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Nothing was said about a two-hundered pound crystal chandelier. We’ll get it down if you leave us alone.”
    Ruth stared at Willie. “What did you…”, she started to say then threw her hands up in frustration. “Let’s get the damn thing down. It’s getting late.”
    Willie wiped his face with his arm. “Son. Pay attention!” he said to his cohort holding the end of the rope. “James!”
    Joe felt the tension between the two. The younger Reynolds was the opposite of his father—bean pole thin, dreadlocks, and hadn’t worked up a sweat. With his mind, on the song streaming into his ears from his Walkman, he looked at his father and pulled on the rope.
    Joe stepped into the foyer, squeezed around a couple holding a torch lamp, and entered the living room. It was eerily dark, the only light coming from the naked windows. All of the furniture had been removed except for an ornate orange upholstered chair precariously balanced on three legs against the side of the fireplace. The hearth had been bricked closed. Reddish brown mud streaked the threadbare beige carpet.
    “It’s almost four o’clock, we’re getting ready to close,” Ruth barked as she entered the living room.
    Joe turned around. “No problem.”
    A middle age woman wearing a version of Ruth’s lime green pantsuit peeked into the room. “I’m cutting out. Upstairs and the basement are clear.”
    “Silvia, I need you here tomorrow by ten,” Ruth ordered.
    Silvia sighed, waving her hand over her head as she walked out of the house.
    “Lime green is a nice touch,” Joe said.
    “I think so. It sets us apart from the buyers.” Ruth gave Joe the once-over. “You’re the hero cop.”
    “I was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Joe said modestly.
    “Ruth Ritchie,” she said, offering her hand. “I own
Attic Finds
.”
    Joe shook her hand. “Joe Henderson, owner of a gimpy leg.”
    Ruth removed a pack of cigarettes tucked in her sleeve and tamped a non-filtered Pall Mall against her leg. “You wouldn’t have a match?” she asked, patting her pockets.
    Joe flicked his Zippo and held it for Ruth. “You don’t look like the estate sale type,” she said.
    “I hate garage sales, estate sales and any other scam that redistributes junk from one house to another.” He moved to the fireplace, bending to inspect the bricked hearth.
    Ruth’s rapid long drags produced ash an inch long. She flicked the ash onto the rug. “Then why bother coming in?”
    “I knew Preston a long time. Call me curious,” Joe said, running his hand along the brick and mortar closure. “He must have been afraid of Santa Claus.”
    Ruth spit a piece of tobacco. “Mr. Swedge wasn’t just afraid of Santa Claus. There are dead bolts on a couple of the interior doors.”
    “Damn it James, pull on the rope!” Willie yelled in the hall.
    The sound of tinkling crystal turned Ruth on her heels. She ran into the hall. Joe followed. Mutilated plaster and wire lathe hung from the ceiling where the chandelier tore the electrical box from the floor joist above. Willie scrambled down the ladder and placed a gray woolen blanket under the chandelier as James lowered the two-hundred pounds to the floor.
    Ruth ran her fingers across the crystals. “Amazing none are broken. Here are the addresses. Make sure it gets there in one piece and make it your first stop.” Ruth handed a sheet of paper to Willie.
    “One day…,” Willie left off as he snatched the paper. “James, get the dolly.”
    “I’ve got a couple of things to finish. Joe, you’ve got about ten minutes.” She headed for the kitchen.
    Resting on alternate steps, Joe climbed the stairs to the second floor. The hallseen from the bottom of the staircase led to a master bedroom, two small bedrooms, and a full bath. The small bedrooms had been picked clean except for odd scraps of tissue paper.
    Joe leaned heavily on the five-iron in an attempt to keep pressure off his throbbing leg. As with the other bedrooms,