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soft
cloth and tied with grosgrain ribbon tucked in beside yet more
jewelry boxes.
    Steve reached around me to pick up the bundles. "I'll take those.
Thought I'd already collected all the pictures."
    After the depressing story he'd told, I was surprised he had an interest in them.
    We went down the hall, and he opened a bedroom door just wide
enough to reach in and leave the photo bundles on a dresser top before
closing the door again. "My room. I've gathered everything I want to
keep in here."

    "Okay." Good. One room down.
    "That's probably enough to keep you busy today," he said. "I have
some catching up to do while I'm in town, so I'll be going out. I
hope that's not a problem."
    "Not at all." I was accustomed to people staying to work with me
on my jobs, and I sure could have used the help here, but that was
his decision.
    Steve pointed out a row of garbage cans he'd lined up out back to
hold the enormous amount of trash he expected to collect. He showed
me where to find coffee and soft drinks and told me to help myself,
then left me alone with the work.
    I was eager to get started. Any client as generous with cash as
Steve Featherstone deserved top-notch treatment. First prioritymake sure everything's ready for that appraiser. The dining room
headed Steve's instruction sheet and seemed as good a place as any
to start.
    I began by sweeping the spiderwebs from the chandelier, then
started unpacking boxes of dishes. Two hours into the job, the china,
crystal, and silver were all sorted according to pattern and type, and
I had convinced myself that I needed to hire a subcontractor to get
through the week. As a member of the local National Association of
Professional Organizers chapter, I knew just where to go for help. I
put in a call to our chapter president, Bailey Devine, but got her
voice mail and left a message.
    I consulted Steve's list. The family room was next. He had directed me to discard all silk and dried flower arrangements but to
make sure to keep the containers, as some of them were Depression
glass and might be valuable. The curio cabinet, packed with miniature glass and porcelain figurines, should be left intact until the appraiser looked them over. Magazines and books could be tossed,
except for first-edition hardbacks that might be collector's items. I
hoped Aunt Millie didn't get wind of this, or she'd haul all the discards over to her place.
    Steve had already emptied the antique barrister's bookcases that
stood against one wall, and his grandmother's books were strewn
across the Persian wool carpet. Glad for a chance to give my legs a
rest, I sat down cross-legged next to the pile.

    I was no book expert, but in my opinion these were all in excellent condition and would be welcome donations for the library's usedbook sale. I opened each one anyway and, after finding a couple of
first editions from the fifties, started a separate pile for them. Within
half an hour, my eyes were getting heavy, and I decided to go in
search of coffee. Groaning, I stretched my legs and grabbed the sofa
arm to pull myself up.
    But I didn't make it as far as the coffeepot. On my way to the
kitchen, I passed a bay window. Out on the golf course, police officers scurried around like ants in a field of bread crumbs. What now?
    I grabbed my jacket and hurried across Steve's backyard toward
the course. Detective Troxell was front and center, standing near a
small lake, talking with a man in thigh-high wading boots.
    The rain had stopped, and a slight breeze ruffled my hair. The
temperature had risen enough to bring out golfers, who were being
directed away from the vicinity by the cops. Once again, neighbors
congregated in a nearby yard to watch the action. I glanced over,
then did a double take when I realized Aunt Millie was among them.
    "Poppy!" she called out to me, waving wildly, so I headed in her
direction.
    "How did you get here?" I asked when I got closer.
    "Kevin brought