It made her wonder. It made her shudder.
As for her own lists, which were meant to keep everything in order, the last one had included: Dinner with Nikki. But it had not included Barrett Albion, a funeral urn, or a sniper rifle.
Adrienne gave her head a quick little shake, as if to clear her mind, and opened the organizer notebook in which she kept her many lists. One by one, she enumerated the things she had to do:
1. Fax release to Neumann.
2. Urn—Albion—Saturday.
3. Amalgamated docs—memo to Slough.
4. Visa: limit?
She thought for a moment. What else? There was something else. And then she remembered.
5. Will.
She hadn’t really looked at it. Just the one glance in Nikki’s apartment. Enough to tell her that she was the executor.
She looked at her watch, and saw that it was 9:15. She had a meeting that afternoon with Curtis Slough to discuss some “worrisome” documents in the Amalgamated case. And the truth was, she hadn’t even finished annotating the papers, much less writing a memo about the ones they should try to protect. She just hadn’t had—didn’t have—wouldn’t have—the time. And yet, she’d have to find it.
She really ought to take a day off, or even two, but how could she when she had this Amalgamated thing hanging over her head? It would take too long to bring anyone else up to speed. And it was the first substantive case she’d worked on for the firm. If she let them down in the middle of discovery… well, she might as well look for a job adjudicating parking tickets.
Do it by the numbers, she told herself. Just do what you have to do, one thing at a time. And so she did.
She filled out the release for the M.E.’s office, and faxed it to the officious Ms. Neumann. Cross that off. Then she dialed the number on the back of her Visa card and listened with gritted teeth to a long and irrelevant spiel on tape. Finally, she heard the option that she wanted, tapped the number eight, and learned that the cost of her sister’s cremation would not exceed the limit on her Visa card. In fact, she was surprised to learn that she had more than two thousand dollars in credit—the result of a recent upgrade to Platinum status.
So she crossed that off, too, and began to feel a little better.
Going into the bedroom, she pulled on some clothes, tugged a hairbrush through her hair, and did the sixty-second makeup (mascara—lipstick—a dab of foundation on her forehead). Then she grabbed her keys, gave Jack a pat, and rushed out the door.
Only to return an instant later for Nikki’s laptop. Because why not use it until the new one was delivered? She hated not having one. Even so… , she thought as she closed the door behind her, if she was going to take it to court, she’d do well to find a more subdued carrying case than the flaming pink Cordura number that Nikki had used.
When she got to her office, she found that Slough had left a message of his own, saying that he couldn’t do lunch after all—so how about tomorrow? That gave her an extra day to deal with the Amalgamated documents. And handle the will.
It was in the laptop’s carrying case and, as she took it out, a chord of sadness ran through her. The pathos of her sister’s death was impossible to ignore, emblazoned as it was by the banner-ad at the top of her last will and testament.
Wills were not something that she’d ever handled before. She would probably have to file it with the Clerk of Courts, close out her sister’s bank accounts, deal with the insurance (if there was any), and…
It occurred to her, suddenly and for the first time, that Nikki had not been broke. Her Eurotrash boyfriend (or, more accurately, his parents) had settled a sum of money on her. Half a million dollars. It must have been invested. Even in a money market account, it would have pulled in twenty-five thousand a year. So even with the apartment in Georgetown and the twice-a-week visits to her Cleveland Park shrink, it was hard to see how Nikki could have made too much of a dent in four years. It wasn’t like she ever went anywhere.
The realization that she might inherit that money, which she then could use to pay down her student loans, sent a frisson of excitement—and a feeling of shame—through her. She didn’t want Nikki’s money. That is, she did, but… She didn’t want her sister’s death to be like winning the lottery.
Her eyes drifted down the page:
SECOND: I direct that any and all costs of my interment or cremation should be borne by my estate;
THIRD: I bequeath the sum of $5,000 and my dog, Jack, to the actor and doorman, Ramon Gutierrez-Navarro, knowing that he will be as kind to the pooch as he has been to me;
Adrienne shook her head, wistfully. Ramon would be happy, both that Nikki and he had been on the same page about Jack and—who wouldn’t be?—about the money. She read on. Making a will was so unlike Nikki, and yet…
FOURTH: I bequeath to my beloved half sister, Adrienne Cope, any and all rainbows that may be found among my possessions, real or imagined;
FIFTH: I direct that the remainder of my estate should be divided, in equal portions, among my sister, Adrienne Cope; the Believe the Children Foundation; and my therapist, Dr. Jeffrey Duran, who helped me come to terms with the secrets of my childhood.
Adrienne blinked. “‘The secrets of my childhood,’“ she muttered. “What ‘secrets’?” And then, a moment later: “‘Come to terms’? She electrocuted herself!” The will dropped from her hand as Adrienne fell back in her chair, tears springing from her eyes.
A soft knock came at the door, and Bette leaned in. “Are you all right?” she asked. “I was just—”
“I have to go out,” Adrienne said, grabbing her handbag and jumping to her feet. “Cover for me.”
“But—”
“It’s an emergency,” she explained, and shot out the door.
Chapter 9
Henrik de Groot sat slumped in the chair and, at first glance, it might have seemed as if he and Duran were having a casual conversation. The consultation room was a comfortable one, with an array of magazines fanned out on the coffee table between them. A glass of ice-water and a glass of iced tea rested, untouched, on a pair of Sandstone coasters.
Duran regarded the coasters with a look of suspicion. Where had they come from? They had a gritty feel, and rasped when he set his glass down. Where had he bought them? What had he been thinking of?
De Groot’s cigarettes were on the coffee table, too, along with a pack of matches. There was no ashtray because Duran did not permit smoking in the office. But the Dutchman was a chain-smoker and since abstinence caused him to be anxious, Duran allowed him to handle his cigarettes. When not in a trance, he did this constantly, almost obsessively—sliding a cigarette out of the package, tapping its end against the table, stroking its length, even putting it to his lips and pretending to smoke it.
Pay attention, he told himself. Even though he and de Groot had been over this material time and time again, it was important that he pay attention.
It was de Groot’s eyes which revealed that he was in a trance. They were open, but slightly out of focus, as if the Dutchman was looking past Duran, past the array of diplomas on the wall, past everything, in fact.