Page 8 of The Sound of Harmony

“That’s correct,” Silva said. “And if you don’t want to pay me for my time, or for my crew’s time, that’s up to you. We’re insured for this kind of thing. We’ll still get paid.”

Kendrick swiped a hand across his forehead. What was he doing? Busting this guy’s chops wasn’t helping the situation. “Of course I’ll pay you. I already sent the check. Can I talk to Mitch?”

“Just like you sent my check? Is that right, cousin?” Mitch said when he regained the phone. He’d clearly been listening the whole time.

“Shit. Am I late again?”

Mitch nodded. “Makes it hard to balance the books when you’re late.”

“I’m sorry,” Kendrick said. He was supposed to send Mitch money every month to cover home maintenance. “I’ll send next month’s in advance.”

“Thanks.” Mitch was moving now, pacing up and down the long front porch. “A grand piano, though? What were you thinking?”

“It’s a parlor grand. Skinny. Like one of those models that lives on Diet Coke and cigarettes. It should fit.”

Keeping his own piano was a bright spot in his otherwise crumbling life. He’d dealt with practically going deaf in one ear. He’d dealt with leaving his orchestra. He’d dealt with losing his grandmother.

No, actually, he hadn’t dealt with losing his grandmother. Until now. And to be fair, Mitch was a bright spot as well.

Last year, Kendrick had done the bare minimum to take possession of the house he’d neither wanted nor knew how to take care of. He refused to clean out his grandmother’s house or even visit it. He’d dutifully paid the tax bills and left the rest of the work to his cousin.

Mitch was patient. He’d arranged for lawn care and snow removal, and did periodic walk-throughs to check for leaks or infestations or anything else that could befall an empty house. Every few months, he’d ask Kendrick if he wanted to sell, but mostly Mitch was content to let things stand.

And thank goodness for that, because Kendrick needed to live there now. The Ohio State Medical Clinic in Columbus was doing promising new research on Meniere’s disease, and he’d start receiving treatment next month. Moving his piano was supposed to be the first step in his new life, and he couldn’t even get the damn thing through the door.

“This is such a huge job,” he told Mitch. “I shouldn’t have put it off.”

“What are you going to do about the piano?” Mitch asked. “Do you want me to look into a storage unit?”

“Could you?” Kendrick’s thoughts were a harsh cacophony of rival ideas shouting to be heard. He was coming through town next week. Could they work something out before then? Either get someone to dismantle the piano or dismantle part of a wall? Did Silva have warehouse space for it? That idea caused almost physical pain, as the musician in him screamed at how wrong it was to leave his piano in a random storage facility—or worse, on an overheated truck. But what else could he do?

The burble of mixed voices on the stage had died down and he heard the concertmaster tuning everyone.

“Have you contacted Emma Gibson?” Mitch asked.

“Who?” Kendrick didn’t have time for this. Rehearsal was about to start again.

“The Clutter Whisperer,” Mitch said. “Remember, I told you about her? I saw her truck in the neighborhood and emailed her. She’s got experience liquidating estates.”

“Whatever that means.”

“It means she’s going to sell the contents of Grandma’s house and write you a check.”

“Okay, cool.” The first notes of the warm-up reached Kendrick’s ears. He had about three measures to get back to his seat. “Send me her details. I’ll call her later.”

“Call her today,” Mitch said. “I think this woman is exactly what you need.”