Not Beatrice.
Not Vivian.
Me.
Attached was a note:
The key may correspond to an archive cabinet or off-site repository. ORY could be an abbreviation, initials, or partial label.
The next morning, I drove past the mansion without turning in. A moving van blocked the side gate, and two men carried out a tarp-covered mirror I recognized from the east hallway.
Vivian had always called selling heirlooms vulgar.
Apparently necessity made vulgarity negotiable.
I parked across the street beneath a dogwood tree and called Elliot.
“Can she remove estate property during the foreclosure hold?”
“Not if the items are protected by the preservation trust. Document what you see.”
I photographed the van, the plates, and Vivian’s silhouette in the doorway.
Then I noticed the name on the van:
Oryx Restoration and Storage.
ORY.
The key in my pocket seemed to grow heavier.
The men were not simple movers.
They were taking pieces of the house somewhere secret.
I followed at a careful distance, heart thudding with the guilt of doing something Vivian would call sneaky and my father would call observant.
The van drove beyond town, past greening fields and a church sign advertising a pancake supper, then turned into an industrial park softened by wild mustard flowers.
Oryx occupied a brick warehouse with narrow windows and a polished brass plaque.
I parked near the loading dock and waited.
A woman in a navy coat emerged and approached my car as if she expected me. She was around sixty, with silver hair pinned low and a clipboard against her chest.
“Mara Hale?”
I considered denying it, then remembered I was tired of disappearing.
“Yes.”
She smiled.
“I knew your father. I’m Helen Ory. He left instructions for you, though I hoped circumstances would be kinder.”
Helen led me into a reception room lined with photographs of restored mantels, stained glass, and carved staircases.
“Your father worried valuable pieces would vanish if the estate fell into the wrong hands,” she said. “He contracted us to store certain items only with trustee permission.”
“My mother sent a mirror today.”
Helen checked her clipboard.
“She attempted to. We accepted it pending verification. Without your signature, it cannot be released or sold.”
The room seemed to sway.
“So she doesn’t know I’m trustee.”
Helen’s gaze softened.
