‘You see the problem,’ said Fran, scrambling to clear a spot on top of a relatively stable stack of cardboard boxes.
I set the ledger on the spot she had cleared and, as both women watched, opened it to the title page: Tilghman County, Cross Index Land Proceedings.
I turned several pages, stopping about a quarter of the way though. In a neat, perfectly legible hand, some long-ago clerk had written across the page at the head of neat, red-lined columns: Defendant, Nature of Action, Plaintiff, Book and Page. I ran my vinyl-covered fingertips over the rich rag paper, the perceptible ridges of the ink that spelled out the names still as clear and as bold as the day they had been written which was, according to the date at the top of the page, 1852. Most actions, I noticed, were categorized as ‘dower.’
‘I know what dower means,’ I told Kim, ‘but what does it mean in the context of “nature of action?”’
‘Well, back in the day, a widow had almost no rights in the assets of her husband upon his death, especially second wives. The theory was that all property should descend to the children of the deceased, and it was their duty to take care of the widow.’ She laughed. ‘You can imagine how well that worked out. Eventually the laws were changed so that a certain portion of the husband’s estate was supposed to go to the surviving wife, so if she wasn’t happy with the amount left to her in the will, her only recourse was to go to court and claim the statutory share entitled to her by the new dower laws.’
‘So, all these dowers, these widows,’ I said, scanning down a long column of women’s names, ‘were simply trying to keep themselves from being thrown out on the street by their good-for-nothing children or stepchildren.’
Kim laughed into her mask. ‘Exactly.’
‘Does the state of Maryland have copies of these records?’ Fran asked.
Kim shrugged. ‘It’s possible, but nobody knows for sure. My predecessor hasn’t been very cooperative. The only way to find out is to inventory what is here and send the list to the Maryland Archives in Annapolis for comparison.’
‘Even wearing masks and gloves, we can’t work in here,’ I said, stating the obvious.
‘I know,’ Fran said. ‘I’m trying to find a place where we can move the records while they’re being inventoried.’
With some reluctance, I returned the book to its place on the shelf, paused, then thought better of it, moving it back to a relatively dry spot near the door.
‘Has the air in here been tested?’ I asked, my breath hot against the fabric of the mask.
Fran nodded. ‘Awaiting results.’
‘We’re hoping it’s not toxic,’ Kim said.
Molds grow everywhere – I knew that from experience. Open up a petri dish just about anywhere, wait a few seconds, clap the lid back on, store it in a warm place and three to four days later – tah-dah – you’ve got a thriving colony of fungus. It’s what kind of mold you’ve got that matters. ‘Cross our fingers that it’s just aspergillus,’ I told her.
‘Isn’t aspergillus dangerous?’ Kim wanted to know.
‘It could be with prolonged exposure, or for those with compromised immune systems, but otherwise…’
Kim blinked, her green eyes looking enormous over the mask, and I worried for a moment that she might fall into that latter category. ‘In the meantime,’ she asked, sounding a bit desperate, ‘is there anything we can do?’
‘First off, of course, we need to lower the relative humidity in here, get it down to around fifty percent.’ I glanced from wall to wall, silently calculating. ‘A dehumidifier from Sears and Roebuck should take care of it nicely, I think, and they don’t cost more than a couple of hundred dollars. We can set up a window fan near the door to get the air moving.’
Kim frowned. ‘Believe it or not, I don’t have the budget for that.’
‘I have a dehumidifier at home in Annapolis,’ I heard myself volunteer. ‘I’ll be happy to loan it to you, at least until we get this situation under control.’
‘And I can round up a fan,’ Fran added.
‘That’s super, ladies, but what do we do with all the moldy books?’
Fran ran her gloved fingers over a shelf, studied the results and frowned. ‘The experts would use a HEPA vacuum system with filters, but I think we can take care of most of the mold by wiping the books down with denatured alcohol.’
‘Aseptrol would be good,’ I said, following behind Fran as she perused the shelves nearest the door. Boats were mildew magnets. Drawing on my experience helping Connie and Dennis put their sailboat up for the winter, I added, ‘Aseptrol can be bought at any boating supply store, as well as desiccant and mildew control bags. Once we get the dehumidifier going, we can scatter desiccant around to soak up the excess moisture.
‘The next step, as I see it, is to get this place cleaned up. First, let’s get rid of the junk,’ I said, indicating the broken furniture. ‘And we should definitely pick up all the loose papers that are lying about and get them into clean boxes.’
Then Kim asked the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question: ‘When can we start?’
In for a penny, in for a pound, I thought. I squared my shoulders and came to a decision. ‘How about now? I seem to remember some empty trash cans out there.’
While Kim retrieved the trash cans and lined them with plastic bags, I started with a pile of magazines. ‘Guns & Ammo?’ I said when she returned, dragging a trash can behind her. I checked the date. ‘From 1964? Seriously?’
Kim set a trash can next to my right elbow. ‘Judge Porter, may his soul rest in peace, used to read them when things got a little slow on the bench, or so legend has it.’
I deep-sixed the Guns & Ammo, followed by National Geographic, Criminal Justice magazine and a single issue of the Georgetown Law journal, its cover stained with coffee rings.
While Fran and Kim occupied themselves by clearing space on the drier shelves near the door for material we already knew we’d want to save, I selected a cardboard box more or less at random, squatted next to it and looked inside. Labeled Detention Center 1966-67, the box contained a hodgepodge of manila file folders, their tabs marked with neatly typed labels, striped in a variety of primary colors. As I leafed through the folders, whatever adhesive had held the labels in place over the years since some long-ago secretary had typed them gave up the good fight and fell to the bottom of the box in a shower of confetti.
I sifted through the contents of the folders, looking for dates. Those at the top contained arrest records dated 1967, as advertised, but near the bottom of the same box I found check stubs from the 1950s and, at the very bottom, a packet of letters tied up with string, the top one postmarked from Seattle in 1934. I sat back on my heels and sighed into my mask. ‘Looks like we won’t be able to trust what’s marked on the outsides of the boxes, ladies. There’s all kinds of non-Detention Center stuff mixed up in here, and only part of it is actually from 1966 or 1967.’ I waved the packet of letters. ‘Who knows what treasures lie inside these envelopes?’
Fran wandered over and held out her hand, so I put the letters into it.
‘Three cents,’ she said, examining the top envelope closely. ‘That’s what it cost to mail a letter back then. Fabulous stamp. Whistler’s Mother. “In memory and in honor of the mothers of America.” Don’t you love it?’
‘Do you suppose the stamps are valuable?’ Kim wanted to know.
‘I doubt it,’ Fran said, ‘but depending upon who the letters are from, and what they’re about, they could be priceless to a family member.’ She handed the packet to Kim. ‘Put these in a safe place until we have time to look at them.’