Darned if You Do (7 page)

“I think it's been that way for a while. But before anyone can tackle that, the inside needs attention, and that's something I've been asked to handle. I talked to James Penberthy—he's Tommy's attorney, and he manages Tommy's trust—and he's going to help me get an emergency conservatorship. Then he says I should try to line up some volunteers from here in Excelsior to help me sort things out. I stopped for lunch at the Barleywine, and Leona Cunningham said I should talk to you.”

Valentina looked around the shop, and a frown slowly formed on her face. “You do know her, right?”

“Yes, she's a good customer.”

“But why did she think you could round up some help for me?”

“Probably because I can.” Betsy smiled. “Her place and mine are two of the biggest carriers of gossip in Excelsior. I have a group that meets here every Monday, and between them and the regulars at the Barleywine, we can get the word out very quickly.”

“Would you be willing to do that?”

“Of course. Why don't you give me a way to contact you, and I'll see what I can arrange. Would you be willing to come back here on Monday afternoon to talk to my regulars? You can tell us how many people you'll need and what you'll need them to do.”

“Okay.” Valentina nodded, feeling a sudden sting behind her eyes. Betsy's willingness to get involved was a huge burden off her shoulders. “I hope I'll have the conservatorship all fixed up by then. Oh, thank you, maybe this isn't going to be impossible after all!”

S
EVEN
members of the Monday Bunch sat around the library table in Betsy's shop: Emily, Doris and Phil, Jill, Bershada, Cherie, and Grace Pickering, who was only there temporarily. This time Grace had brought her sister, Georgine, with her. Georgine was a knitter; she was working on a bright red mitten. She looked like her sister but was a little taller and not quite as slim, and her blond hair was cropped short, a contrast to Grace's auburn locks, which tumbled in easy curls to her shoulders.

Betsy sometimes took a seat at the table, and she did so now, allowing a few minutes for the group's members to greet one another and bring out—and comment on—their needlework projects in progress.

She was herself working on a needlepoint canvas of red and pink roses from a counted cross-stitch pattern. Instead of wool, she was using size three perle cotton. She hadn't done any of the roses, with their leaves and buds, in the shop because counted cross-stitch was not her forte
and the frequent changes of colors took all her concentration, but now she was doing the background in buff, using the basket weave stitch, which was easy.

“That thing you're stitching,” said Bershada. “I just love those colors, so rich. What's it going to be, a pillow?”

“No,” Betsy said. “It's going on the seat of a chair.”

“Girl, if I put something as beautiful as that on the seat of a chair, no one would be allowed to sit on it.”

Betsy, who had slaved over the piece for many hours, was inclined to agree that no one of lower rank than the Queen of England was going to rest her bottom on the stitching. She had spent countless hours frogging (or ripping out stitches—“rip it, rip it, rip it,” hence the term); nearly as many hours as she'd spent stitching. But all she said was, “Thanks, it is nice, isn't it?”

The general sharing of needlework progress had subsided, and the gossip was about to begin, when Betsy spoke up again. “May I ask you all something?” she asked. “It's important, about Tom Riordan.”

Tom Take's misfortune had been a hot topic since the night of the storm, and all eyes lifted to Betsy when she mentioned his name. “What about him?” asked Doris in her throaty voice.

“His cousin is in town, and she's been asked to clear out his house.”

“By who? You?” asked Emily, not the sharpest knife in the drawer.

“Tom didn't ask anyone to do it, I'll bet,” said Phil, grinning.

“Not Tom,” agreed Betsy. “But his social worker and his attorney think that if this woman doesn't take on the task, Hennepin County will—and they might not be as careful of his things as she will.”

“His cousin is a woman?” said Bershada. “Does she look something like Tom?”

“She looks a lot like him, actually. Why, have you met her?” asked Betsy.

“Not to speak to, but I saw a woman standing outside Tom's house last week, kind of looking it over, and she didn't look happy with what she was seeing. I thought maybe she was a real estate agent. That house might be a mess, but it's on a big lot only a block from the lake, and property values around here are staying nice and high.”

There was a murmur of agreement.

“And this woman looked like Tom?” asked Cherie.

“Yes. Yes, she did. I almost went over to speak to her, but she was looking kind of mad, so I didn't.”

“That was probably her,” Betsy said. “Her name is Valentina Shipp. Leona sent her to me, because she thought maybe I could get some volunteers to help Ms. Shipp sort out the things in Tom's house.”

“Write my name down,” said Phil immediately. “I'll do it for free. In fact, I'd pay her for a chance to get a close look at the inside of that house.”

“No need to do that, Phil,” said Betsy, smiling. She sobered. “But this is a job for volunteers. There's no pay involved. Ms. Shipp is far from wealthy. She drove here all the way from Indiana to help Tom, because he's the last of her family.”

