“It doesn’t really matter,” Dad said. “That property is golden.”
“Golden, right.”
“If this proves out, your college expenses are taken care of.” He let out a long sigh, pursing his lips so it made a hooo sound. “I feel like a ninety-pound weight just slid off my back.”
“Assuming we sell it,” I said.
He gave me an odd look. “Are you telling me you want to keep it? Do a Norman Bates and live in the Psycho House?”
“It doesn’t look like the Haunted Mansion anymore, Dad.”
“I know. I know. You really spiffed it up.”
“Got a ways to go. I was hoping to get the whole thing painted before winter.”
He was still giving me the odd look—head cocked, slight frown creasing his brow. “It’s the land that’s valuable, Chip, not the house.”
I wanted to argue—the idea of demolishing Number 1 Sycamore gave me the horrors, not because of the secrets it contained but because so much of Mr. Bowditch was still in there—but I didn’t. There was no point, because there was no money for a full-on paintjob anyway, not with the will in probate and no way to convert the gold to cash. I finished my Coke. “I want to go up there and get my clothes. Can Rades stay here with you?”
“Sure. Guess she’ll be staying here from now on, won’t she? At least until…” He didn’t finish, just shrugged.
“Sure,” I said. “Until.”
10
The first thing I noticed was that the gate was open. I thought I’d shut it, but couldn’t remember for sure. I went around the house, started up the back steps, and stopped on the second one. The kitchen door was open and I knew I’d closed that one. Closed it and locked it. I went the rest of the way up and saw I’d locked it, all right; splinters were sticking out all around the lockplate, which had been partly torn from the jamb. I didn’t consider that whoever had broken in might still be there; for the second time that day I was too stunned to consider very much. The only thing I remember thinking was being glad I’d left Radar at our house. She was too old and fragile for more excitement.
CHAPTER TEN Wreckage. Mrs. Richland. Obit Thieves. The Tale of the Tape. Inside the Shed. The Tale of the Tape, Continued.
1
All the kitchen cupboards had been opened and the pots and pans had been scattered across the linoleum, hell to breakfast. The Hotpoint had been pulled away from the wall and the oven door was open. The contents of the cannisters—SUGAR, FLOUR, COFFEE, COOKIES—had been spilled across the counter, but the one that had contained money no longer did, and the first coherent thought to cross my mind was fucker didn’t get it. I’d put the cash （and the little gold pellets） in the safe months ago. In the living room the rollaway bed—now turned into a couch again, with Mr. Bowditch no longer needing it—had been overturned and the cushions slashed. Same with Mr. Bowditch’s easy chair. The stuffing was everywhere.
Upstairs was worse. I wouldn’t need to open my dresser to get my clothes, because they were scattered all over the room I’d been using. My pillows had been slashed, ditto mattress. It was the same in the master bedroom, only there the wallpaper had also been slashed and hung in great long strips. The closet door stood open and with the clothes heaped on the floor （the pockets of the pants had been turned out）， the safe stood revealed. There were scratches along the seam by the handle, and more on the combination dial, but the safe had stood strong against the thief’s attempts to break in. Just to be sure, I ran the combo and opened it. Everything was still there. I closed it, gave the dial a spin, and went downstairs. There, sitting on the couch where Mr. Bowditch had slept, I called 911 for the third time that year. Then I called my father.
2
I realized there was one thing I needed to do before Dad came, and certainly before the police arrived. If I intended to lie, that was, and have the lie stand up. I took care of that, then went outside to wait. My father drove up the hill and parked at the curb. He hadn’t brought Radar, and I was glad of that; the destruction of the house would have upset her more than she was already by the recent changes in her life.
Dad walked through the downstairs, surveying the destruction. I stayed in the kitchen, picking up the pots and pans and putting them away. When he came back, he helped me move the stove back against the wall. “Holy crow, Charlie. What do you think?”
I told him I didn’t know, but I thought I did. I just didn’t know who. “Will you wait here for the police, Dad? I’m going across the street for a minute. Mrs. Richland’s back, I saw her car. I want to talk to her.”