“Perhaps she said too much about me; if it bored them, they could decide not to like the boring topic.” She said it lightly, but it worried her. Were Cecelia’s relatives really that silly?
Several days later, Ronnie called again. “I found out what was upsetting them,” he said. “And you need to know.”
“What?”
“Aunt Cecelia left you the yacht in her will.”
“She what? She couldn’t have.”
“I thought you didn’t know,” he said, sounding smug. “They think you did. It was one of the first things she did when she got here, apparently. Went to her attorney and had her will changed.”
“But she shouldn’t have—there’s no reason—”
“Well, her attorney argued about it, but she insisted; you know her. And when the doctors said the stroke might have been caused by a drug of some kind, the attorney thought of you, because you would benefit.”
“But she’s not dead.” That popped out; the rest of her mind snagged on “might have been caused by a drug” and hung there, unable to think further.
“She could have died. Besides, you know the law—if she’s not competent in law for long enough—I forget how long it is—they open her will and distribute her assets under court guardianship.”
“You mean someone can inherit before she’s dead?” Heris found she could deal with the lesser curiosity while the greater dread sank deeper into her mind. She had never heard of such a possibility.
“Yes, but with some controls, so if she’s suddenly competent again she can regain control.” From Ronnie’s tone, this was something most people knew about. Most people as rich as his family, at least.
“But—I’m not the sole beneficiary, am I?”
“No, but you’re the only one outside family or long-term business associates. She left her forty-seven percent interest in her breeding and training stables to the woman who’s owned the other fifty-three percent for the past twenty years, for instance. But that’s been expected. The yacht wasn’t. And for some reason Mother’s really annoyed about it. I think she’s still upset with Aunt Cecelia for not liking the decorator she chose. Besides, we don’t have a yacht, and Mother’s always wanted one.”
“You don’t?” Keep him talking. Maybe then she could process that dire possibility, figure out what to do.
“No . . . my father always said it made more sense to travel on commercial liners, and if you really needed off-schedule travel you could always charter. We’ve done that. Of course we have shuttles.” To Heris, private deep-space ships made more sense than shuttles, and she said so. Ronnie explained. “If you have your own shuttle, you’re never stuck onplanet. And no one knows for sure if you’re traveling yourself, which they would in a public shuttle. Aunt Cecelia didn’t agree; she’d take the public shuttles as often as not, even if my father offered her the use of ours. Now Bunny’s family keeps shuttles on several worlds and a yacht. That’s the most convenient, but my father says it’s far too expensive.” Heris gathered her scattered wits and came up with one idea.
“Ronnie, is his daughter—Brun—back here now? Or could you find out?”
“Brun? Oh, Bubbles’s new name. Yes, she’s here . . . why?”
“Does her father know about Lady Cecelia?”
“Yes, and Bubbles—Brun—says he’s upset. Of course he would be; they’ve been friends all their lives.”
“Ask her to call me, will you? I’d like to see her, if possible.”
“Of course, but why?”
Heris herself wasn’t sure, but something glimmered at the back of her mind, something that might help Cecelia. “We had a long talk before we left Sirialis. I’d just like to chat with her.”
“Oh.” She could tell from his expression that he thought this was a silly side issue, that she should stick to the problem of Cecelia’s coma and the irate family. “Well . . . I’ll tell her. Do you want her to come up there?”
“If possible.”
Heris wanted to suggest that Brun take some precautions, but she was afraid Ronnie would waste time asking why. And after all, the girl wanted to be an adventurer—give her a chance to show any native talent.
Brun called on an open line, direct to the desk at Heris’s hostel. She sounded just like the petulant girl Heris had first met. “Captain Serrano!” Her upper-class accent speared through the conversation in the lounge. Heris sensed others listening to the overspill from the speaker. So much for talent. Brun went on. “Have you seen my blue jewel case?”
“I beg your pardon.” It was all Heris could think of, a reflex that meant nothing but bought a few seconds.
“This is Bubbles, Bunny’s daughter,” the voice went on. “When we were on Lady Cecelia’s yacht, I had my blue jewel case and now I can’t find it. It’s not at Sirialis, and it’s not here—it must be on the yacht. Would you please look in the stateroom I was using, and send it to me?”
For a moment Heris wondered if Brun had gone mad. Or if she’d given up the change of name and gone back to being a fluffhead. How could she be worrying about a jewel case with Cecelia in the hospital, in a coma? She could hear the annoyance in her own voice when she answered. “I’m sorry—Lady Cecelia’s yacht is empty—everything was removed to storage because the yacht was to be redecorated, but now—”
“But I need it!” Brun’s voice whined. “I always wear that necklace at the family reunion, and it’s next week, and if I don’t wear it, Mother will want to know why, and—”
“I’m sorry,” Heris said. A glimmer of understanding broke through her irritation . . . if Brun was really that devious, she might indeed have talent. “You’d have to get into the storage facility, and I don’t know . . .” She let her voice trail away.
“I’ll come up there,” Brun said, suddenly decisive. “They’ll have to let me in—you can introduce me; it’s not like I’m a criminal or anything. I just want my own blue jewel case, and I know just where I must have left it, in the second drawer from the bottom in that bedside chest . . .”
“But I’m not sure,” Heris said, shaking her head for the benefit of the listeners in the hostel lounge. “I don’t think they’ll let anyone but Lady Cecelia’s agent—”
“But you are her agent,” Brun said. “You can do it—I know you can. I’ll be up there in—let’s see—late tonight. I’ll call.” She broke the connection. Heris looked around and sighed dramatically.
“The rich are different from you and me,” said the clerk, with sympathy. Heris shrugged.
“They think they are. Can you believe? She thinks she left something aboard Lady Cecelia’s yacht months ago, and expected me to retrieve it. Of course everything’s in sealed storage. Of course they aren’t going to let her into it.”
“Who is she?” the man asked.
“Lord Thornbuckle’s youngest daughter. They call her Bubbles.”
“Ah—I’ve heard of her. They will let her in, bet you they do. Likely her father owns the company that owns the company that owns them. Might as well cooperate with that kind.”
In person, Brun had indeed reverted to the fluffhead Bubbles. Her blonde hair, brushed into a wild aureole, had been tinted pink at the ends. She wore an outfit of pink and lime green which Heris assumed was an extreme of fashion; bright clattering bracelets covered both arms to the elbow.
“Captain Serrano!” Her greeting almost went too far; Heris recognized the tension around the eyes that didn’t fit the wide smile. “I’m simply devastated . . . I have to have that necklace.”
“Nice to see you again, miss.” Heris couldn’t bring herself to call the girl Bubbles, but “Brun” would break the fluffhead cover. “I’ve checked with the storage company; they will meet with you Mainshift tomorrow. Perhaps you could give me a few more details? They thought the chests in that stateroom had all been empty.”