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than their parents.
    A TV set in the den was kept on CNN, and every half hourthey would gather for the latest announcement of Troy’s dramatic death. A financial correspondent pieced together a ten-minute segment on the vastness of the Phelan fortune, and everyone smiled.
    Lillian kept a stiff upper lip and did a credible job of being the grieving widow. Tomorrow she would work on the arrangements.
    Hark Gettys arrived around ten, and explained to the family that he had spoken to Josh Stafford. There would be no funeral, no service of any type; just an autopsy, a cremation, and a scattering of ashes. It was in writing, and Stafford was prepared to do battle in court to protect his client’s wishes.
    Lillian didn’t give a damn what they did with Troy, nor did her children. But they had to protest and argue with Gettys. It just wasn’t right to send him off with no service. Libbigail even managed a small tear and a breaking voice.
    “I wouldn’t fight this,” Gettys advised gravely. “Mr. Phelan put it in writing just before his death, and the courts will honor his wishes.”
    They came around quickly. No sense wasting a lot of time and money on legal fees. No sense prolonging the grieving. Why make matters worse? Troy always got what he wanted anyway. And they had learned the hard way not to tangle with Josh Stafford.
    “We will abide by his wishes,” Lillian said, and the other four nodded sadly behind their mother.
    There was no mention of the will and when they might actually see it, though the question was just below the surface. Best to be properly grim for a few more hours, then they could get down to business. Since there would be no wake, no funeral or service, perhaps they might meet as early as tomorrow and discuss the estate.
    “Why the autopsy?” asked Rex.
    “I have no idea,” Gettys answered. “Stafford said it was in writing, but even he is not sure.”
    Gettys left and they drank some more. The guests stopped coming, so Lillian went to bed. Libbigail and Mary Ross left with their families. TJ and Rex went to the billiards room in the basement, where they locked the door and switched to whiskey. At midnight, they were slapping balls around the table, drunk as sailors, celebrating their fabulous new wealth.
    ________
    A T 8 A.M. , the day after the death of Mr. Phelan, Josh Stafford addressed the anxious directors of The Phelan Group. Two years earlier, Josh himself had been placed on the board by Mr. Phelan, but it was not a role he enjoyed.
    For the past six years, The Phelan Group had operated quite profitably without much assistance from its founder. For some reason, probably depression, Troy had lost interest in the day-to-day managing of his empire. He became content to simply monitor the markets and the earnings reports.
    The current CEO was Pat Solomon, a company man Troy had hired almost twenty years earlier. He was as nervous as the other seven when Stafford entered the room.
    There was ample cause for anxiety. Within the company’s culture there was a rich body of lore surrounding Troy’s wives and his offspring. The vaguest hint that the ownership of The Phelan Group might somehow fall into the hands of those people would terrorize any board.
    Josh began by stating Mr. Phelan’s desires regarding burial. “There will be no funeral,” he said somberly. “Frankly, there is no way to pay your last respects.”
    They absorbed this without comment. With the passing of a normal person, such non-arrangements would seem bizarre. But with Troy, it was difficult to be surprised.
    “Who will own the company?” Solomon asked.
    “I can’t say now,” Stafford said, well aware of how evasive and unsatisfactory his answer was. “Troy signed a will moments beforehe jumped, and he instructed me to keep it private for a period of time. I cannot, under any circumstances, divulge its contents. At least, not for now.”
    “When?”
    “Soon. But not now.”
    “So it’s business as