Free Aunt Dimity and the Next of Kin by Nancy Atherton

were overlooked by the gentlemen assigned to collect them. Thank you, Ms. Shepherd. I’ll make a note of it.”
    “You might want to make a note of the cans of food in the kitchen cupboards, too,” I said helpfully. “And the pots and pans. And the cleaning supplies.”
    “Arrangements have been made to deliver those items to a charitable institution in Oxford,” Mr. Moss explained. “St. Benedict’s Hostel for Transient Men. Perhaps you’ve heard of it.”
    I smiled, warmed once again by Miss Beacham’s generosity. “Yes, I’ve heard of St. Benedict’s,” I said. “They’ll make good use of your client’s donations.”
    “Is there anything else, Ms. Shepherd?” Mr. Moss inquired.
    “Not at the moment,” I replied. “Thank you for letting me stay here, Mr. Moss. I’ll call again when I’ve decided what to take.”
    “Please feel free to ring at any time,” said Mr. Moss. “As I indicated before, I am at your service.”
    I gave him my cell phone number, in case he needed to reach me, ended the call, and turned the crumpled ball of paper absently in my hand. I felt as if my question about Miss Beacham’s papers had been a foolish one. I should have guessed why her apartment was so unnaturally tidy. Aunt Dimity had given me the only clue I needed when she’d written: She knew that death was near and she had time to prepare herself to meet it.
    Miss Beacham must have realized that she’d never come home from the hospital. She must have spent the last few weeks of her life clearing out her filing cabinets, emptying her desk, tidying her bookcases—organizing her possessions for the auction that would take place ten days after her death. A wave of melancholy washed over me as I envisioned her busy, solitary preparations for her final journey, but it was soon replaced by anger with the brother who’d left her to face the final journey alone.
    I dropped the ball of paper onto the cylinder desk and touched the Redial button on my cell phone. Again, I was put through to Mr. Moss.
    “I don’t mean to be a pest,” I said apologetically, “but I have another question for you. Will the proceeds from Miss Beacham’s auction go to her brother Kenneth?”
    “I am not at liberty to discuss the disposition of my late client’s estate,” Mr. Moss replied.
    “But you’ve already told me about St. Benedict’s,” I pointed out. “Why can’t you tell me about Kenneth?”
    “I am following my client’s instructions,” said Mr. Moss.
    “Okay,” I said doubtfully. “What if I don’t ask about the inheritance? What if I just want to know, for example, if he’s still alive?”
    “He is, as far as we know,” said Mr. Moss.
    I detected a note of uncertainty in his voice. “You mean, you’re not sure?”
    “We have been unable to locate Mr. Kenneth Beacham,” Mr. Moss explained. “He seems to have disappeared.”
    “I thought you guys were like bloodhounds,” I blurted, recalling Bill’s comment about lawyers.
    Mr. Moss, who had not been privy to Bill’s comment, said only, “I beg your pardon?”
    “I thought you’d make it a priority to find Miss Beacham’s next of kin,” I explained.
    “It is a priority,” said Mr. Moss, “but we have so far been unsuccessful in our search.”
    “Pardon me, Mr. Moss, but this is the twenty-first century,” I said. “People don’t just disappear.”
    “Nevertheless . . .” I could almost hear the old man shrug. “Have you any other questions, Ms. Shepherd?”
    “As a matter of fact, I do,” I said, with a touch of belligerence. “What’s going to happen to Miss Beacham’s ashes?”
    “The final decision rests with her brother,” Mr. Moss informed me.
    “But you don’t know where Kenneth is,” I protested.
    “A pretty conundrum,” Mr. Moss said pleasantly. “And certainly no concern of yours. Good day, Ms. Shepherd. I trust you’ll rest well.”
    “Uh, you, too,” I stammered, taken off guard by what was clearly a