A Rather Lovely Inheritance by C. A. Belmond Read Free Book Online Page A

that she was ailing.”
    “She was alone when she died, then?” I asked. He nodded. I thought of an old Roman proverb: Live your own life, for you will die your own death. I reminded myself of my new resolution to live in the present.
    “Who are the vultures?” I ventured, having already guessed.
    “Rollo Jr. and his mum, of course.” He looked at me quizzically.
    “I never met them,” I said.
    “No? Well, Dorothy’s rich beyond reason but won’t give tuppence to Rollo Jr., so he always touched our side of the family.” There it was again, that dark cloud around Rollo. “And it’s not as if Rollo’s dad didn’t leave him money,” Jeremy added, sounding perplexed. “Plenty, but it’s doled out in a monthly allowance. Goes through his fingers like sand.”
    “Junior must be in his early sixties, right?” I asked curiously. Jeremy nodded.
    I thought it over. “Aren’t all people vultures when it comes to inheritances?” I said. “Picking at the remains of another person’s life?”
    He smiled at me. “You couldn’t be a vulture if you tried,” he said. It didn’t sound like an insult, but I felt somehow that it was. After all, he hadn’t seen me in years. How did he know that I couldn’t be a predator if I put my mind to it?
    Jeremy’s mobile phone rang, and he quickly scooped it out of a pocket and spoke quietly but urgently, mostly saying, “Right. Okay. Right.” When he put it away he looked distracted, then caught my glance and nodded to me apologetically.
    “Sorry, but I’ve got to get over to the office. Here’s the address for the reading of the will. It’s Aunt Penelope’s apartment. Belgravia. It’s best that we meet there instead of arriving together. I’ll leave the car for you downstairs so you can’t possibly get lost, and I’ll grab a cab.”
    The mention of the car prompted a question that had been nagging at me.“Jeremy,” I asked hesitantly,“I hate to ask, but—who’s paying for all of this? The hotel and the car...”
    He looked straight at me. “Why, you, of course,” he said with a grin. I made a face at him to indicate that while I may appear somewhat gullible in unfamiliar circumstances, I am not a total idiot.
    He reached out and ruffled my hair. “The office, child,” he said. “Your father insisted on paying for your flight over here, but the rest is on my account.Your parents are clients, after all. Best not to take too long washing up and getting out.We start at nine.”
    I appreciated his offhanded generosity, yet his admonitory tone about punctuality jogged my memory of how there were moments when his superior coolness used to annoy me. Something about all those in-your-face good manners had the effect of making me want to shock him by acting like an ill-mannered American delinquent—which, damn it, I’m not—just to make him drop that polite mask. I remembered that when I was nine I gave this a great deal of thought, and suspected that he actually wanted me to play the role of provocateur, to bring out his alter-ego, the person who wished so desperately to be bad. Instead of taking the bait, I learned to banter back and forth with him, like a game of table tennis.
    “Believe it or not,” I said in my own light, superior teasing tone,“I am perfectly capable of attending to deadlines. I do, after all, work in movies, and time is money. Frankly, I think it awfully rude of you not to inquire about my line of work. I’m rather fascinating.”
    He looked surprised, then shook his head in mock disapproval. “Only Americans immediately ask you about your line of work,” he informed me as he headed for the door. “We Europeans think about it, of course, but we bide our time before broaching the subject. However, since you mentioned it, do you know any sexy actresses you can introduce me to?”
    “Larima,” I said automatically. “Just finishing up a picture she’s starring in.” He raised his eyebrows, suitably impressed.
    “Really?” He