Loyalty in Death (In Death #9)(23)

Humans, she thought, had a tendency to start planning for their end well in advance. And to be pretty specific about it. There was the betting pool with life insurance. I bet so much a month that I’ll live till I die, she mused.

Then there were cemetery plots or cremation urns, depending on your preferences and income. Most people bought them in advance or gave them as gifts, picking out a sunny spot in the country or a snazzy box for the den.

Buy now, die later.

Those little details changed with the fashions and societal sensibilities. But one constant in the business end of life to death appeared to be the last will and testament. Who got what and when and how they got all the goodies the dead had managed to accumulate through the time fate offered.

A matter of control, she’d always thought. The nature of the beast demanded control be maintained even after death. The last grip on the controls, the last button pushed. For some, she imagined, it was the ultimate insult to those who had the nerve to survive. To others, a last gift to those loved and cherished during life.

Either way, a lawyer read the words of the dead. And life went on.

And she who dealt with death on a daily basis, who studied it, waded through it, often dreamed of it, found the whole business slightly offensive.

The minor bequests went on for some time, giving Eve a picture of the man who’d enjoyed foolish chairs and purple dressing gowns and carrot pasta with peas and cream sauce.

He’d remembered the people who’d had a part in his routine, from his doorman to the ‘link operator at his office. He left his attorney, Suzanna Day, a Revisionist sculpture she had admired.

Her voice hitched over that, then Suzanna cleared her throat and continued.

“To my assistant, Chris Tipple, who has been both my right and left arms, and often most of my brain as well, I leave my gold wrist unit and the sum of one million dollars, knowing he will treasure the former and make good use of the latter.

“To my beautiful and beloved sister-in-law, Clarissa Stanley Branson, I leave the pearl necklace my mother left to me, the diamond heart brooch that was my grandmother’s, and my love.”

Clarissa began to weep silently into her hands, her slender shoulders shaking even when her husband draped his arm around them.

“Hush, Clarissa,” Branson murmured in her ear, barely loud enough for Eve to hear. “Control yourself.”

“I’m sorry.” She kept her head lowered. “I’m sorry.”

“B. D.” Suzanna paused, casting Clarissa a glance of quiet sympathy. “Would you like me to stop for a few moments?”

“No.” Jaw set, mouth grim, he kept his arm firmly around his wife and stared straight ahead. “Please, let’s finish.”

“All right. To my brother and partner, B. Donald Branson.” Suzanna took a breath. “The disposition of my share of the business we ran together is set down in a separate document. I acknowledge here that all my interest in Branson Toys and Tools is to be transferred into his name upon my death should he survive me. If he should predecease me, that interest is to be transferred to his spouse or any children of that union. In addition, I hereby bequeath to my brother the emerald ring and diamond cufflinks that were our father’s, my disc library including but not exclusive to all family images, my boat the T and T, and my air cycle in the hopes he’ll finally try it out. Unless, of course, he was right, and my crashing it is the reason this will is being read.”

Branson made a sound, something that might have been a short, strained laugh, then closed his eyes.

“To Lisbeth Cooke.” Suzanna’s voice chilled several degrees as she spared Mantz one glimmering stare of dislike. “I leave all the rest of my personal possessions, including all cash, bank and credit accounts, real estate, financial holdings, furnishings, art, and personal property. Lissy my love,” Suzanne continued, biting off the words, “don’t grieve too long.”

“Millions.” Branson got slowly to his feet. His face was deathly pale, his eyes brilliant. “She murders him and stands to gain millions. I’ll fight this.” Hands clenched, he turned on Mantz. “I’ll fight this with everything I have.”

“I understand your distress.” Mantz rose as well. “However, your brother’s wishes were clearly and legally outlined. Ms. Cooke has not been charged with murder but with second-degree manslaughter. There are legal precedents that protect her inheritance.”

Branson bared his teeth. Even as he lunged. Eve sprang up to block him. Before she could, Roarke was doing so.

“B. D.” Roarke spoke calmly, but he had Branson’s arms pinned firmly to his sides. “This won’t help you. Let your lawyer handle it. Your wife’s very distraught,” he continued as Clarissa curled into a ball and wept wildly. “She should lie down. Why don’t you take her upstairs, give her a soother.”

The bones in Branson’s face stood out in sharp relief, so keen it seemed they might cut right through the flesh. “Get out of my house,” he ordered Mantz. “Get the hell out of my house.”

“I’ll see him out,” Roarke said. “Take care of your wife.”

For one long moment, Branson strained against Roarke’s hold; then he nodded, turned. He gathered his wife up, cradling her as he would a child, and carried her from the room.

“You’re done here, Mantz.” Eve faced him. “Unless you want to see if the Bransons have a dog you could kick.”