Three Suitcases Left in the Rain and Nineteen Million Dollars in Cancun
The damp morning air smelled of wet oak leaves and the faint scent of cinnamon from Martha’s kitchen. I sat at the mahogany dining table with my worn leather notebook open to a fresh page, the grid lines waiting for my pen. Through the window, the tall brick chimney of my old home rose above the privacy hedge, cold and silent in the early light.
Martha walked in from the kitchen, adjusting her gray wool shawl over her shoulders. She carried two yellow ceramic mugs, setting one down near my right hand. The steam rose in thin, straight lines toward the white ceiling.
“The appraiser’s report came in the mail while you were dressing,” Martha said, her words tumbling out in her usual quick tempo. “The private estate appraisal cost thirty-five hundred dollars, just as Frank said it would. Do you want me to read the summary?”
“No, I already know what the house is worth,” I said.
