Promise Canyon (Virgin River #13)(23)

"Can't the police go in there?" Jack asked.

"I think you should take the police, by all means. Your brother-in-law, Mike--local police. Take Preacher, too. I think Clay here might like to go along--Hope reminds him of family members."

"Not enough for that," Clay said.

"Gather your troops, Jack," Mel said. "Go tell Preacher. Call Mike and Paul Haggerty. It wouldn't hurt to have a minister along--give Noah a call--he'll go with you. The house will keep till morning. It might scare the liver out of you at night."

"Are you coming with me?"

She shook her head. "Not a chance. That place is bound to give us all bad dreams."

Five men stood in the doorway of Hope's house, which had not been locked. Mike Valenzuela, Paul Haggerty, Noah Kincaid, Preacher and Jack.

"Holy Mother of God," Preacher said. "She really didn't throw anything away."

"I bet she could have been on that TV show," Noah said. "You know the one--about the hoarders. Ellie loves that show."

It turned out to be the predictable truth that Hope was a pack rat, but although her house--every single room of it--was stacked with things she'd saved, she had somehow never crossed the line into saving newspapers or empty cans and bottles. She might have saved a lot of useless stuff but at first glance it didn't appear she'd saved garbage. And, to Hope's credit, may she rest in peace, the house could be navigated easily enough. She'd made definite paths through the clutter.

"I'm just trying to figure out when she had the time to buy any of this stuff," Jack said. "She was always working on a project, getting in people's business or gardening. Anyone have any idea how many rooms we got here?"

"We're gonna find out," Paul said. "First thing to do, just take a visual inventory, get the lay of the land, and look for a place she might've stored vital papers--like a will. We'll decide how to handle this mess later. I don't think we can legally start sorting and pitching anyway. Thank God."

Noah broke away from the group and walked through the living room, past junk stacked on both sides of the room, down a path in the dining room, toward the back of the house. The remaining four men very slowly began to enter the room, gingerly lifting items to look underneath--a stray lamp shade, a few lamps without shades, a couple of unopened boxes shipped from Craft World, not one but two disconnected fax machines and a couple of outdated computer printers. There were stacks of mismatched dishes, paperbacks tossed everywhere, and--just as Mel said--underneath an enormous mound of sheets, towels and clothes was an old, purple velvet sofa.

Jack cautiously opened a tied-off garbage bag and peeked inside. "Anyone remember Hope ever wearing a ball cap?" he asked.

Heads were shaking--no.

He pulled one out of the bag. It was for the Denver Broncos. "There must be a hundred of 'em in here. But why?"

"Do you suppose this could be what we're looking for?" Noah said from the dining room. He held a square metal strongbox. Written in marker on it, Vital Papers.

"Be damned," Jack muttered. "How'd you go right to it?"

"I just tried to think about where she might spend the majority of her time," Noah said with a shrug. "It sure wasn't on the sofa. There's a big kitchen back there--with a table, desk, computer and TV. Also a fantastic fireplace and big recliner--I think she worked in it, ate in it, slept in it. It was her office, bedroom and living room, I presume."

"All right, gentlemen," Mike said, heading for the dining table. "Let's clear a space and see if we can find any pertinent information in that box."

"You guys mind if I poke around a little?" Paul asked. "I'd like to see how many rooms in this old house. How many stairwells, water closets, that sort of thing."

"Why?" Jack asked, lifting a pile of cookie sheets and pots off the table and transferring them to another pile.

"Because I'm a builder, and a little curious," Paul said. "This place is a wreck, no doubt, but have you noticed it doesn't smell or anything? No cracks, no walls caved in. There aren't any stains from mysterious leaks, no obvious mold in one of the dampest places on the planet, the paint is chipped and peeling here and there, the floor is scratched and scarred, but it's quality wood and it's level, not warped. I think maybe under all the junk there might be a good, solid old house. When was it built?"

"Not sure," Jack said, moving a pile of towels and gardening books in one heap. He took a stack of coffee table books off a dining-room chair, placing them on the floor. "In fact, I'm not sure of anything. I didn't know much about Hope, and to tell the truth I don't know who did. I never heard her say anything about who her oldest friends were. She knew Doc Mullins a long time, I know that, but they mostly squabbled. And Doc said she'd been in this house forever, widowed for over thirty years." He took a breath. "That's not a lot to know about a person."

"Did you ever ask?" Noah inquired.

"Sure, but she was stingy with personal information. She said she married young, never had children, that once there had been a lot of land under the house but she'd sold it off to neighbors who needed grazing and planting land. I'm a bartender, man. We lend an ear, but try not to pry."

"You might want to practice up on that not prying part," Preacher mumbled.