Dearly Departed by Hy Conrad Page B

preferably in someone else’s stories?
    â€œDid she have any relations?” Maury asked. They were sitting side by side at the end of the bar, with Barbara Corns just around the bend of polished mahogany, nursing a club soda. It took Peter several seconds to realize the question had been directed his way. “As far as you know from her will? No family?”
    â€œUm, no,” Peter said, pushing through the mental haze of brandy enough to recall.
    â€œShe was an only child,” Barbara interjected, filling in the blanks. “No husband. No kids. Evan did some legal work for her.”
    Maury nodded. “So, what’s happening with all her stuff?”
    â€œYou mean her inheritance?” said Peter. It seemed a rude thing to ask about your maid, even if the woman did die with millions. “We’re going to be reading her will in Hawaii. That’s what she wanted.”
    â€œNo, I mean her stuff.” Maury motioned the bartender to pour Peter another brandy. “Photos and scrapbooks and papers. Personal stuff.”
    â€œWhy? Is there anything you want?”
    â€œNo, no,” Maury said quickly. “There’s just some things Laila and I gave her over the years. Not the stuff from Laila’s mother, trust me,” he laughed, then paused as the bartender slid another brandy smoothly across the bar top.
    â€œI probably shouldn’t say this,” Peter said, but he was saying it, anyway. “Most of the presents we all gave her, for holidays and birthdays . . . she never opened them.”
    â€œYou’re kidding.” Maury looked disappointed. “Really?”
    â€œThey’re all crammed into a big closet, some of them still in the wrapping paper. I opened the closet one day by accident. I couldn’t believe it. Who doesn’t open a present?”
    â€œI guess they weren’t important to her,” Maury said.
    â€œIt was the thought that counted,” said Barbara. “I know that’s a cliché, but I know MacGregor loved the fact that we gave her things. She did.”
    â€œI know,” said Peter. “But still . . . when you search all over town to find her the right perfume at a good price, and then she never even opens it . . .”
    â€œIt makes you think about things,” mused Maury.
    â€œLike perfume?” asked Barbara.
    â€œNot that,” Maury said meditatively. “The personal stuff. All the things that make up a person’s whole life—papers and letters and files and photos . . .”
    â€œI imagine the estate will hire someone to sell it,” said Peter. “I was the executor when my aunt died,” he went on, dredging up the details in his foggy mind. “A houseful of junk. But the funeral home knew someone. The furniture was sold at an estate sale. And the personal stuff was just thrown out. If you’re worried about a stranger reading something personal, diaries or letters . . . I don’t think that will happen. People do this for a living.”
    â€œIt all gets thrown out,” Maury mused with a crooked grin. “That makes sense.” When he glanced up at the mirror behind the bar, he was surprised to see Amy standing right behind him. She had an odd, almost stricken look. “Amy, is something wrong?” He turned to face her directly. “Your call home?” He pointed to the cell phone dangling from her hand. “Everyone good?”
    â€œEveryone’s great. You were asking about something that your wife gave to MacGregor? Was this like a letter, an envelope, something you want back?”
    â€œSomething Laila wrote? No, no. It was just a general question.”
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    Later, after finally stumbling back to her room at the Crillon, Amy did not spend the night snugly asleep, but tossing and turning on her six-hundred-thread-count sheets. She tried not to obsess about her suspicions. Think about something else , she ordered herself as she