Rachel Alexander 04 - Lady Vanishes

as people went to give their condolences to Harry’s sister-in-law, his niece and nephew, and to say some kind words to the Kagan family as well. As the group thinned out, I walked up front. Venus was talking to Eli, and he was nodding, his face soft, his hands not around her throat. I was right. He hadn’t read the will.
    Of course not. They would all read the will on Friday, sitting in Harry’s lawyer’s office, each, at last, with his or her own copy, discovering what Harry had done just days before he’d died. That was why the clock was ticking so fast: on Friday, they’d all find out. That’s what was scaring Venus.
    I walked up to join her, and she introduced me to Eli, Samuel, and Nathan.
    “We’ve met,” Samuel said, his face glistening with sweat j the way it had been when he was trying to get the kids to sing along with him.
    “I’m sorry I haven’t had the chance to welcome you before,” Eli said. “There’s so much to take care of now. I’ve been keeping irregular hours, sometimes not even coming in at all, just making phone calls from home.”
    “I understand.”
    “Venus tells me you’ve had some remarkable experiences with our residents already.”
    He was short, like his former partner, and no youngster. I thought he was probably a few years older than Harry had been. But unlike his son Samuel, he had a grim face. When I looked at his eyes, I got nothing back but reflected light. And his lips, under a trimmed white brush of a mustache, were drawn. Hey, this was a funeral, what did I expect? But Samuel looked almost cheerful. And Nathan looked as if he were here in body only, his attention very far away. In fact, when I took a better look, his attention wasn’t that far away at all. It was only across the room, on the Poole family.
    Nathan was taller than his father and his brother, heavier too, a mountain of a man. Perhaps his mother had been a large woman, more statuesque than her husband. And large boned.
    He was dark, with even features, a long, straight nose, a lovely mouth. Perhaps his mother had been dark, with a lovely mouth. A cupid’s bow.
    He began to smile. I thought he was finally going to say something to me, but he didn’t. I turned again and saw the Pooles approaching, the mother’s face a mask with the startled look and pointy chin that come from one or two too many face-lifts. Bailey was still pouting. Perhaps that was his normal expression. And Janice looked bored, as if there were dozens of places she could name where she’d rather be. As they got closer, something struck me as almost funny. Like her mother, Janice was wearing gray, a smart little suit with a short, short skirt and black braid trimming along the neck and fronts of the collarless jacket. Her shoes were dark too, black kid, new and expensive looking. But her handbag was red, one of those designer things that cost more than the annual salary of people in third world countries. Perhaps it was as new as it looked, and she couldn’t bear to leave it home.
    “Janice,” Nathan said. But she was fiddling with those pearls and didn’t seem to hear him.
    Arlene was talking to Eli, and Samuel was talking to Bailey. I gave Nathan the old Kaminsky grin, thinking I could start a conversation. But he didn’t smile back.
    “We have to talk,” Arlene was saying to Eli.
    Perhaps that was what had snagged Nathan’s attention. He took a step closer to his father, both of them standing with their hands clasped in front of them, like ushers with no one to escort down the aisle.
    “Of course, of course. Why don’t we have lunch?” Eli said.
    Now it was Arlene’s turn at a farbisenpunim. She seemed to pull her lips in so that they all but disappeared, but then she nodded. “Let’s do,” she said. “No sense waiting.”
    “Mrs. Poole,” Samuel said, sweating and smiling, “this is Rachel Alexander. She’s doing pet therapy at Harbor View now, and—”
    “I’m sure she is, dear,” Arlene said, never looking at me.
    I looked at Bailey, who was flinging some hair out of his eyes. I wondered if I should tell him the good news, that someone had invented hair gel, but thought that perhaps this wasn’t the place for it.
    Janice had opened her red purse and was fishing around inside. Perhaps she’d talk to me. After all, she looked to be about my age, give or take any work she might have had done—cheek implants, dermabrasion, whatever. But that didn’t happen either. Anyway, Venus was pulling on