Phil looked around the table. “What, I'm the only one who would like a chance to see just what Tom Take has piled up in there?”

Tall, fair Jill already knew some of the details about what had befallen Tom Riordan, since she was married to Sergeant Larson, who'd been one of the first responders when the accident was reported. “Put me down, too,” she said now. “I wonder if that poor woman has any idea what she's in for.”

Betsy said, “She's been inside the house, so yes, she has an idea. But she's hoping it will only take a week.”

“She's a heck of an optimist, in that case!” said Phil with a laugh.

Emily said, “I'm afraid I can't volunteer more than one day, but I'll ask at my church if anyone else will come.”

“That's a good idea,” Betsy said. “I'll do that, too. And Leona is asking around as well. If we can get enough people, they can work in shifts, and maybe the cleanup will get done quickly.”

“So you're volunteering, too?” asked Jill.

“I'm afraid not. I'm down to two part-timers right now, so I have to work more hours. But I'll ask Connor.”

“Oh yes, please do that!” said Jill.

“Add me to the list,” said Doris, and Betsy added her name to the list she was compiling.

“I can help out, too,” said Cherie.

“What hat will you wear?” teased Phil.

Cherie liked hats, the more exotic the better. The one she was wearing today looked something like a squashed pot of dark red and orange velvet, with autumn leaves made from smooth fabric stuck carelessly on one side. She took the question seriously and thought for a few seconds. “I don't have a hard hat, but I have a sweet cloche that will keep the spiders out of my hair, at least.”

“Oh, ugh!” said Emily.

“Scarves for everyone, even Phil,” pronounced Doris.

Georgine said, “I know I'm a relative stranger, but I'd like to help, if I can. And maybe my sister will help, too.”

“I don't think so,” said Grace, wriggling her shoulders. “I'm afraid of mice. Bugs, too, for that matter.”

“That's very nice of you, Georgie!” said Jill, and the others agreed.

“How many volunteers does she need?” Godwin, who had been eavesdropping while he restocked a spinner rack with overdyed silk floss, asked.

“I'm not sure,” replied Betsy. “I should think at least four at a time, so it will depend on who can work when and for how many hours.” She checked her watch. “Valentina said she'd come in today, and I hope she does.”

“When does this volunteer help start?” asked Jill, the pragmatic member of the Bunch.

“As soon as she gets the legal right to start clearing,” said Betsy. “If she doesn't come into the store today, I'll call her later to tell her the good news that she's already got some volunteers lined up. Now, when I read your name back, tell me what days you can work.”

When Valentina arrived a few minutes later, she was apologetic and out of breath. “Oh, I'm glad you're still here!” she said. “I had a flat tire—I haven't had a flat tire in years and years. It took me a while to figure out how to change it.”

“You changed it all by yourself?” asked Godwin, impressed.

“Sure. It's not hard, just a little messy.” She looked at her hands, which were absolutely filthy.

“There's a restroom all the way in the back,” said Betsy, “if you want to wash up.”

And while she was gone, the Monday Bunch exchanged the opinion that she did, indeed, look a whole lot like her cousin, Tom.

“T
OMMY
?”
Valentina peered around the hospital room door.

“That you, Val? Come in, come in!”

“Wow, you're sitting up!” She came into the room. Riordan was sitting in a chair beside the bed, his leg propped up stiffly in front of him. His hair was combed, and he was freshly shaven, but his eyes were at half-mast. The big bandage on the side of his head had been replaced with a smaller one, but the thin, short-sleeved robe he wore showed still-bright bruises up and down his arms and on his hands.

“You look good, Cousin!” she said, and came to touch him on the shoulder. His slight wince told her that he still didn't like to be touched, just as was true in his youth, so she backed away.

“There's another place to sit over there,” he said, pointing to the wooden chair with a cushioned seat back over near where another patient lay (or didn't; the curtains were pulled around the bed, so Valentina couldn't tell).

She went over and pulled the chair forward so she could sit facing him. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Better. I think they're going to turn me loose tomorrow or the next day.”

“Not to go home,” she said, alarmed.

“No, not yet. There's a place where they give you phy-si-cal thur-py”—he pronounced it carefully—“and I hafta stay there a week or two.”

She nodded. “That's good, that's good.” Then, seeing the look on his face, she added hastily, “I mean, good that you're still going to be cared for. They're not just handing you a pair of crutches and shoving you out the door.”

“Yeah, I guess so. Have you been to the house again?”

She nodded. “Yes, I have. And I'm putting together several crews, people who are going to help me get it back in shape—so you can live there again.”

His brows drew together and he asked suspiciously, “Who? Who's in these crews?”

