Three Suitcases Left in the Rain and Nineteen Million Dollars in Cancun
“An appraisal truck?” I asked, stopping near the dry boxwoods.
“Yes, the one with the magnetic signs on the door panels,” Martha said, adjusting her wool shawl over her shoulders. “Two men with clipboards were taking photographs of the chimney and the roof line last week.”
I looked back at our brick chimney, my hand tightening on my gold ring. No one had mentioned an appraisal to me, let alone authorized strangers to photograph the property.
“When was this, Martha?”
“Last Tuesday,” Martha said, her shears snipping a thick stem. “Right around lunchtime, while you were at the dentist.”
I thanked her and turned back toward the house, my boots sinking into the damp lawn.
At two in the afternoon, I found Nathan in Gordon’s private study. The green shaded desk lamp was on, casting a pale light over stacks of bank statements and unpaid invoices that Gordon had always kept locked away in the bottom drawer.
Nathan had his hands deep in his trousers pockets, his shoulders hunched as he stared at a spreadsheet on the computer screen.
