Dead is Better Read Online Free PDF Page B

the desert, maybe even Death Valley, that will, before the living day is over, parch these hills and ignite the dreams of sleeping arsonists.
    “The 2006 Volvo station wagon and the contents of the apartment at 1826 North Cahuenga also go to Mark.”
    Someone titters.
    “That just leaves the irrevocable trust.”
    “What trust?” Mark asks. “I never heard about a trust.”
    Alan moves some papers around and drinks some water, looking tired. “About six months ago Charles established an irrevocable trust, for a single beneficiary—” here Alan squints at the page, “one Señorita Luz Maria of Mexico City.”
    Mark blinks again, but when he’s done, his eyes remain slits.
    “Señorita?” Julia asks.
    Alan nods.
    “How much?” Sheila asks.
    Alan looks down for a moment. A small teardrop of sweat travels from his forehead to his chin. “Two hundred grand a year.”
    The dog’s tail is wagging now. If she were palpable, the thumps would be audible against the glass table, the silverware and glasses, even in this wind.
    “Goddamn his fat dead ass,” Julia shouts, “He must have been fucking her, too!”

24.
    “Death is contagious . . .”
    —Madeleine L’Engle

    ***

    A brief silence follows Julia’s outburst. Even the wind fails. Mark knows who Luz is but his expression reveals nothing about her or the arrangement I made—without telling him—for her care. My cousin Sheila taps something on the keyboard of her cell phone, and Alan busies himself with distributing pens and papers for the assembled living to sign.
    “Please sign and date—month, day, year—with your full name on the sections flagged. You’ll see there are 18 pages total and 7 require your signature, but there are four copies. Two for AndyCo. and two for MultiCorp.”
    The living lift their pens and bend their faces toward the papers as if they have begun a difficult spelling test.
    “And one more thing,” Alan says, loosening his tie. “As your family representative, I received a call from Detective Lee at LAPD about Charles’s fatal uh, incident.”
    Did he say accident? Or incident? What does “incident” mean?”
    Serena enters carrying a tray on which glistening berries, toast triangles, and sweating slabs of butter lay on delicate green china plates. She places the plates on the table and refills empty water classes.
    Julia looks at her and says, “Coffee.”
    “Detective Lee brought up the possibility that a reward posted by the family, a substantial reward, might help the police in their effort to gain information. Someone who knows something might be incentivized to come forward.”
    “What about the gun?” Sheila asks. “Can’t they find fingerprints and other information from the bullets?”
    Alan nods but looks at Sheila as if she’s a moron.
    “Good question Sheila, but unfortunately, bullets don’t hold prints. I think you mean casings, but the police didn’t find any. Or the gun. The bullets removed from Charles’s body were distorted, but according to Detective Lee’s partner, Detective Sullivan, they came from revolver. A .32. Six shots at close range.”
    I hadn’t thought about the holes in my gut until now. Six. That’s overkill, isn’t it? Whoever shot me wanted to make sure I’d never get up again. I study the living faces but their placid self-interested expressions remain opaque.
    The dog sails from the table and drifts down onto the lawn like a butterfly or a feather, and then she begins to roll. There is a rustle of papers as the wind and Serena reappear, she with a silver tray holding coffee cups, cream and sugar, the wind with a filthy plastic bag that has risen from the streets far below us and positions itself in the thorny bougainvillea, then flaps around.
    “The reward. How much? Five,” my shit brother Mark says. “Five” is statement, not a question.
    Alan stands as he gathers the papers into his briefcase. “Fifty. Fifty might shake something loose.”

25.
    “A thing is not