Thank God It's Friday!

Hugh Carlisle drove carefully into his three-car garage, and parked neatly beside the Yamaha power boat that separated his Pajero from Christine's Mercedes. On a normal Friday night he would have allowed the presence of that boat to waken thoughts of the weekend's water skiing, but this had been no ordinary Friday and he slumped in his seat, running his fingers through a luxuriant head of dark brown hair—hair that, even at fifty, showed no sign of greying—before massaging his temples lightly in a vain attempt to ease the headache that throbbed and pounded, and scrambled his thoughts.

After a few minutes he climbed wearily from the driver's seat and punched a key code into the security door that allowed access to the house itself. Sometimes he wondered whether such measures were altogether necessary but, in his profession, he had many clients who had been the victims of break-and-enter-and a few who had been the perpetrators.

Lord Milne once said that war consists of short periods of intense fear and long periods of intense boredom. Hugh would have added that a solicitor's life had its parallels in weeks of mundane hack work interspersed by days of vicious disputes and bitter in-fighting. Today had been such a day. Wearily he slumped into a lounge chair, dropped his brief case to the floor beside it, and closed his eyes.

Christine peeked into the room and saw at a glance that there had been trouble. "Oh, dear!" she said. "It's been a bad day."

"Mmm." Hugh scarcely acknowledged her-he just sat there, eyes closed, still rubbing his temples."

"Drink?" she asked.

"Please. Scotch. Straight."

She went to the bar at the far end of the room, took down a bottle of Glen Livet, and poured a finger into a crystal glass. She considered this for a moment before adding a second; by the look of him, Hugh could use a double. She handed him the glass then stood behind him massaging his shoulders to ease his tension. "Do you want to talk about it?" she asked.

"Bloody people," he said. "Just people. You'd think I'd be used to them after all these years but sometimes they really get to me." He emptied half the glass in a single swallow.

"What happened?"

"If I was to die one day, I know you'd grieve for me. So would Julie and Grant. Wouldn't they?"

"Of course we would. But there's nothing wrong is there? No horrible little surprises you've been keeping to yourself?"

"No, no. It's nothing like that. You've heard me speak about Joe Tindall from time to time. He was one of my oldest clients—and I mean oldest in age, as well as the number of years I've been representing him. He died last week and today his family came to hear his will read." He shook his head, drank the remaining Scotch, and once again ran his fingers through his hair, mussing it even further. "It was hideous. His widow and sons spent the afternoon fighting over the spoils."

"That's awful, but you've had inheritance disputes before. What made this one so difficult?"

"I liked the man. I knew him far better than most clients and, if he wasn't quite a friend, he was a friendly acquaintance. He was congenial, well-informed, witty and generous. He was always a soft touch when somebody needed help and he gave so much of himself—both in time and money—that it was part of my job to restrain him. If any man ever deserved love and support from his family, and sorrow at his passing, this was he; instead they fought over the spoils like crows over a carcass."

"Surely his wife is grieving for him?"

"His first wife, Emma, died fifteen years ago. She was the love of his life. This one is much younger—not much older than the sons themselves and they see her, accurately enough, as a money-grabber. One of them even called her a trophy wife though Joe wouldn't have married her for that reason. She may not have been able to replace Emma but he had genuine affection for her and she made him happy.

"Joe knew that his kids hated their stepmother and he knew that they didn't like each other, either. How such a warm-hearted man could have managed to raise a brood like that is beyond me. He knew he was dying and was distressed at the thought that they would quarrel about his money, so he extracted a promise from each of them that they would accept his judgment and not contest the will."

"Empty promises," said Christine.

"Completely."

She ran her fingers through Hugh's hair, combing it into place. "I know you'll have done the right thing by Joe, as far as his will allowed, anyway. Try and put it out of your mind. We'll take the boat out tomorrow and see if the wind and spray can't clear away the frustration. It's not much comfort to say this but that sort of dispute, and that sort of family, are an occupational hazard. You've just had a bad heir day."