“Well, there's Godwin DuLac—”

“That queer?” he said, laughing.

“Now, Tommy, you know you don't mean that the way it sounds.”

He sat back, looking a little smug. “Maybe, maybe not. But I bet he don't lift nothin' heavier than a ashtray.”

“Now, he's a good man, smart, and stronger than he looks, probably.”

“Who else?”

“Connor Sullivan, Doris and Phil Galvin, Emily Hame, Jill Larson . . .” Valentina paused, counting on her fingers.

Tom's eyes closed, and he murmured, “They're people who hang out in that 'broidery store.”

“Yes.” She nodded. “That's where I was first told to go asking for help. The people I met in the store are asking around, rounding up more people, but they were the first to volunteer, so I'm putting them on the first crew.”

“That Jill, she's married to that cop who broke inta my house.”

“Yeah, after you were yelling for help,” she pointed out drily.

“Well . . .” He shook his head slowly. “Yeah, well . . .” But he couldn't think of an argument and slouched a little in his chair. The movement made him suck air through his teeth.

“That leg still hurts, I guess,” she said.

“Yeah, it still hurts, doggone it!” He slammed his hands feebly on the arms of his chair.

“Take it easy, take it easy,” she counseled, holding a palm toward him. “It'll get better quicker if you don't wriggle around.”

“Aw—!”

“An' there's another volunteer I just remembered, her name's Georgine, they call her Georgie.”

“I don't think I know her,” he said.

“Probably not. She and her sister, Grace, are new in town, been there a coupla months. Pickering's their name.”

“Oh yeah, the twin sisters. I seen them around. They like antiques stores.”

“They're not twins, but they do look kind of alike. But Grace is afraid of mice, and there are mice in your house, so only Georgie is coming. They buy and sell antiques and collectibles, so it's good one of them is coming. She can keep us from throwing away something valuable.”

“What!?”
He rared up, suddenly furious.
“You're gonna throw my things away?”
Eyes wide and blazing, his voice rose to a shriek. “No, no,
no
!” Valentina tried to say something placating, but he overrode her. “You can't throw
anything
away! Them's my
things
!” He was leaning forward, trying to get his broken leg off its perch, his face twisted with rage and pain.

The pain won, and he fell back, panting. “I'll have you arrested if you throw
one thing
of mine away!”

The door opened and a nurse in pink scrubs came in. “What's going on in here? Mr. Riordan, are you all right?”

“No, I ain't all right, not so long as she's here. Take her away! Out, get out, get out!”

The nurse turned to Valentina, who lifted both hands in a gesture of surrender. “Don't worry, I'm going,” she said to the nurse, and to Riordan, “You calm down, you hear? You'll do yourself a mischief, getting all mad like that.”

He said between gasps of pain and fury, “Don't you . . .
never
come back!”

She smiled. The angry answer she wanted to throw at him was the one he wanted, so she made it gentle. “All right, honey, I promise.”

*   *   *

G
EORGIE
knew it would be bad. She and her sister, always on the search for merchandise they could sell at flea markets and on eBay and craigslist and other web sites, had visited many hoarders' homes and barns and sheds, and, on one memorable occasion, they'd gone to a half dozen retired school buses bought for the express purpose of storing more stuff. Such visits were dusty and sometimes perilous—pulling out a find from a tall pile could set off an avalanche.

Though she and Grace loved finding wonderful things at least as much as selling them at a profit, the bad example set by the hoarders kept the two of them from allowing their own home in north Florida to fill up.

Seven volunteers had turned up late Thursday afternoon at Riordan's pink-brick house. They were all wearing clothes that they didn't mind getting dirty. The men all wore caps, and the women had covered their heads with a variety of scarves. Valentina ceremoniously opened the front door—a hasp and padlock had kept it closed after the police had broken in to rescue Tommy—and ushered them in.

A murmur of amazement came from the group as they entered the living room single file—it was impossible to do otherwise.

“Holy smoke!” said Phil. “This'll take us the rest of the year to clean out!”

“Now, maybe not,” said Connor. “Is the rest of the house like this?” he asked Valentina.

“Oh yes.”

“Still, have you hired a Dumpster or at least a pickup truck to haul things away?”

“Yes, Betsy gave me the number of the company that rents them, and they'll have it in the driveway first thing in the morning.”

“Well done. Perhaps it's not as bad as we think. If every volunteer works hard, it could get done in six, eight days, tops.”

“But we're not here to work today, are we?” said Emily. “You told us the actual digging out wouldn't start until tomorrow.”

Valentina nodded. “We're going to do a walk-through, to see if you want to change your mind about volunteering. Also, I'd like you to point out anything you think is seriously valuable. Or something that might be dangerous to touch, or move. These rooms are too crowded for more than one or two of us to work in at a time, so we'll be splitting into small groups. Look around and choose which room you'd like to tackle. Ready? Let's go. Remember, just look, don't move anything, and meet back here in fifteen minutes.”

