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you.”
    â€œYou sure it wouldn’t be easier for me to get a room somewhere?”
    â€œNo. It will be good to have someone staying there. You never know when a thief might read the obituaries and try to break in.”
    Kenyon hadn’t thought of that. “Yeah, they do that in San Fran a lot,” he agreed. “I guess it won’t hurt for a day or two.”
    O’Neill returned to her desk. “I have the keys here somewhere.” She dug in the desk drawer and pulled out a large ring. “These ones marked in red are for the house in Kensington,” she explained. “The ones in blue are for the art gallery, and the rest I haven’t figured out yet.” She handed Kenyon the keys. “The addresses to her home and gallery are on the top of the inventory.”
    â€œSo, where do we go from here?” asked Kenyon. “I’d like to get this cleared up as soon as possible.”
    O’Neill tapped her chin with a manicured nail. “I’ve got the will in probate court, and I can hire a professional evaluator to start inventorying the property. There are some checks for utilities and staff that you’ll need to sign, but I don’t think you need to stay in London for more than a week.”
    Kenyon breathed a sigh of relief. “Good, I really appreciate your help,” he said. He turned and stuck Lydia’s will into an exterior pouch on his luggage. “I’d love to stay longer and all, but I really have to get back to San Francisco as quick as possible.”
    â€œI understand,” replied O’Neill. “Oh! I almost forgot.” She lifted the alabaster vase from her desk and handed it to Kenyon. “This is for you.”
    The vase was smooth, and cool to the touch. “Thanks, it’s beautiful,” said Kenyon. “What is it?”
    â€œLydia,” replied O’Neill. “She requested that she be cremated, and her ashes scattered.”
    Kenyon held the urn gingerly in his hands. He couldn’t help but glance again at the nude portrait. “Did she say where?” Kenyon asked.
    â€œShe said you would know.”
    Kenyon eyed the urn dubiously. It was the first time he had ever even been in the same room as Lydia, and she obviously wasn’t in a talkative condition. He wondered what had ever possessed her to think he would know where she wanted her ashes scattered. He shrugged, and tucked the urn in the cradle of his left elbow. “Thanks for your help,” he said, shaking O’Neill’s hand.
    â€œIt was my pleasure,” replied the solicitor. She looked at Kenyon, burdened by his luggage and Lydia’s urn. “Can I call a cab for you?”
    â€œNo, I saw some sitting in the square when I got here. I don’t think I’ll have any trouble flagging one down.”
    â€œGood.” O’Neill gave Kenyon’s arm a warm squeeze. “Give me a ring when you get settled in.”

Four
 
    Kenyon wheeled his luggage out to the sidewalk, then shifted Lydia’s ashes to his other arm. It had become quite a hot day, and his white cotton shirt clung to his back under his suit. He began to regret sending the limo away.
    Looking around for a cab, he spotted a taxi painted in purple and pink polka dots sitting at the curb about half a block down the street. Kenyon waved his free arm, and the cab approached.
    As it pulled up, the agent noticed the picture of a chocolate bar painted on the side of the taxi. “Eat Me !” it screamed. Kenyon smiled, imagining how popular the cabby would be in San Francisco.
    The agent leaned over and spoke into the open window. “You free?”
    The cabby, a young, muscular man with short blond hair and a crooked nose, broke into a wide grin. “No, it’s gonna cost you, guv,” he said, in a broad, working man’s accent. “Hop in.”
    As Kenyon clambered into the back of the cab, the driver glanced over the