Errol Flynn’s stared back. Preston Swedge hadn’t changed in nearly sixty years except for his hair going snow white.
Joe placed the yearbook into the satchel and returned to the bedroom. From the pile of suits, he found a matching black gabardine pants and jacket. He held the pants to his waist. At five-ten the pants were three inches long. He folded the suit and stuffed it into the bag.
Joe made his way down the stairs. Willie Reynolds had managed to remove the chandelier. An eerie stillness filled the house. The five-iron echoed off the walls of the hallway. Solitary bulbs in plastic receptacles replaced the brass wall sconces. He entered the kitchen.
Ruth stopped counting the day’s take from a cash register on the Parson’s table. “The briefcase is definitely a keeper.”
Joe dumped the suit and yearbook on the table. “Got these too.”
Ruth raised an eyebrow. “Yearbooks are collectible, but a sixty year old suit?”
Joe looked under the table. A faint stain remained where Preston had melted into his shoes. “It’ll make a good scarecrow for the garden.” Growing tomatoes and cucumbers was on the same list as going fishing. He had no reason for taking any of the items. “What do I owe you?”
Ruth swatted at a fly as she continued to count the receipts. “It’s on me.”
The fly was a holdover from Preston’s gourmet buffet. Three of its cousins were perched on top of the refrigerator. “That’s very kind,” he said, trying not to laugh. Joe returned his treasure to the satchel and pointed to an opened door. “What about the basement?”
Ruth looked up. “Nothing of value down there,” she said. “The light switch is one step down on the left.”
The kitchen’s overhead fluorescent light failed to illuminate the area immediately inside the door. Joe eased his left foot to the edge of the tread. The angle of the staircase seemed excessively steep. He froze. Twice he had lost his balance on his own basement steps after returning from the rehab facility. Three times was a charm he wanted to avoid.
Chalky paint crumbled on his hand as he searched the wall. There wasn’t a wall plate. He could feel the outline of the old Bakelite switch. Anticipating a shock, he timidly flicked the lever. A clear light bulb at the base of the steps glowed then burned out. A second bulb hanging in the middle of the room dimly lit the lower half of the staircase. He took a deep breath and proceeded one step at a time. Dust and the hint of aged cat urine irritated his nose. Joe was besieged by a coughing fit as he cleared the last step.
A half-hearted cleaning job had been made. Broom marks were left in the grime build-up of more than six decades. The windows had been removed and replaced with bricks. Black-green mold crept up the cement walls in the stagnant air.
Joe cleared a patch of cobwebs hanging from the exposed beams with the club, making his way to the center of the room where sheets of paper and an assortment of manila envelopes were piled. A badly stained and crumpled map caught his eye. It wasn’t from the AAA. It was a U.S. Army Air Force map from WWII.
Joe poked the paper scrum with the five-iron, exposing a rectangular cordovan leather wallet. With Preston’s miserly reputation, Joe expected pre-historic moths to emerge, having hatched between the first George Washingtons Preston earned. It wasn’t a wallet, but Preston’s passport declaring him a representative of the State Department. The last entry was an Israeli stamp dated 1956. Joe thought it odd that the obituary in The Star Ledger only mentioned his employment in the petroleum industry.
Joe picked up a manila envelope and opened the flap. Three photos were stuck together. He peeled them apart. A girl, he guessed to be around six, posed in what resembled a communion dress. A parasol rested on her shoulder. He turned it over. There was no date or notation. The second, a black and white wallet size photo of a boy dressed in a suit and tie looking scared stiff. A tallis was draped around his neck. It was the kid’s Bar Mitzvah picture. The third—Preston and Millie Swedge on vacation taken in front of a non-descript motel.
He poked around. A 10×10 of Preston resting a foot on the bumper of his beloved Fairlane caught Joe’s eye. A large chunk had been ripped away. Joe picked it up and moved under the light. The person