Three Suitcases Left in the Rain and Nineteen Million Dollars in Cancun
“Cassandra, thank goodness you are back,” she said, her voice dropping to a rapid-fire chatter. “You need to see what they just put up down the block.”
I walked along the brick path toward her, my slippers damp from the wet lawn. “Did the appraiser return?”
“Worse,” Martha said, pointing her garden shears toward the corner of the avenue. “Two men in a white truck just hammered a sign into the grass by the main gate.”
I shielded my eyes against the midday sun. At the edge of our curb, partially hidden by the oak trees, stood a wooden post with a glossy blue real estate sign. I walked closer to see the name printed on the bottom.
“It says coming soon,” Martha whispered, adjusting her shawl over her shoulders. “I called the number on the listing while you were out. The agent told me the house is priced at two million dollars and they are taking private offers starting this weekend.”
“Sable doesn’t own this house,” I said. “The deed is still in probate.”
