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ladder-back rockers with thick cushions and a small wooden barrel with a checkerboard top would make the porch an inviting space to visit with friends or a place to kick back and relax.
    The new palette would add warmth to a decor of welcoming simplicity and complement the woodland setting. It would also capture the spirit of individualism, a characteristic of American country charm.
    I felt like a kid on Christmas Eve whose head is filled with wonderful visions of what was to come. Baskets of sunflowers, hand-hooked rugs, quilts, trestle tables, ladder-back chairs, hurricane lamps, framed samplers, green glass-ware, mason jars, stenciled borders, and open cabinetry danced in my head.
    With a renewed sense of purpose and direction, I was delighted to discover that now I was actually looking forward to my meeting with Dona Deville.
    Mary emerged from the van and walked over to where I was standing. “Hey, I think I know this place. This used to be the one-room schoolhouse that Great-Uncle Fortesque Hastings and his twin brother, Forsyth, attended as children. I’ve even got an old photo of the two of them ringing that bell. With the outside being so changed, I’m dying to see the inside, aren’t you, Gin?”
    “Sure, but I’ll bet you an extra-large mocha latte from the Koffee Kabin that the place is locked up tighter than an all-night liquor store safe.” The Koffee Kabin, Seville’s answer to Starbucks, brews a wickedly delicious mocha latte.
    “You’re on,” Mary said, flashing a dimpled, mischievous smile. “Last one on the porch is a rotten egg.”
    Moving faster than either one of us thought possible, the race to the porch ended in a dead heat. When I stopped to catch my breath, Mary reached for the doorknob and gave it a twist. To my surprise, the door was unlocked.
    “I do believe that a certain somebody owes me a mocha latte. Extra large, if I’m not mistaken,” said Mary, crossing the threshold and stepping into the foyer.
    Being a few steps behind, I was unable to prevent what happened next. First, Mary let loose with a bloodcurdling scream. Then she fainted. My faithful friend, the ingenuous Mary, had literally stumbled upon the dead body of a woman.

Chapter
seven
    Faced with the prospect of moving Mary without disturbing the body, I looked around, hoping to find a nearby sofa or even an area rug on which to place Mary. But a quick glance at the foyer with its worn and faded painted checkerboard floor leading to the stair hall told me that the house was virtually empty. The only thing in the adjoining living room was a massive, fieldstone fireplace. On the wide board pine floor was an old painted floor cloth that had seen better days.
    Calling on muscles that I’d assumed had been permanently lost due to a combination of age and apathy, I managed to drag the unconscious Mary from the entrance hall and out to the front porch. I made an attempt to lift her limp form onto the porch swing only to discover that it was simply not possible. With the unresponsive Mary slipping from my grasp like a lump of Jell-O, I decided it would be easier on both of us if I propped her up in a sitting position against the porch railing. Once that was done, I took off running for the van, where I grabbed Pesty’s travel bowl of water. Gasping for breath, I sped back to Mary, doused her with the contents of the bowl, and prayed it would do the trick. It did.
    “Oh my stars,” cried Mary as her eyes fluttered open, “what happened? How come I’m all wet? Is it raining?”
    “No, it’s not raining, and you’re wet because I threw water in your face, you know like they do in the movies when someone passes out. Joan Crawford did it all the time.”
    “I passed out? Now why in the world…” Mary stopped in midsentence, her peaches-and-cream complexion turning almost as white as her hair. “Oh no,” she moaned, “it’s all coming back to me. What a shock finding her like that.”
    “Her who?” It seemed unlikely