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he’ll make a good recovery. But”—he raised a forefinger in warning—“mentally, he’s shaky. He doesn’t understand how badly he was injured and insists he can finish healing at home. Even with a full-time nurse, which he’s very unlikely to hire, I wouldn’t release him just yet. And anyway, his house is not fit for human habitation.”
    â€œHow about a nursing home or rehab center?” suggested Ms. Crowley, the RN in charge of his care.
    â€œNo,” said Dr. Vandermay, Riordan’s physician. “He insists he must go to his house, to protect it. He thinks thieves are eager to enter and steal his belongings.”
    Judi Mormon, the hospital’s social worker, spoke up. “Mr. Riordan is a collector,” she said, “or, as they’re sometimes called, a junker or hoarder. I spoke with a psychiatrist who is knowledgeable about these cases. I told him that the team who rescued him reported that every room of that house is packed with junk. I spoke with Mr. Riordan myself, and he claims to know every item, where it came from, and how much it’s worth. He’s very symptomatic, according to Dr. Morrison. The house is probably unsafe; it needs to be emptied out, fumigated, washed down, and painted. In all likelihood, it will require rewiring and replumbing, too. But Mr. Riordan says it’s fine and he has no plan to either fix it or sell it.”
    Dr. Vandermay said, “We can’t possibly allow this patient to go back into that house until it’s safe for him to live there.”
    Nurse Crowley said, “I can say with complete confidence, and in agreement with Judi, that he thinks his house is fine the way it is—well, except he plans to sue the neighbor whose tree fell on his house to force her to repair his roof. And he thinks she’ll be glad to do it, because she’s a friend.”
    â€œThat right there tells you his state of mind,” said Mr. White. “He needs someone to take the responsibility for his continuing care and to straighten out his domicile.”
    That suggestion brought immediate agreement.
    Then Nurse Crowley said, “All right, who?”
    â€œDoesn’t he have any family?” asked Mr. White.
    Ms. Mormon said, “No immediate family. He lists as next of kin a cousin who lives in Indiana. Her name is Valentina . . .” She looked for and found a page in a thick file. “Shipp. Spelled with two
p
’s.”
    â€œIs this Shipp woman in charge of his trust?” asked Mr. White. “I assume he must have one. His family must know about his situation.”
    â€œHe does have a trust, you’re right,” said Ms. Mormon. “But it’s handled by an attorney in Excelsior, Jim Penberthy.”
    Mr. White asked, “Has Attorney Penberthy been notified of Mr. Riordan’s condition?”
    Ms. Mormon smiled. “I would think he knows by now. Riordan is a well-known figure in Excelsior, and the town has an excellent grapevine. On the other hand, I don’t think he’s been officially notified.”
    â€œWhat about Mrs. Shipp?” asked Dr. Vandermay.
    â€œUnless Mr. Riordan contacted her—which is unlikely—she has no idea,” said Ms. Mormon.
    â€œIn that case, it appears we have some communicating to do,” said Mr. White. “Ms. Mormon, I’m appointing you to find out if Mrs. Shipp would be willing to serve as a conservator, and if not, who else Attorney Penberthy would recommend. I want you to expedite this, if you will, and report back to us via e-mail as soon as you have a name or names. This meeting is adjourned.”

Chapter Six

    V ALENTINA Shipp was beyond tired. But her cousin, Tommy, was in deep doo-doo and needed her help. As in
now
. She pressed the accelerator down just a little bit more and glanced in the rearview mirror to make sure no state trooper was coming up behind her.
    She was a tall woman in