Dearly Departed by Hy Conrad

glanced down at the radioactive page. “I do envy her writing skill.”
    â€œYou think? It feels stilted to me.”
    â€œI meant handwriting. It’s very precise and tight.”
    Marcus nodded and continued to stare at the page. Then his brows drew closer together, and his forehead wrinkled. “I’m not sure this is Paisley MacGregor’s writing. Did Amy keep that envelope, the one Paisley left in the piano?”
    â€œAmy’s a mess, but she keeps everything,” Fanny assured him. “The way her system works . . .” She pulled open the top center drawer of the old wooden desk. “Stuff she thinks she’s going to use soon is put here . . . Hmm, it’s not here.” She closed that drawer and went for the top left. “Stuff she wants to throw out but can’t bring herself to . . . Not here either.”
    â€œI hate to be obvious, but wouldn’t she put it there?” Marcus pointed to the file cabinet.
    â€œNo. Then she would have to label and alphabetize, and I doubt she figured out how to categorize something like that.” Fanny went for the desk’s right bottom drawer. “Stuff she feels she has to keep but doesn’t want to think about . . . Ah, here it is.” And she pulled out the folded manila envelope. With silent fanfare, she handed it to Marcus.
    Marcus put the pieces of paper side by side. “You see?” he said almost immediately. “Different handwriting.” He held the two samples under the light of the gooseneck lamp. The sloppy, bold block letters of the envelope— Open only in case of my death —contrasted sharply with the neat block print of the letter.
    Fanny took one good look. “No, that’s impossible,” she said, which was her standard way of agreeing. “The letter was notarized by her lawyer.” Fanny indicated the signature and the seal in the bottom left corner. “In her own hand.”
    â€œWell, then the envelope was written by someone else,” said Marcus. “Who would give MacGregor an ‘if I die’ envelope?”
    It was the simplest of deductions. But the implications were much bigger. Fanny and Marcus stared at the writing on the letter, then at the envelope, then back again. “Oh, dear,” Fanny finally mumbled.
    â€œMust have been written by one of her people.” Marcus was recapping what had just gone through their minds. “One of the people who loved her and trusted her gave her this envelope and said, ‘If I die, under any circumstance, please open this and take it to the police . . .’”
    â€œYou’re exaggerating.”
    â€œAnd now MacGregor’s dead and the letter she was entrusted with is missing.”
    Fanny tried to laugh it off. “Are you saying one of her old employers is going to be killed now?”
    â€œYou’re right. I’m probably exaggerating.”
    When the landline in Amy’s office rang, they jumped. Fanny paused for three rings before answering. “Hello?”
    â€œWhat are you doing in my apartment?” Amy asked, the first words out of her mouth.
    â€œWhat are you doing calling your apartment?” Fanny countered.
    â€œBecause I thought you might be there.”
    â€œAnd you were right.” Fanny switched the phone over to speaker and cradled the handset. “Marcus and I were just sending you the will documents. You should be getting them any second.”
    â€œThanks. Wait a minute. What is Marcus doing there?”
    â€œWe’re having an affair. I got him on the rebound when you ran off with Peter.”
    â€œHey, Amy,” Marcus said, aiming his voice at the speaker. “Miss me?”
    â€œYes.” Amy drew out the word teasingly, well aware that Fanny was listening. “I do.”
    â€œGood,” said Marcus, also teasingly. “How was the first day of the wake?”
    â€œGoing great. The weather’s holding out.