It was clear that Tom Riordan had allowed his passion for acquisitions to literally cover other problems in his home. As the group trailed back into the living room, awed by the sheer size of his collection, Connor, bringing up the rear, agreed with Valentina that while the house's floors and windows were sound, the plumbing was all but defunct and the wiring probably dangerous.

Then he proposed that they all work together today to clear at least half the living room. That space would then be available to hold items that might have value or that were good enough to be donated to charity.

“Is that all right with everyone?” Valentina asked. They all nodded.

Valentina said, “Georgie, you're the closest thing we have to an expert. Help us sort now—and maybe when we come back tomorrow morning, you can stay here and look at things we're hauling out to the Dumpster, so we don't throw away something valuable.”

But Georgie shook her head. “I can make some suggestions, but really, I'm not enough of an expert, especially on as many different things as I saw in here,” she said. “I think you should hire someone to give you a professional opinion. I'll be glad to look at things, but please don't take my word for their value.”

They set to work and quickly sorted out a great many obviously worthless things: a dried-up leather coat, old calendars, moldy clothing, shoes, and blankets, canned goods bulging in the middle, broken picture frames, filthy stuffed animals, alarm clocks with broken faces, three-legged chairs, and two small portable record players missing their insides.

They set aside an old coaster wagon, two flat-tired Schwinn bicycles, a big Chinese-style white vase with blue dragons on it, an enormous bowie knife in a crumbling leather sheath, three cast-iron frying pans, a rusty 30-06 rifle, a dozen institutional-size cans of baked beans, a coffee table, a beat-up metal detector, five dead cell phones, an antique wooden chest full of 78 rpm records, and an old, wooden, pendulum-powered wall clock.

“So, I guess it's not all worthless junk,” said Valentina, looking over the objects.

“I could sell that wagon, as is, on eBay for a hundred dollars, like that,” said Georgie, snapping her fingers.

“Well, that gives me hope,” replied Valentina. “So now we're set up to tackle the rest of the house tomorrow. See you all here at nine.”

*   *   *

I
T
was the middle of the next morning. Phil was working alone in Riordan's bedroom. The heavy blue plastic liner over the smashed roof cast an eerie light, as if the room were underwater. Under a pile of broken glass, which Phil was scooping up with a dustpan, he found a crushed box of Handi Wipes.

It looked empty, but when he picked it up, it rattled. He stuck a finger into the opening and encountered small, solid objects with bumps all over them. Peach pits, he thought. He began to toss it into a trash can, but something about the varied feel of the objects changed his mind, and he turned the box over to shake its contents into his palm.

“Great jumpin' horned toads!” he murmured (although not exactly in those words). In his hand were three pieces of jewelry, two rings and a brooch. “Naw!” he corrected himself, annoyed. Stones that size couldn't be real. One ring was a kind of dull silver set with a big piece of deep blue glass; the other was gold with two big clear stones flanking a large dark gray cabochon stone that shifted in color as he moved it in his hand, showing glints of electric blue. The brooch was nearly three inches across, also gold colored, with lots of filigree; it featured a green center stone the size of his thumbnail, flanked by four clear glass stones.

The pieces were a bit ostentatious, Phil thought, but maybe Doris would want them. He dropped them into a pocket and went back to work.

Meanwhile, down in the kitchen, Jill and Georgie were busy. Georgie was clearing a counter of empty fruit and vegetable cans and cocoa mixes when she came upon an old cookie jar shaped like a buxom African American woman with a red scarf around her head and a long green skirt. The word
COOKIES
appeared in raised lettering near the hem. The figure wore a big, red smile.

“Hey, look at this!” said Georgie. “What a great find!”

Jill looked up, surprised. “You're kidding!” she exclaimed.

“No, I'm not. These things are very collectible.”

“By who, the women's auxiliary of the Ku Klux Klan?”

“No, I'm serious. Collectors love them; even African Americans buy them. Look at it, no crazing, no chips, and the colors are strong. Probably worth sixty, even seventy dollars.” Georgie reached to pick it up, but to her amazement it was too heavy to lift one-handed. She picked up the top—it came apart at the waist—and saw a glint of silver inside. She reached in and pulled out a coin. It was large, bigger even than a silver dollar, thick and heavy. On the front was the profile of a woman with a hint of double chin, lots of wavy hair swept back, and a serene expression—good heavens, it was a Morgan dollar! It was worn, but the lettering on it was very clear, and the date on it was 1884. Georgie gave an exclamation of surprise and delight.

“What kind of coin is that?” asked Jill.