and entered the living room. It was eerily dark, the only light coming from the naked windows. All of the furniture had been removed except for an ornate orange upholstered chair precariously balanced on three legs against the side of the fireplace. The hearth had been bricked closed. Reddish brown mud streaked the threadbare beige carpet.
“It’s almost four o’clock, we’re getting ready to close,” Ruth barked as she entered the living room.
Joe turned around. “No problem.”
A middle age woman wearing a version of Ruth’s lime green pantsuit peeked into the room. “I’m cutting out. Upstairs and the basement are clear.”
“Silvia, I need you here tomorrow by ten,” Ruth ordered.
Silvia sighed, waving her hand over her head as she walked out of the house.
“Lime green is a nice touch,” Joe said.
“I think so. It sets us apart from the buyers.” Ruth gave Joe the once-over. “You’re the hero cop.”
“I was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Joe said modestly.
“Ruth Ritchie,” she said, offering her hand. “I own Attic Finds.”
Joe shook her hand. “Joe Henderson, owner of a gimpy leg.”
Ruth removed a pack of cigarettes tucked in her sleeve and tamped a non-filtered Pall Mall against her leg. “You wouldn’t have a match?” she asked, patting her pockets.
Joe flicked his Zippo and held it for Ruth. “You don’t look like the estate sale type,” she said.
“I hate garage sales, estate sales and any other scam that redistributes junk from one house to another.” He moved to the fireplace, bending to inspect the bricked hearth.
Ruth’s rapid long drags produced ash an inch long. She flicked the ash onto the rug. “Then why bother coming in?”
“I knew Preston a long time. Call me curious,” Joe said, running his hand along the brick and mortar closure. “He must have been afraid of Santa Claus.”
Ruth spit a piece of tobacco. “Mr. Swedge wasn’t just afraid of Santa Claus. There are dead bolts on a couple of the interior doors.”
“Damn it James, pull on the rope!” Willie yelled in the hall.
The sound of tinkling crystal turned Ruth on her heels. She ran into the hall. Joe followed. Mutilated plaster and wire lathe hung from the ceiling where the chandelier tore the electrical box from the floor joist above. Willie scrambled down the ladder and placed a gray woolen blanket under the chandelier as James lowered the two-hundred pounds to the floor.
Ruth ran her fingers across the crystals. “Amazing none are broken. Here are the addresses. Make sure it gets there in one piece and make it your first stop.” Ruth handed a sheet of paper to Willie.
“One day…,” Willie left off as he snatched the paper. “James, get the dolly.”
“I’ve got a couple of things to finish. Joe, you’ve got about ten minutes.” She headed for the kitchen.
Resting on alternate steps, Joe climbed the stairs to the second floor. The hall seen from the bottom of the staircase led to a master bedroom, two small bedrooms, and a full bath. The small bedrooms had been picked clean except for odd scraps of tissue paper.
Joe leaned heavily on the five-iron in an attempt to keep pressure off his throbbing leg. As with the other bedrooms, the master at the end of the hall was devoid of furniture. Preston’s suits lay crumbled in the space where the bed was once situated. That section of the oak hardwood was pristine. A Crucifix remained above where the headboard marred the plaster.
The floor was grooved and worn between where the bed was located and a small study directly to the right. Joe envisioned Preston pacing with his hands clenched behind his back. Preston explained in an alcohol fueled rant that the eight foot by eight section was formerly his wife’s dressing area. He had the vanity replaced with a built-in bookcase which was empty except for a 1942 Princeton University yearbook on the top shelf. Torn and faded Time and Newsweek magazines lay strewn on the floor, along with a few issues of Christian Monthly.
A leather satchel without its handle sat in the corner. Sweeping dust off the front flap with his hand, Joe could barely read Preston’s faded monogram. The lone contents, a Post-It note with “6 down 3 across” scrawled in pencil. Using the five-iron, he scooched the yearbook off the shelf. Opening the cover, he read the dedication to Hans Schmidt, a math professor killed in a Nazi bombing raid on London. Joe thumbed to the S section. A weasel face with hair combed and slicked like