Tricia pressed the doorbell and heard a resounding bing-bong from within. Moments later the heavy oak door swung open. "Welcome," Mike greeted, ushering her into an elegant foyer with its polished tile floor and matching floral wing chairs flanking a marble-topped mahogany table. To the left was a magnificent staircase, with ornately carved banisters, that swept up to the second floor. Light streamed in through stained-glass panes of green and yellow diamonds, casting a warm glow on the carpeted steps.
"What a beautiful home," she said, wondering what other delights it might contain.
"Thanks. It was a nice place to grow up in. And as you can see, my parents took good care of it." He held out his hands. "Let me take your jacket. I've got a pot of coffee brewing in the kitchen. Can I get you a cup?"
"Yes, thanks," she said and shed her coat.
Mike took it from her and hung it in a closet off to the left at the base of the stairs. "How do you take it?"
"Milk or creamer only-no sugar."
"Coming right up. Most of the books are in the living room," he said, gesturing to his right. Go have a look-make yourself at home." He gave her an encouraging smile and took off down a dark hallway.
"Thanks," she called after him.
With Mike gone, an unnerving silence enveloped her. She took in a deep breath of stale air and wondered how long the house had been closed up.
Since she was there to see the books, Tricia figured she might as well get started and entered the living room through the opened French doors, where both chaos and order reigned. A stack of mismatched, taped cartons sat beside an empty curio cabinet just inside the doors, bald patches in the dust suggesting the shapes of the delicate objects that had once occupied it. Several seating arrangements compartmentalized the large room. Most of the furniture lay hidden beneath drop cloths, while other pieces, richly brocaded in shades of beige, were not. The carpet hadn't seen a vacuum cleaner in months. Rectangular patches on the walls hinted at where paintings, prints, or photographs had once hung.
Tricia picked her way across the room to the reading nook with its matching wide and inviting pillowed chairs and floor lamps, not unlike what she'd created for Haven't Got a Clue. The adjacent bookshelves stood on either side of a white painted mantel and drew her to them. It didn't take much imagination to conjure up an image of a sedate Mrs. Harris in her declining years, seated in one of the chairs before a roaring fire, book in hand, lost in its pages.
Now the room felt cold, empty. Without its mistress, the room-if not the home-had lost its soul.
Tricia shook away the image and retrieved her reading glasses from her purse, slipping them on to assess the titles. Mrs. Harris had eclectic taste in reading material, from mystery fiction to romances, biographies to travel books, as well as mainstream fiction and the classics, and she'd grouped them as such. Noticeable gaps on the shelves proved that the collection was not entirely intact.
She grabbed a mystery at random, Deadly Honeymoon, by Lawrence Block. It turned out to be a first edition with a mint condition dust cover. She'd sold a used, discarded library copy for eight dollars only a week before. This would bring much more. Checking the copyright dates on several other books was just as encouraging. Other titles by authors such as James Michener and Ann Morrow Lindbergh were also first editions. They'd be worth more signed, but were still valuable to die-hard collectors.
Mike reappeared with a tray containing two steaming mugs and a plate of Oreos, which he set on the dusty table in the nook. He handed her a mug. "So what do you think?"
"I'm no expert on most of what's here, but a lot appear to be first editions. That's always a plus."
"Could you give me a ballpark estimate on the whole lot?"
Tricia shook her head. "I shouldn't tell you this, but if you offer them to a dealer, you'll get substantially less than they're worth. Your best bet is to sell them on one of the online auction sites."
Mike frowned. "I figured as much."
"I see some of the books are already missing."
Mike's grip on his coffee mug tightened. "I gave them to friends of Mother's. At first I didn't realize they might be worth anything. I even considered boxing up the lot and taking them to Goodwill just for the tax write-off. Even then, I'd need an estimate on their worth-something I couldn't do."
"A lot of them may end up there anyway; for instance, the travel books and most of the paperbacks she has squirreled away. Unless of course she had some of the old pulp paperbacks from the forties and fifties. They're quite collectible if only for their lurid covers."
"Doesn't sound like Mother's cup of tea."
Tricia remembered her promise to Deirdre. "Did your mother have any cookbooks?"
"In the kitchen. Come on, I'll show you."
Tricia followed Mike down the dark hallway, past a formal dining room, and into a large airy kitchen, which hadn't seen a remodel since the 1970s. The harvest gold appliances and bicentennial patterned vinyl flooring, with 1776 stamped every few squares, seemed stuck in time. Then again, the oak table with stenciled Hitchcock chairs and the dark-stained woodwork were classic. Except for a layer of dust on just about everything, the room was tidy, the counters clutter free.
The hundred or more cookbooks resided in a glass-fronted double-doored cabinet above and between the sink and stove, no doubt to keep them grease free. Like in the living room, gaps on these shelves proved they had also stored more than were currently there. Would all the other cupboards be empty as well? And what did it matter? Mike had said he was liquidating the estate to pay for his mother's health care. A pity that was necessary.
Tricia opened one of the doors, selecting a book at random and thumbing through to the copyright page. "The Cookery is in need of new stock because of smoke damage after the fire."
"The Cookery? I thought it was closed. I saw it had been emptied out and someone was cleaning the place yesterday. I assumed it was the new tenant."
"Doris Gleason had a sister. She's taking over the business and is looking for new stock. If you're going to dump these books anyway, you might consider offering them to Deirdre. Who knows, she might even vote for you in the election."
He laughed. "Thanks."
Tricia replaced the book, closing the cabinet. She turned to find Mike staring at her, or rather her bust. She pulled her long-sleeved sweater tighter about her, crossing her arms across her chest. "Goodness, our coffee's getting cold."
Mike seemed to shake himself. "Come on." He led the way back to the living room, and they resumed their places before the cold fireplace. Tricia picked up her mug, took a sip, and resigned herself to yet another cup of tepid coffee.
Mike grabbed a book at random from the closest shelf. A yellowed piece of paper jutted out of it, marking a place. He took out the paper and showed it to her: a recipe for Yankee bean soup torn from a magazine. "Still having problems with the propaganda leaflets?"
Tricia nodded, grateful for something else to talk about. "Yes. And you were right. The one I showed you was just the first in a series. They've stepped up to a direct advertising campaign. Ever hear of Full Moon Camp and Resort?"
"Can't say as I have," he said, crumpled the paper, and tossed it into the fireplace's maw. He replaced the book on the shelf.
"It gave a web address that said they were opening a new location next summer in southern New Hampshire, but it didn't specify where. I meant to call Bob Kelly about it, but with everything else that's been going on…"