Read The Rich Shall Inherit for Free Online

believe.”
    He handed him a small glass of dry white sherry. “Manzanilla,” he said, watching eagerly as Mike took a sip. It was wincingly dry and Hilliard cackled with laughter as Mike closed his eyes, coughing. “It’s not a drink for pansy-boys, but it’sbetter than all your fancy whiskeys. That—and a glass or two of good wine with supper—are among the last few pleasures left to me.” He fixed Mike suddenly with a pale blue stare. “Exactly what is it you want to know about the Konstants?”
    Mike ran a hand apprehensively through his rough dark hair; Hilliard Konstant was a tough customer. “To tell you the truth,” he said, “I’m a man in search of a story. There was an ad in the L. A.
Times
today—some lawyer in Geneva is searching for Poppy Mallory’s heirs ….”
    “I wondered when you’d get round to telling me,” the old man commented dryly. “I can tell you this, Mr. Preston, there’s not much I know about the Mallorys that you couldn’t find out from the Santa Barbara Historical Society. The two families were friends. More than that—they were partners. But the Mallorys disappeared from here long before my time. I never asked why, I thought they’d just died off—the way we all do. I’m the last of the Konstants, y’know. We were never a good ‘breeding’ family. What there was of us have mostly perished in wars—World War Two, Korea, Vietnam—my own son died there, and
that
killed his mother. I’ve been alone ever since. No, no,” he said anticipating Mike’s question, “it wasn’t a war that did this to me, it was a stupid, knuckleheaded horse. I was playing ‘rancher,’ you see, filling in my time here … after it had all happened.”
    The old man stared through the window at the view across the valley. “Sometimes I wonder, if my father hadn’t sold off the ranch, what my life might have been like? I loved animals as a boy, loved riding horses, mending fences, playing cowboys for real … of course, all this was so big then—it was still a real ranch. It was only as I grew up that it became just a big backyard.” He smiled approvingly as Mike finished the manzanilla. “Acquired the taste yet?” he asked with a grin. Without waiting for a reply he turned his chair abruptly. “Come with me,” he commanded.
    He stopped in front of a pair of framed documents hanging in the hall. Mike could see that one was written on cracked yellow parchment in the same sort of elaborate spidery writing as in the books recording the births at the Records Office.
    “That is the original title deed to the Rancho Santa Vittoria. It amounted to just fifty acres. Exactly what we’re left with now! Ironic, isn’t it? You know the old saying—rags to rags in three generations?” His laughter had a hollow ring as he added, “Not that it matters anymore, when I die this’ll all go to my grandmother’sfamily, the Abregos. There’s dozens of ’em out there somewhere.” He waved a hand vaguely across the valley. “Rich as Croesus too. Of course, they don’t need it—except maybe for family sentiment.” He coughed impatiently, as if to hide an emotion he was loath to let Mike see. “Now this,” he said, pointing at the other framed document, “this is the original partnership agreement between Nik Konstant and Jeb Mallory.”
    “They were partners?”
    “Of course they were partners, why else would they live practically next door to each other and farm the same land? Read it, will you?”
    The yellowed piece of card was headed, CLANCEY’S IRISH SALOON, KEARNEY STREET, SAN FRANCISCO , and underneath, AMERICAN AND IMPORTED BEERS AND ALES … A DOZEN DIFFERENT WHISKEYS … FREE LUNCH COUNTER NOON TILL TWO DAILY. In the center was written in a bold hand:
Jeb Mallory and Nik Konstant are equal partners in the Rancho Santa Vittoria and all its lands and livestock. Dated this tenth day of April, 1856.
    Jeb Mallory had signed his name with a flourish, but Nik’s name was written