OHANA
follows "Renewal"

Chapter 4

               ***April 29, 2024***

"Alex," Bobby said after breakfast, "I'm going to check out Bruno's–" He paused, then dropped his gaze for a few seconds. "Check next door. Make sure everything's safe. And I know...I left at least one plate there. I should bring it home b-before Mr. Trent claims it as part of the estate."

"May I come, Papa?" Olivia asked eagerly as she wiped the last cup, and Alex returned it to the cupboard.

She laughed. "I know where I stand."

"Oh, Mama," protested Olivia.

Bobby glanced at Alex with a wordless message, then said, "I'm just checking the doors and picking up the plate. I saw it in the dish drainer the day...on Thursday morning. I'll be right back."

"You can help me gather up the laundry in the meantime," Alex told Olivia as Bobby opened the back door.

"So exciting," Olivia answered, making a face, and he was gone.

"Is Papa...upset at me?" she asked after the porch door had closed.

"Not at you. He just needs some space right now." Alex settled in a kitchen chair. "Bruno meant a lot to all of us, but your dad knew him first. I think he felt like you, that Bruno was the grandfather he never knew—or maybe the father he wished he had."

Olivia nestled in her arms. "I'm glad St. Greg's has bereavement days. I couldn't have managed school today."

"I think we would have kept you home anyway," admitted Alex, smoothing Olivia's hair. "Yesterday was a little traumatic." And Olivia understood she wasn't just talking about the funeral.

"Mama, when I used the loo last night," Olivia ventured, "I thought I heard Papa's voice. It sounded odd—like he was counting."

Alex met her daughter's eyes, then sighed. "He has nightmares sometimes, just like you."

Olivia's eyes widened. "Papa? When things upset him?"

"Yes. Losing Bruno has hurt him so much." She cuddled the child closer. "Sometimes his dreams are about things that happened when he was a little boy. Most of the time–" She wondered how much to tell her. "Your dad...did undercover work once...at a prison. The guards were abusing the prisoners, with the warden's approval. Your dad wanted to stop it. So he...committed a minor crime so he would be arrested and sentenced to that prison, then disobeyed prison rules to see if the intelligence was correct." Olivia had backed up a step and was staring at her, horrified. "They locked him in a small room," skipping the information that restraints and drugs had been used, "with no water or food for hours. Days. To keep himself calm, he counted to ten, over and over again. He was dreaming about that."

"The people who did it, they were punished?" Olivia demanded, and somehow Alex could see this small fierce child hammering on the prison gates, staking a claim for justice.

"Yes," Alex said decidedly, "and I was at the hospital for him after...they made sure he was all right."

Too many memories made her squeeze her eyes shut in pain...Captain Danny Ross' fury at Bobby's unauthorized and risky behavior...her distress when she saw his unconscious form trundled out on a stretcher, his lips cracked and cheeks sunken...sitting at his bedside until he woke up—and now that she was so deep in recollection, she could still hear his papery whisper, "Alex...you came–"

And then the Chief of D's revenge, which had almost killed him. Almost killed them.

Olivia hugged her tightly; Alex realized the tables had turned, and the child was now comforting her. "Stop, Mama. Don't cry. It's okay. Truly."

Bobby, in the meantime, had reverted to his old ways; months of taking the sedate route around the front of the house accompanied by Alex and later with Olivia fell away, and he boyishly hopped the low chain-link fence that separated the properties as he used to after meeting Bruno for the first time, then crossed the yard in a brisk stride. With each step, his memory sparked. Last week at this time, he wore a jacket. Today it was warm enough for shirtsleeves. Last week, Bruno Volpe smiled and chatted with him and Olivia. Today, Bruno was silent and cold. He had hated change—change meant his mother dead, Frank gone, his first days at MCS over twenty years past—yet change had brought him his greatest blessings: Milbury. Sam. Olivia. Alex.

And Bruno.

"Thank you for being my friend, Bobby."

"Breakfast in bed again? I feel like I'm at the Ritz."

"Sorry, Bobby, I took a fall last night. I haven't been able to get up."

"I'm the one that's sorry, Bruno. I wish I'd known–" he whispered to the air.

He'd promised to return quickly, so he checked the front door, then headed for the rear. The doors were still locked, showing no signs of tampering. Finally, he used his key and let himself in the back, taking a deep breath before the first tentative step inside. The kitchen had a musty scent, but all appeared well, and the dish in question was indeed sitting in the aged dish drainer next to the farmhouse sink.

The long room that spanned the width of the rear of the house reminded him of one of similar vintage: the kitchen of Matthew and Penelope Hogarth's Dutch Colonial in Brookline, Massachusetts. At his left, cream-colored appliances alternated with linen-finish sage green Formica counters and ceiling-height golden-maple cupboards on both the back and interior walls so that, with the refrigerator as the "base," the work area formed a U shape. Roughly centering the interior wall was an aged, dark green, curiously battered door that Bobby knew must lead to the rest of the house; there was also a second door stained the same color as the woodwork in better condition at the corner where the back wall joined the right wall.

A closet door and the threadbare futon lined the right wall, and then, closest to the back of the house, a third door—basement access, Bruno told him once. Centering this area was a well-kept chestnut-brown wooden kitchen table covered with an age-crackled daisy-patterned oilcloth, surrounded by six sturdy matching ladderback chairs. The room was quaint by 21st-century standards; indeed, the house had been old-fashioned when the Volpes purchased it in the late 1960s, with warm brown-varnished beadboard on all visible walls with slightly faded 50s wallpaper above. Bobby only recalled how cozy and welcoming it had been the many times he'd shared a sandwich with Bruno or stood before the range thawing out after helping him shovel snow.

