Dearly Departed Read Online Free PDF Page A

keeper pile, even though each glance would bring a little pang.
    What was it about travel that was so potent? she wondered. People went thousands of miles to wind up with the same views as every other traveler, the same exact experiences repeated a million times. And yet within that rigid form, as you joined the millions posing in front of the same icons, everything wound up seeming unique and personal and worth the trip.
    The music brought her out of her reverie. Peter, to her surprise, could play. Not just tunes, but the classics. From memory. She recognized this one as Russian, something romantic. She probably could have named it on a better day, when she wasn’t on her knees, pawing through other people’s lives. The familiar melody rose slowly to the upper keys. Then a few muffled notes sounded, then stopped.
    â€œDon’t stop,” she said, barely aware of having said it.
    â€œSorry,” Peter said, standing up with a frown. “There’s something wrong with these strings.” A few seconds later and he was propping up the lid, looking inside. “Like there’s something on top . . .” He squinted and reached around with his right hand. When he removed it, he was holding a standard-size manila envelope, folded in half. He unfolded it and saw that there were a few words written in pen across the center. “Open only in case of my death.” The words hung melodramatically in the air.
    â€œWhat?” Amy was off her knees now, stumbling over to the piano. “Are you kidding me?” But, of course, he wasn’t. There they were, in sloppy, uneven block letters.
    â€œOpen only in case of my death,” Peter repeated. Then, with a lift of his eyebrows, he obeyed, inserting his hand in the envelope and rummaging around. “Nothing,” he reported and handed it off to Amy.
    The envelope was indeed empty, but they could see from the creases and the open tear across the top fold that it had once held something. “Is this her handwriting?” Amy asked in a whisper, glancing off toward the open door. Archer was nowhere in sight.
    â€œBlock letters? Could be anyone.”
    â€œMaybe it’s not her.” Amy’s mind was racing around the possibilities. “Could this be a used piano?”
    â€œWell . . .” Peter thought. “We can ask Steinway to look up the serial number. But I think she ordered it new.”
    â€œSo if it’s not from some previous owner . . . ,” Amy thought out loud. She held the envelope at arm’s length, like a dead rat.
    â€œShe wasn’t murdered.”
    â€œI didn’t say she was.”
    â€œYou’re implying it. This was cancer. She had the best doctors at Sloan Kettering working for months to keep her alive.”
    â€œOf course.” But the words still stared up at her. “Peter, we need to call the police.”
    â€œCall the police? Wha . . .” Amy hated it when people laughed and spoke at the same time. It was an irritating affectation. “About what?” he continued, laughing and speaking. “An open envelope?”
    â€œDon’t you think it’s suspicious?” she argued. “A woman dies, and we find a message saying, ‘If I die, open this.’ And it’s empty.”
    â€œIt could be anything,” Peter reasoned. “It could have been a note saying, ‘Feed my cat’ or ‘Here are my computer passwords’ or ‘I’m the one who broke your favorite vase.’”
    â€œSomeone removed the letter.”
    â€œYes, just like she told them to. You want to ask Archer about it? Let’s ask Archer.”
    â€œYes. No. I guess so.”
    â€œWhy are you reacting this way?” Something about Peter’s lack of suspicion was helping to put her at ease. “People leave notes when they die. It’s kind of normal. Miss Archer!” He aimed his voice in the direction of the living room. “Will you