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  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.

  Chapter Ten

  “TOMMY?” 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.”

  * * *

  GEORGIE 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.”

  * * *

  IT 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.

  “It’s a Morgan.” Georgie handed the coin to Jill, then reached in and pulled out three more. She put her hand in a third time and pulled out four more. Again, they were all old Morgan silver dollars. Most were in pretty good shape.

  “Are these real?” asked Jill, hefting them in her palm.

  “Yes, they’re real. And they’re valuable.” Georgie leaned over to look into the jar. “There must be dozens in here.”

  Jill went to the door leading into the dining room. “Valentina! Valentina, come see what we’ve found!” she shouted. She came back to Georgie. “How valuable?”

  “I don’t know for sure; it depends on the date, the mint, and the condition. Some might be as low as thirty dollars, some worth hundreds, a very few could be a lot more. I don’t know which dates are the most valuable.” Sh
e held up two coins. “See, this one is in really good shape, but not this one.”

  “What is it? What have you found?” Valentina came into the room. There was a smudge on her prominent nose, and the white work gloves she was wearing were filthy.

  “This old cookie jar—”

  “Yes, I saw it the first time I came through. I can’t believe Tommy had that racist thing in his house. Toss it.”

  “First of all, it’s not considered racist anymore,” said Georgie, “and it’s worth maybe seventy dollars to a collector. But second, it’s full of Morgan dollars, which could be worth thousands of dollars.”

  “Each?” Valentina’s voice came out in a squeak.

  “No, no, not each. In total. Possibly.”

  “Still,” said Jill, “that’s a lot of money.”

  Connor, who had followed Valentina into the kitchen, said, “We can’t leave those in the living room. We’ll have to find someplace secure to put them. A safe deposit box, maybe.”

  “I’ve never seen a Morgan dollar,” Valentina said. “What do they look like?”

  Georgie handed over two of the coins. “They all have that face on them, with an eagle on the back,” she said.

  Valentina turned them over and back in her gloved hands. “Pretty woman,” she said, rubbing one with a thumb. Then she added, awed, “Say, this one is like a hundred and fifty years old!” She looked around the still-filthy kitchen. “I bet we don’t find anything else in the whole house as wonderful as this.”

  * * *

  AFTER some of the others had a look at the hoard of silver dollars, the pairs broke apart and re-formed.

  Emily ended up working alone in the little dining room, feeling near despair.

  “Oh, sweetie, what’s the matter?” Emily looked up to see Georgie standing in the doorway.

  “I don’t know what to do next,” cried Emily, feeling tears stinging her eyes. “It’s all so—so complicated!”

  “You’re absolutely right, and you shouldn’t be in here alone. I’ll help. We start in this corner, okay?” Georgie’s brisk, take-charge attitude put heart back into Emily.