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back as he walked out and he didn’t reply. What a turd, I thought. Thou shalt not call clients turds . I decided I didn't care about his promise to call me at Aunt Madge’s.
    The house was set up in a common style for center-hall colonials. On the left was a huge living room, with a twelve-foot ceiling, more elegant crown molding, and beautiful hardwood floors. It was surprisingly stylish, with bright white paint for the molding and window trim and a deep tan on the walls. The furniture had a mix of tan and burgundy tones, and I liked it immediately. Anything wood was antique oak.
    I chastised myself about admiring the furniture, which has nothing to do with a house’s value, and set about measuring the room and checking the windows. The room to the right of the foyer was a truly formal dining room, with a stunning color scheme of bright yellow walls and naturally finished chair rail and molding. As with the living room, there were hardwood floors and very expensive area rugs, these in a light brown that accented the molding. A large oak hutch and antique ice box were along one wall, matched perfectly to an oak table. Oak seemed to be the preference for the over-sixty Ocean Alley crowd. This room was almost twenty by forty feet, and the table seated twelve. I wondered idly if Michael Riordan had children who spilled orange juice on the rugs.
    The kitchen was behind the dining room and had newer windows in three adjoining sections, with the middle one somewhat wider and taller than the two side sections. They were natural wood, perhaps oak, and matched the thoroughly modern cabinetry.
    I hurried my measurements a bit, anxious to get to the large family room across from the kitchen and to the upstairs. The family room was clearly where Mrs. Riordan spent most of her time, though it was still House and Garden quality. Furnishings were more modern, almost contemporary, except for what I took to be Mrs. Riordan’s favorite spot. There was a tall rocker with comfortable-looking cushions and a foot stool in front. A small table next to it held a basket of needlework and a small stack of books. Not a television in sight.
    I finished the measurements and hurried up the open stairway to the top floor. I tried to imagine what the master bedroom would look like; it probably had a four poster with a canopy. I paused, counting doors. Four were wide enough to be bedroom doors, and were shut. A bathroom door stood open, and there were two smaller doors I took to be linen closets. I glanced at my watch. Ten o’clock. Surely Mrs. Riordan would want to be up by now. I would knock on her door and call out that I was Madge Richards’ niece. I hoped that would not startle her too much.
    I assumed she would sleep in the master bedroom, and guessed it was the one at the end of the hall. I knocked lightly, then harder. “Mrs. Riordan? It’s Jolie, Madge’s niece, the appraiser.” No answer.
    I opened the door slightly. The room was still dark, shades drawn. I pushed the door open a little more to let some light into the room. Mrs. Riordan was on the left side of her bed, with open eyes staring at the ceiling.

CHAPTER FOUR
    I SAT ON A LOW BRICK WALL that encircled a raised garden, just outside the Riordan front door, sipping a can of soda that a policewoman had placed in my hand. She had escorted me out so they could “secure the scene.” I’d watched enough TV to know she meant they didn’t want me in the way while they looked around, but I vaguely wondered why someone had called a police photographer to take pictures of an elderly woman who died in her bed.
    I had never seen a dead person outside of a casket, and was quite shaken. There had been no real logic to my immediate decisions. I called Harry rather than an ambulance, and sat on the floor in Mrs. Riordan’s room until an ambulance crew and the police arrived, thanks to Harry’s call to them. It didn’t seem right to leave her.
    The EMS staff didn’t need more than a quick