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By Root 647 0

package had come in the mail the next day, Airborne Express, containing all the tickets and arrangements, but she had to leave that week or no deal. I asked her when that was, and she told me six weeks ago more or less; that is, early October, just before Bulstrode had returned to the United States. In any case, she’d read about her uncle’s death upon her return and thought she should call, even though she imagined the body would be going back to Oxford and Oliver. She said she didn’t think that there was any money involved, since she knew her silly old uncle was broke, but would I give her a buzz when I’d read the will? She thought that most of what he had would go to Oliver, but there was a lavaliere that had belonged to her grandmother that she’d been promised. I said I would and hung up, the phone slipping into its cradle on a film of my sweat.

I immediately called our estate law section and left an urgent message for Jasmine Ping. I sweated some more and tried to get interested in IP law but could not, even though I had to get a response ready for that Godzilla-eating-Rodan media merger business from the morning, no, the words would not cling to the appropriate brain tissue, and then in comes Omar with large brown cartons under each arm and I thrash through them and find a copy of the real last will and testament of Andrew Bulstrode rather than the phony one that my Miranda had presented. This, as the real Miranda had indicated, left all worldly goods to Oliver March, the longtime companion, aside from some small bequests to individuals, and I was happy to learn that the real Miranda would get her lavaliere. The box also held a small leather-framed desk photograph of Professor Bulstrode with a younger woman who possessed the squat, pleasantly froggy look that was perhaps a mark of the Bulstrodes and who I presumed was the echt Miranda Kellogg.

Ms. Ping came in while I was on the floor amid the scattered papers. Mutely I handed her the will and told her my suspicions. She sat down and read it, and it was interesting to observe her perfect porcelain face transform itself into the kind of demon mask you see at Chinese folk-dance festivals. It’s not a good thing for a trust lawyer to present a fake will to surrogate’s court. Jasmine had some harsh words about my private affairs, somewhat unjust I thought, but I did not defend myself. She wanted to know how I had let this happen and implied strongly that (although she was too polite to use such language) I had been led around by my cock. She said that my partners would have to be told; I agreed that this was only right. She wanted my assurance that I had not allowed the imposter to lay hands on any part of the estate prior to probate, and here I had to confess that an item of value had indeed gone missing, along with the imposter. I explained what the item was and she informed me of what I already knew, which was that if the genuine legatee wished to make trouble, and should the issue be brought to the attention of the court, then I had committed a disbarrable offense. In any event, I could have no further involvement in any legal matters pertaining to the Bulstrode estate. She glanced at the strewn papers with a look on her face that was not at all pleasant, a disgusted look, as if I had been trolling through the chattels of the deceased in hopes of looting some overlooked piggy bank. With no further discussion she made a call to our office manager to shift some papers ASAP. While she was thus engaged I managed to toss Bulstrode’s appointment diary under my office sofa.

A pair of husky porters arrived, boxed all the Bulstrode papers, and took them away. As soon as my office was empty again I snatched out the diary and riffled through the pages for the weeks prior to his death. In July I found what I was looking for, the twenty-fourth at eleven-thirty: it read “Sh. Ms? Carolyn R. Crosetti.” That had to be it: the fake Miranda had mentioned a Carolyn who was somehow involved and there was the “Sh. Ms” as well. Carolyn R. Crosetti had to be either the seller or the agent