To the Manor Dead by Sebastian Stuart

of the most amazing properties in the valley.”
    “But do you think he could possibly be connected to Daphne’s death? Helen Bearse said that some of the family were holding out from selling—what if it was Daphne?”
    George just looked at me.

I walked into the store to find Josie vacuuming. I looked around—mirrors sparkled, wood shone, tchotchkes had been dusted.
    “This place looks great,” I said.
    Josie turned off the vacuum and gave me a proud smile. “I sold something.”
    “No kidding? What was it?”
    “A poster, it said Keith Haring on the bottom.”
    “Did they ask for a discount?”
    “Yes, but I told them no, that he was a great artist and it was valuable.”
    “Good work.”
    “Who’s Keith Haring?”
    I gave Josie a quick tutorial on Haring. Then I called Claire Livingston’s cell phone.
    “Hi, Claire, it’s Janet Petrocelli.”
    “Hi.” Her tone wasn’t exactly warm.
    “How are you?”
    “Holding up.”
    I waited for her to volunteer some more information. Nope. She didn’t.
    “I was wondering if there was going to be a funeral?”
    “No. But some of Aunt Daphne’s old friends, from the local families, are having a small memorial. It’s at Franny Van Kirk’s chapel Friday at ten in the morning.”
    “Did you make any decisions about looking for another place to live?”
    “Listen, I have to run.”
    What was that about? She was probably embarrassed that she had opened up to me. I’d seen that happen. People would come in for their first session, or just for an interview as a potential client, and they’d pour their hearts out, reveal their deepest secrets and shame. And then I’d never see them again. Of course, Claire’s chilly tone could also be something else—like a message to mind my own business.
    But who was Franny Van Kirk? And why did she have a chapel? And most important, why was I letting myself get pulled into this mess? I wanted to study Chinese history, learn to kayak, cook Italian, read Madame Bovary . Not get sucked into something that had nothing to do with me.
    I looked over to where Daphne had sat that morning, remembered her wistful reminiscences, how fragile and frightened she had been. I didn’t have the energy to minister to the living anymore, but I could at least try and find justice for the dead.
    The phone rang.
    “Hey, babe, want to come out for dinner tonight?” Zack asked. “I’ve got some good stuff in the garden, I’ll make pasta primavera and a gorgeous salad.”
    I was ambivalent about my relationship with Zack, but then again I was ambivalent about all relationships. With good reason. Both my parents had been hippies—they met, naked and body-painted, at a Be-In in Tompkins Square Park. My father was a tin-pot genius, a self-proclaimed East Village artiste who was too busy drinking, drugging, declaiming, and screwing to ever start—much less finish—that great novel, painting, play. He acted in incomprehensible off-off-Broadway shows and drove a cab three nights a week to pay his share of the rent on whatever tenement he was currently crashing in. He died when I was ten, when he drove his cab into the East River at three a.m.—his blood toxicology report ran to three pages. I didn’t find out for a month.
    My mom was about as maternal as a pet rock—she took off to India when I was six and as far as I knew was still a nomad—and I spent most of my childhood farmed out to more conventional aunts and uncles on Long Island, who fought, drank, and hauled their tired asses to jobs they hated. It all left me with a pretty warped view of marriage and family. My first husband was nice, safe, sober, reliable, and had his own star on the Boring Humans Walk of Fame. He was a classic over-correction after a chaotic childhood. When that sad union died a slow death, I fell hard for the Asshole. He was charming, smart, sexy, funny, narcissistic, arrogant, intolerant, promiscuous, and basically viewed marriage (and the wife that