W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone Mystery)

him. I don’t want his money. He can shove it up his dead ass.”
    I thought it wise to keep any further comments to myself. Anything I said was the equivalent of tossing gasoline on a bonfire.
    Ethan stared at me. “So is that it? Are we done now?”
    Hesitantly, I said, “There are some personal items he wanted you to have. They’re still in his safe deposit box, which I won’t have access to until the hearing in December. I can send them to you when the time comes.”
    “ Personal items?”
    “He wrote and illustrated a folio for each of you. California edible plants and wildflowers.” My face was feeling warm again because it all sounded so lame.
    “Like a little coloring book? I can hardly wait. Meanwhile, where’d the money go? I forgot to ask. He give it away? Donate it to a worthy cause so he could look good at our expense?”
    “He left it to me.”
    “Say what?”
    “He left me the money.”
    “ All of it?”
    Nodding assent would have been redundant. He could see the admission written on my face.
    Behind me, the front door opened and the oldest of the children came in, with an enormous backpack. She had dark eyes and long dark hair that might have been neatly brushed when she left for school that morning. Now some strands had separated while the others were in a tangle. I was so grateful for the distraction, I wanted to kiss the child, though I’d forgotten her name.
    “Hey, Amanda,” Ethan said with a glance at her.
    “Hey, Daddy.”
    “School go okay?”
    “Fine.”
    “You want a snack, you can get yourself some cookies, but share with Scottie and the Bink, okay?”
    “’Kay.”
    She disappeared into the kitchen and returned a moment later with the box of cookies. She got out a Fig Newton and held it in her teeth while she sat down at the children’s table, opened her backpack, and took out her homework. Binky used the table leg to pull herself up so she could bang on Amanda’s paper with the flat of her hand. She slid it back and forth rapidly.
    “Daddy, Binky’s tearing my paper.”
    “She’s not doing anything.”
    “She’s messed it up and now I’ll get a bad grade.”
    Ethan didn’t really seem to be listening, but Scott got up and put his arms around Binky’s waist from behind. He lifted her off her feet and carried her across the room in our direction. I was afraid he’d throw his back out, but maybe at his age he was so limber that picking up half his body weight had no effect. He propped her against the coffee table and went back to his work. She held on, momentarily diverted by the uncapped blue marker pen she’d snagged in passing.
    I was struck by Ethan’s management style, which was competent but disengaged. Granted, neither of the dogs had barked, slobbered, or jumped on me, and none of the kids had cried, screamed, or shrieked. I already liked the lot of them better than I liked most.
    Meanwhile, I noticed the marker pen was dyeing Binky’s lips and tongue the color of blueberries. Surely, the manufacturer made a point of using nontoxic inks, since the pens were made for kids.
    I glanced at Ethan. “Is she okay with that?”
    He reached over and took the pen. I expected a howl to go up, but she’d fixed her attention on the doorknob.
    I removed the manila envelope from my shoulder bag. “These are copies of the will and a couple of forms I filled out. There’s a hearing in December if you want to challenge the terms of the will.”
    Ethan had his head in his hands, slowly shaking it back and forth. “This is too much. Man, I don’t believe it.”
    I placed the manila envelope on the table. “There’s something else as long as I’m here.”
    Ethan looked over at me with a pained expression. “What?”
    “I wondered what you wanted done with his remains?”
    “His remains ? You mean his corpse? You can’t be serious. I don’t give a shit!”
    “I thought you might want a voice in decisions about his funeral. I delayed making arrangements until I talked to you.”
    “You can do anything you want. Just don’t think I’m paying you one red cent.”
    “Don’t you want to talk to Ellen and Anna first?”
    “And drop the same bomb on them? That sounds like a fun idea.”
    “If you’ll tell me how to get in touch, I can explain it all to them.”
    “I’m not telling you where they are. Why should I help you? You’re the red-hot detective. You figure it out.”
    “My business card is in the envelope . . .”
    “Lady, would you quit