Page 3 of See Me After Class

The hefty oak entrance, a horseshoe hanging for luck above it, opened into a circular hall. It branched out with naval-like precision into three adjoining chambers under the watchful embrace of oval arched wooden beams.

I remember my first glimpse of this home, struck by its whimsical charm. That, and his love for second breakfasts, had made me ask Oswald if he was actually a Hobbit or wanted to impersonate one.

He'd reassured me by saying that if he ever went on an adventure, he'd always take me with him.

So much for promises.

Oswald’s and my mutual love for Old-World English cottage core led to many adventures, scavenging yard sales and auction lots across the country in search of objects to complement his passion for oak wainscoting and handcrafted trinkets.

Glimpses of those treasures adorned the deep Edwardian sideboard in the dining room.

My high school writing trophy stood adjacent to a Chinese puzzle box. A series of Maori tribal masks punctuated one wall.

A Nepalesekukriknife, nestled within a blood-red velvet cradle, rested beside a glassy solar system model. The latter was a memento from my eighteenth birthday. Oswald swore he'd won it in a fight.

These little oddities had made this cottage a home for me.

Yet, today, I had an indescribable urge to pick up a chair and hurl it across the room, breaking and shattering the pristine arrangements.

I shook my head and focused my attention on Uncle Cuthbert, who was regarding me like one does a very sick puppy.

"Can we talk in the study?" I asked him, making a poor attempt to sound dignified. My voice came out raspy and broken instead.

"Of course, Miss Gardner."

I resisted the impulse to snort and crossed two rooms to enter a long, low-beamed one, warmed by the buttery-mellow glow of artfully positioned lamps covered in Japanese silk.

Oswald's chair loomed ahead of me, situated behind a mahogany desk. I hesitated.

There was no way in hell I would sit in that chair. Instead, I stopped near the table and turned to face the elderly lawyer, focusing on the little lines spanning his neck. I could not bring myself to meet his gaze.

"It's all over the place right now," I admitted. "I haven't had much time to review his papers."

"That's understandable, Desdemona."

His saying my name caught me off guard. Cuthbert Merriweather dropped into a roomy armchair that just about swallowed his frame. "You already know you stand to inherit everything from your adoptive father. But…"

His tone broke. He busied himself momentarily by taking off his glasses and rubbing the rims with surprisingly ferocious intent. "Ahem."

"What is it, Uncle Cuthbert?" The question tasted dry on my tongue.

"It seems there are some outstanding issues," he replied, his tone whispery with anxiety.

"Outstanding?" I examined the word in my mouth before trying to make sense of it. "Were there any debts, you mean?"

"No, my goodness!"

Uncle Cuthbert immediately met my gaze, shock and disapproval evident in his tone. "Your father died a wealthy man, Miss Gardner, and everything in his name, including the personal estate, passes to you."

I shook my head impatiently, not minding that Uncle Cuthbert resembled a very old and pedantic spider at that moment.

He'd already told me I was next in line for the fortune my father had made over his lifetime. I didn't care.

"What did you mean when you said 'outstanding’?" I pressed.

Uncle Cuthbert's fingers interlocked. His mouth dipped into a somber curve, the etched lines of grief bearing a renewed severity.

"Probate isn't a mere formality," he began, his voice tinged with a rare gentleness. "Especially given the unusualcircumstances of his... demise. The autopsy results will reveal more."

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