Scammed by Ron Chudley

studio.”
    Lucy looked astonished. “Really?”
    â€œAt the time I didn’t know what she meant. But now I can answer. My dad was a difficult guy, but it seems in some ways you knew him better—and certainly stood up to him more—than any of us. So, as far as I’m concerned, you should feel free to come and go, use the studio, or whatever, all you want.”
    â€œYou’re very kind.”
    Greg smiled, feeling—considering his still-simmering anger—absurdly gallant. “It’s my pleasure. Now I must be getting along.”
    As he turned away, she stopped him with a gentle touch. “Are you going to be all right?”
    â€œI’ve no idea. I’ll know better when I’ve decided what I’m going to do about all this.”
    â€œWhat can you do?”
    Greg shrugged. “Don’t know that either. But you can be very sure— something.”

EIGHT
    C owichan, which in the Coast Salish tongue means “warm land,” is the name borne by a number of geographic features on the south end of Vancouver Island. The Cowichan Valley is a fertile depression bounded in the west by the spine of the island and on the east by the ocean. Cowichan Lake is an extensive body of water sitting at the upper end of the valley. This, in turn, is drained by a river of the same name, which winds eastward for forty kilometres until, after skirting the city of Duncan, it empties into the sea at Cowichan Bay. In winter, this waterway can be a swift torrent, barely tamed by control gates at the lake end, saved from flooding only by the high, wooded banks that confine most of its length. For the rest of year, the flow is more benign—host to fishermen, swimmers and tuberiders galore—but even then, it is never less than lively, demanding care and respect.
    Upon rising on the morning after he talked to Lucy, Greg’s first action was to make coffee and walk down to the river. No longer did he try to avoid the place where his mother had launched herself into the hereafter; indeed, he went there purposely. Though his face showed no emotion, his mind hummed with a continuous background harmonic of anger, as strong and as cold as the waters flowing by.
    Deliberately, he gazed at the spot where the sad pile of his mother’s clothes had lain, letting the memory act as a spur to the resolve that was hardening within. What action this would produce he did not know, but the stimulus was necessary. All his life had been spent gently, in mild pursuits, top priority going always to the avoidance of conflict. This had brought comfort and security, but also isolation and loneliness, alienation from the people who had given him being. “You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.” The sentiment from the old song had an uncomfortably appropriate resonance right now. His family—all but his semi-stranger sister—was certainly gone, dispatched in little more than the blink of an eye. That he was not to blame didn’t matter. That nothing would ever change what had happened was not the point. If life was not to be completely meaningless, eventually he had to make some kind of response.
    With that understanding firmly in mind, Greg returned to the house, showered, made breakfast, then set about the obvious things that needed doing. He’d already decided to take some time off work; since he had vacation time accumulated and May was slack, this wouldn’t be a problem. But because it was Sunday, he couldn’t tell his employers till tomorrow. The rest of the day he spent tidying and sorting and exploring the “office.” Though it had once been his bedroom, he wasn’t sleeping there, using his sister’s room instead.
    As executor, it was his legal duty to sort out his parents’ affairs, no small task, but one for which training and temperament made him well qualified. The rolltop desk where he’d discovered the will