Rough Trade

reconfigures into something else. Whenever Chrissy and Jeff looked back, they would remember this as being the day, the nexus around which everything had shifted. I knew that I should have felt more sorry, but as I threw my briefcase into the back of my car all I could think of was that by dying, Beau Rendell had taken the easy way out.
    Of course, Chrissy didn’t want me to come because she needed my sympathy. I’m sure there were people in Milwaukee who were already lining up to offer their shoulders for her tears. No, she and Jeff needed me for something else. People in their position are afforded many things, but the luxury of time for grief is not one of them. When Beau threw off his mortal coil, he left his son in a world of trouble. I was one of the handful of people who not only knew, but was also in a position to do something about it.
    Under the best of circumstances the drive to Milwaukee is nothing but a boring gauntlet of tollbooths, cheese shops, and outlet malls. Today, desperate to get there and cursing every orange construction cone, it was also an agony. By the time I arrived at Beau Rendell’s house, the street was already lined with cars. I parked mine at the end of the block and hoped that I wasn’t violating a community ordinance against rust.
    River Hills is an exclusive community where the residents live in splendid, pseudorural isolation. The houses were enormous, the lots ran to acres, and the grocery store parking lot looked like a Range Rover dealership. Beau Rendell’s house was considered the local eyesore. He’d built it twenty years ago when he was between wives, hoping to erect a swinging bachelor pad. Now, of course, it looked hopelessly dated, as if someone had consulted Hugh Hefner for ideas about what was hip. I wondered who would buy it now that Beau was dead.
    Inside the color scheme was black and white, and as I pushed open the front door, I felt like I was stepping inside; a pair of dice. I pulled the door shut behind me and made sure that it was locked. Most likely the people who had already arrived were friends of Beau who had come to pay their respects, but I knew that it was only a matter of time before the curious started showing up.
    I found Chrissy in the kitchen looking perfect. She was dressed in a simple black pantsuit, and with her blond hair pulled into a tortoiseshell clip and her flawlessly understated makeup, she looked like a tasteful advertisement for grief. She was staring at the innards of an old-fashioned percolator looking as though if she just stared at it long enough, it might give up its secrets.
    “Have you ever made coffee in one of these things? she asked, as if picking up the thread of a conversation that had only recently been interrupted.
    “Is that what that’s for?” I asked. “I thought it was a small still. The crowd out there looks like they would prefer gin. Who are all those people?”
    “I don’t know most of them. I think they must be neighbors. Of course, Coach Bennato’s wife, Marie, was the first to arrive. She and their weird daughter, Debra, brought along a lovely tuna casserole. I don’t know when they even had time to make it. They must have cooked it in the car on the way over....”
    “Well, put that thing away. You don’t have to entertain anybody today. Where’s Jeff?”
    “He’s still down at the stadium. Harald Feiss called a couple of minutes ago and said that they’d be leaving soon.”
    “So do they know what happened yet?”
    “According to Harald, they think Beau either had a heart attack and fell down the stairs, or he fell down the stairs and had a heart attack. I guess at this point it doesn’t matter....” She began slowly winding the cord to the coffeepot into a careful bundle, a task that seemed to require all of her attention. “I know it sounds awful to be even thinking about money at a time like this,” she continued finally, in a small voice, “but I guess that’s what happens when you don’t have any.”
    “It’s not awful,” I assured her. “Under the circumstances it’s the most natural thing in the world.”
    “So what’s all this going to mean?”
    “Financially? It’s hard to say without knowing what Beau’s testamentary plans were.”
    “You mean like his will?”
    “Yes, that and any irrevocable trusts he might have set up. Who handled his estate planning, do you know?”
    “I’m sure it was Harald Feiss. He handled all of my father-in-law’s business and