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Don’t be ridiculous. You’re here to help your mother make decisions, not redecorate. Whe
n they finished cleaning the lodge, she’d tackle this place—she couldn’t work in all this dust. Then she’d make a list and start figuring out what it all might be worth—the green Roseville pottery and pink Depression glass visible through the windows of the mahogany breakfront, the calendar art, the tools downstairs.
Between the bathroom and bedroom stood a bird’s-eye maple armoire, the inset oval mirrors on the doors almost as grimy as the windows. The doors opened at the touch of her hand on the glass knobs, the scent from the cedar shelves mingling with lavender from the tiny sachets her grandmother had tucked in every drawer and closet to keep bugs away. One good whiff and it was as if Mary Mac were standing next to her.
For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. Could. Not. Breathe.
Then her grandmother’s words filled her ears, consoling her after some girlhood slight or an argument with her sister. It will be all right, Sally. I know you can’t imagine that now, but I promise, it will be all right.
A sense of calm overtook her. Maybe it was the lavender. Maybe she was going crazy. She sure as hell wasn’t going to tell anyone about the voices, or the dreams. But they were soothing, reassuring, in a way, even if they were weird-ass crazy.
Quilts filled the wardrobe shelves. Though she’d given away dozens in her lifetime, Mary Mac had left almost as many behind. Sarah ran her fingers down the stack, naming the patterns. Irish Chain. Double Wedding Ring. Bear Paw and Dresden Plate. A colorful Spider Web like the one Abby had taken to college. Noah’s pick had been a flannel Log Cabin.
She could stand here and admire these quilts for hours, but that wasn’t getting anything done.
Did her mother really want to clean out the lodge and all the buildings? To scatter and sell the family history?
Once again, she felt irritated by her mother’s absence. Peggy had practically insisted Sarah come to the lodge, then all but disappeared.
She closed the wardrobe doors. In the bedroom, she flicked the switch. The overhead light came on, dimmed by the dust in the etched glass fixture.
Stacks of cardboard boxes and wooden crates filled the room. The linens and lamps and knickknacks from the upper floor? The dishes and stemware she couldn’t find last night?
Time for that search later. Her attention was drawn, like a magnet to the North Pole, to the top of the cabinet Victrola. There stood her quarry: the dollhouse. The sense of magic it had given her forty years ago came flooding back. Three stories, rose pink with white trim and deep mauve accents, the scalloped edges of the tiny black shingles on the roof dusty but distinct. Lace curtains hung in the windows, the three-sided turret as mysterious as ever.
A shadow moved and she jumped. “Oh, Bastet. You scared the—what are those doing there?”
On the floor, next to the cat’s paw, lay three shiny pennies.
“What are you trying to tell me, Jeremy?” She looked around as she spoke, as if her husband might be hiding behind a stack of crates or perched on an old cane-seat chair.
She slipped the pennies into the pocket in the waistband of her black pants.
A small thud startled her and she glanced around, spotting Bastet’s bright eyes in the dim room. The cat had jumped onto a domed-top trunk against the far wall, next to a stack of leather suitcases.
The McCaskills weren’t packrats. They were hoarders.
She didn’t remember the trunk. Whose it was or what it held, she had no idea. She set Bastet on the floor, where the cat immediately began licking a paw and washing her face.
Sarah undid the two large brass buckles on the front of the trunk and pushed the lid with the heels of her hands. It didn’t budge. She groped at the ends of the trunk for more buckles, finding only thick leather handles. She gave the tongue another tug, then tried again.
The lid remained firmly shut.
She shone the flashlight on the front of the trunk and craned her neck, spying a small brass keyhole she hadn’t noticed earlier. It couldn’t be hard to pick an old lock like that, could it? Unless the key was around here somewhere.
But what was so valuable that it had been locked away for decades?
She carried the cat out of the apartment and closed the door, then made her way down the unlit staircase. The windows on the ground floor level were as filthy as the ones upstairs, and she played the flashlight beam across the rows of tools. No keys. Had her mind been playing tricks on her?
Not for the first time. When, she wondered, would be the last?
12
“Squat.” Nic spat out the word and dropped a white paper bag on the table outside where Sarah sat, facing the lake. “They told me squat.”
“Care to be more specific?” Sarah asked.
“I should have ignored the letter,” Janine said, taking the seat across from Nic. No sign of Holly. “Then none of this would have happened.”
