Free Grave Deeds by Betsy Struthers Page B

furrowing. “She doesn’t know anything about me.”
    â€œYou’re her brother-in-law.”
    â€œI was. Past tense. Anyway, she’s got nothing to do with why I’m here. I want to discuss the property. I can understand your curiosity to see the place. I can appreciate that.” He took a deep breath. “But you must understand your cousin’s position. She loves the cottage, she needs it to escape to. It’s part of her identity. You wouldn’t want to take that away from her, would you?”
    â€œIf it’s so important to her, why doesn’t she ask me herself?” It seemed such a reasonable question, I didn’t mind repeating it.
    â€œShe is sensitive to the awkwardness of the situation. She thought I’d be better as a go-between. Until things are settled. She even suggested that she’d be willing to rent it from you, until you’re ready to sell.”
    â€œYou’re selling your cottage?” Bonnie broke in, her nose almost pressed to the glass door. “When did you decide that?”
    â€œI haven’t decided anything,” I shouted. “Look, I’ll go through these papers tonight. This is the long weekend: Will and I were going up north tomorrow anyway; we’ll stop at the lake and look at it. We’ll get in touch with you after that.”
    â€œDr. Finch won’t leave the offer open for long,” Markham said. “You might not get such a good deal from someone else.”
    â€œDon’t push me,” I said. “I’ll make up my own mind in my own time. If my cousin is so anxious to deal with me, she should contact me in person. If she can’t be bothered even to speak to me, why should I care if her grandmother’s death has spoiled her vacation?”
    â€œShe’s a very busy woman,” Markham muttered.
    â€œWell, so am I.” I slammed the inner door shut and stalked to the elevators. Both doors opened for a change. Bonnie got in one, I took the other. I rode it to the top of the building, then back down to the third floor. The hall was empty. Good. I didn’t want to talk to Bonnie right then, to listen to more complaints about Harold and his treatment of her. I had my own problems to deal with. I was able to get inside my apartment without interruption. There was a map in the envelope, along with a thick file of legal papers. And photographs. I lunged for the phone to dial Will.

SIX
    Every twenty-fourth of May holiday weekend for the past fifteen years, Will and I have gone up to his parents’ cottage on Lake of Bays. While Will works taking down the shutters, repairing ice damage to the dock, putting in the water lines and raking deadfall to the compost heap, I’m indoors, washing every plate and pot and spoon, checking for mice nests in cupboard drawers, and beating the rag rugs with a new straw broom. Both his parents are good at supervising and finding fault. In the evening we play endless games of euchre punctuated with stories about Will’s childhood that now even I can recite from memory.
    This year I had the perfect excuse not to go: I had to see my property on Cook’s Lake.
    It wasn’t an easily made decision. First, I had to negotiate with Will’s mother. Then, with Bonnie. Bonnie was so anxious to see my inheritance that she’d come up with a plan: Will and I would drive up to Cook’s Lake together; he would go on to his parents’ cottage on Sunday when Robin and Bonnie arrived to stay with me. They would take me back to the city with them the next day.
    â€œI’m not sure it’ll work out,” I protested when Bonnie began to draw up lists of the food we would need to take. “I don’t even know how many bedrooms there are, if there’s electricity or indoor plumbing, or even furniture.”
    â€œNo problem. You don’t want a cottage to be like a suburban house. We don’t mind roughing