotten. Bichon is short for bichon frise, French for curly-haired lapdog, all-white, jaunty, cute, member of the American Kennel Club’s Non-sporting Group, an unfortunate term for certain nonhunting breeds that misleadingly connotes poor sportsmanship and a sort of joyless attitude never observed in the bichon frise. “We are dog walkers!” Gabrielle exclaimed. “We’ll just happen to walk our dogs into the Yard. What we do with Walter when we’re there is none of Harvard’s business. I won’t be bossed around by a lot of silly paperwork.”
    You can see why Buck fell in love with Gabrielle. For one thing, they met at a show, a dog show—when it comes to my father, ça va sans dire, as he would never say—and for another, she has that low, seductive voice. The American Medical Association would probably describe Gabrielle as too heavy, and her skin makes it obvious that she has never bothered to use sunblock. Her hair is a mixture of blond and white, possibly natural—she’s in her late fifties—and cut in a feathery style that flatters a face that needs no flattery. She has incredible bone structure and blue eyes that most people would compare with such prosaic objects as oceans, skies, and cornflowers. From Buck’s viewpoint, his bride’s eyes are Siberian husky blue.
    In declaring that she wouldn’t be bossed around by paperwork, Gabrielle was not just speaking figuratively. Spread out on my kitchen table were the printed web pages. “These have nothing to do with us,” she said dismissively. “Body after dissection! I ask you! I did not donate Walter’s body to science. And these people can’t even make up their minds what to call these laws. Annotated? General? But the point is, Holly, that they’re meant for grave robbers and shady morticians and sneaky murderers. They aren’t meant to apply to people like us. And these so-called creative scattering options are ridiculous. Turning Walter into a living coral reef? Or throwing him off a boat? Or rocketing him into outer space?”
    “If we avoided archeological sites and Native American burial sites and that kind of thing, we’d be allowed to use a state park in California,” I pointed out, tapping a finger on one of the pages.
    “Three thousand miles from home? Harvard Yard is right down the street.” Gabrielle picked at the sleeves of her long, loose white blouse, a cross between a smock and what I think is called a poet’s shirt. Molly’s eyes followed Gabrielle’s sun-spotted hands. Sighing, Gabrielle rose and put the little dog on the floor. With an involuntary, reflexive jerk, I looked around to make sure that Rowdy and Kimi hadn’t escaped from my bedroom. The AKC may classify the bichon as Nonsporting, but the Alaskan malamute disagrees: small furry things belong to the Fair Game Group. Although neither Rowdy nor Kimi has ever hurt or even threatened Molly, they still need careful watching when she’s around. As I always tell Rowdy and Kimi, the only reason I don’t trust them is that they’re not trustworthy. Molly wasn’t the only reason I’d incarcerated them. The other was a premonition that I’d capitulate to Gabrielle’s demands. On principle, malamutes don’t back down, and they don’t think highly of anyone who does. To the dogs, I’m supposed to be Holly Winter, She Who Must Be Obeyed, not Holly Winter, She Who Caves in to Her Stepmother.
    I said softly, “Okay, Gabrielle, I give up. We’ll scatter the ashes anywhere you want.”
    “Are you sure you’re well enough?” she asked.
    “There is nothing physically wrong with me,” I assured her for at least the hundredth time. “A few little neurological blips. I’m supposed to avoid another head injury.” Honest to doG, that was the medical advice I’d been given, as if I’d have intentionally gone around searching for new and yet more