The morning after my sister Lena's funeral, I was returning borrowed casserole dishes when her supervisor called. Martin Vale directed the North County Arts Fund, where Lena had managed grants for eleven years. He did not begin with condolences. He asked whether anyone in our family had gone through Lena's work bag, then told me not to mention a blue archive box until he could meet me privately.
I set the dish down too hard and cracked its lid. Martin said Lena had raised concerns about scholarship records before her sudden stroke. Some board members were related to us, and careless questions could cause files to disappear. My cousin Peter was the board treasurer. He had delivered the warmest speech at the funeral and spent the reception telling everyone how indispensable Lena had been. I asked Martin whether he was accusing Peter. He said he was asking me to wait.
Lena's work bag hung on the back of my chair. Our mother had handed it to me because I was executor and the only sibling who lived nearby. Inside were pens, cough drops, a building badge, and the choir score Lena carried since college. She sang alto; I accompanied her on piano. Pencil marks crowded the margins, but they were not ordinary breathing notes. Beside certain measures, Lena had written initials and amounts that matched names from the funeral guestbook.
At the back was a claim ticket for a storage locker at the arts center. I called Martin and agreed to meet in the lobby, not privately. Before leaving, I photographed every page. Peter pulled into my driveway as I zipped the bag. He said our mother had remembered Lena mentioning a blue box and worried it contained personal financial papers. He offered to collect it for the family. I had told nobody about Martin's call.