Assumptions Read Online Free PDF Page B

scanned the page.
"There she is drinking out of the Cross County Softball Cup. That
tournament raised the money for the tot lot.” Sadie paused, looking
at the smudgy images. “I never realized how much she did for this
town . . . for us . . .”
    The cook shelved the last of his iron
skillets with a clang then burst through the kitchen door, joining
the waitress behind the counter. “Miss Whitford sure appreciated
all your help, Mr. Stillman,” he said. “She was always going on
about you. I’m sure she’d be pleased, you putting everything in
order since, well, since she’s been gone.”
    Stillman looked up from the paper. “It’s
nothing. Just my job." He folded the paper. “Mind if I hang onto
this?”
    “She would have liked that,” said Sadie.
    Stillman stuffed the paper in his front
pocket and reached for his wallet.
    “Not today, Mr. Stillman,” Sadie
insisted.
    “Thanks." He reached over the counter and
gave the cook single, firm handshake. "I’ll miss this place.”
    “Better hit the road soon if you want to make
it before it gets dark,” said Sadie.
    “Yeah. I still have a couple of things to
wrap up across the street.”
    The overhead bell on the door tinkled sweetly
as Stillman walked out of diner onto the sunlit sidewalk. He looked
both ways out of habit and crossed the empty street, stopping in
front of a large, multi-colored building.
    Provident Theater and Studios stood at the
dead center of town. It had been Timothy Stillman's home since his
arrival four-and-a-half months earlier at Miss Dorothea Whitford's
request. Over that time, Stillman documented every aspect of the
theater turned museum and its contents, meticulously updating Miss
Whitford's appraisal records for her insurance policy, which, upon
her disappearance, had taken on unexpected significance. After the
storm, he stayed on to clean up the damage.
    Since its dedication in 1922, the building
had played host to decades of the famous and the obscure. Rumor had
it the Studios once housed a Prohibition era speakeasy, though
Stillman could never get anyone to confirm that.
    Unoccupied for months, the building now
languished, its windows still clad in board-up plywood from the
storm. Stillman ran his hand along the crackled terracotta façade,
carefully fixing the time-mellowed gold and blue in his mind like a
scrapbook memento.
    He pulled a thick brass key with worn letters
from his hip pocket and, with a soft ker-clunk, unlocked the lobby
doors. He punched the push-button light switch. A pair of
amber-colored sconces dimly lit the three-story space. A squat
jack-o-lantern, recently carved with a wide, Cheshire grin, smiled
from the top of a dusty glass display case.
    Bits of cobalt-glazed ceiling plaster
crunched beneath Stillman's feet as he crossed the shadowy lobby.
He punched more switches, illuminating an immense chandelier and
the riser lights along the sweeping stairs leading to either side
of the mezzanine gallery.
    A flimsy brass sign stand lay on the floor
near the lobby door. Limp poster board, deformed by the humidity of
summer, slumped in the sign frame, rendering it's gracious message, Welcome to Dorothea’s Curiosity Shop and Museum of Unusual
Objects , barely legible.
    An assortment of mismatched display cases
stood exactly as they did the day of the storm, except the one
nearest the front window which had toppled and shattered, spilling
its contents across the floor. Stillman had painstakingly cleaned
it up, documenting and packing each object with utmost care. The
remnants of the exhibit barely filled two small boxes, which he had
not yet placed in storage. The bent case stood empty in a dark
corner of the lobby.
    Stillman plodded up the wide stairs, dust
puffing up from the carpet with each step. When he reached the top,
he opened the side door, turning the lock with the same key. The
door opened into a long, whitewashed corridor with several
identical doors.
    Stillmand entered the third studio. It held
only a