He collected the plate from the dish drainer, then lingered by the window, gazing out at the oak tree whose new leaves fluttered in the breeze.

"I never miss the spring. Something different every day," Bruno had said.

"Excuse me!" an angry voice said behind him. "You don't have permission to be here!"

Bobby wheeled to face impeccably dressed Stanley Trent, Julian's attorney. Slightly over six feet tall, slender and balding, with a sparse mustache and hard eyes squinting through narrow-lensed glasses, Trent made no apology, insisting, "What are you doing in Mr. Volpe's house?"

Unfazed by the man's adversarial tone, Bobby showed Trent the tagged key Bruno had given him. "I'm sorry, Mr. Trent. I've come to check daily that the house was still secured. In my experience, sometimes thieves t-take advantage of obituary notices. I came inside today to retrieve a plate I left here on Wednesday." He couldn't blame Trent for calling him on his presence; if he had found strangers wandering around his mother's house after she died, he would have greeted them aggressively as well. "I have the dish," and he displayed the rose-patterned plate to Trent, "and now...I'll vacate the premises. I'll return the key to Julian if you like."

"Everything in this house now belongs to Mr. Volpe and his family. How do I know that plate isn't his property?" the attorney asked crisply.

"Check the cupboards if you like," Bobby replied with a sigh, realizing he'd ignored his prescient remark to Alex and berating himself for not realizing Julian and Trent might turn up at the house to inspect the "inheritance" that the former expected to be such a moneymaker. "Bruno's dinnerware was plain, ivory-colored ironstone plates and cups. This was part of my...um..mother's set—you're free to inspect our kitchen."

Trent was also free to experience the wrath of Alex Eames, but Bobby didn't mention that aloud, just quirked his mouth.

"And you know about the elder Volpe's dinnerware because–"

"Because 'the elder Volpe' as you call him—his name was Bruno—and I have been f-friends for over three years," he returned, voice growing testy, "and I've eaten in this room many times."

Bobby flicked his eyes toward the backyard, where Julian was now visible through the kitchen window; he'd been so absorbed with personal memories that he'd missed their arrival. Julian was deep in conversation with Leo, who was scuffling his feet, his hand pointing at Lena Krentz's property, then mimed throwing a baseball while Leo listened distractedly. They disappeared from view, followed by the distinctive creak of the screen door to the sun porch. Seconds later, the back door opened, and Trent drawled spitefully, "Look who I found snooping around the kitchen."

Julian, to his credit, immediately apologized. "My regrets, Mr. Goren. Stan, you know Robert Goren, he spoke at the funeral. A friend of my dad's."

"I'm sorry, too," Bobby said wryly. He held up the plate again. "Mr. Volpe, I apologize for being here without notifying y-you. I brought your dad breakfast on this plate on Wednesday. It's part of my...late mother's set, and I'm sentimental about it."

"A likely story," Leo commented cynically, to which Trent added, "Apparently your father gave these people a key."

"Oh," came Alex's voice from the doorway, "this is what's delayed you." She spoke cheerfully, but behind her fixed smile, Bobby could see virtual smoke coming from what he knew she'd overheard. She flashed an ironic grin to Olivia, who was tucked close beside her. "Men. And they claim women talk too much! I see you found our plate." Later, she would tell him she'd spied Trent's luxurious BMW rental car pull into the driveway at 2 Courant Street. Instinct had done the rest: she and Olivia had locked up Bandit, given Sam a biscuit, and hurried next door.

To Olivia's displeasure, Leo shifted his attention to her; she inched even closer to Alex. The boy was examining the kitchen with distaste. "Looks like a museum in here. Like, where's George Washington?"

Once again, Julian's memories rescued him from his rigid business persona for a few pleasant minutes, and he chuckled. "Not that old, Lee. It's...vintage. Pre World War I. My parents loved it, and it was a wonderful place to be a kid," he said, almost wistfully. "We had friends everywhere in the neighborhood. We'd go sledding in winter and then come here, and Mom would make us hot cocoa—the real thing, not out of a packet. Enzo's best friend Martin Como lived just across the street. He was bummed when the Comos moved away. I played ball in a vacant lot off Maple Street with Jimmy Atherton—saw it yesterday; someone has a house there now. When we weren't playing baseball or football, we went for candy—and later smokes—at the Ben Franklin...we had great times."

Leo just lifted his chin at Olivia. "Our kitchen in California is so much better than this place, with a Sub-Zero refrigerator and an induction stove, a big dishwasher, everything stainless steel, with granite countertops, and a television in the dining nook. We even have a cook since Mother and Dad both work."

Olivia responded by laying on her boarding school accent with a palette knife. "I think vintage design is rather splendid! This is lovely beadboard wainscoting on this side of the room. It reminds me of the suite of rooms I had at Duplantier House in Paris. In France, vintage items are appreciated. And stainless steel is ugly." She stepped into the center of the work area and rotated as if studying everything. "I think whoever buys your grandfather's house could give this room a good painting and work Murphy's Oil Soap into the wood of the cabinets to bring out the grain and make it a showplace again. Besides," she finished loftily, "Papa's meals are better than a professional chef's. I know, because I've eaten cordon bleu."

Alex's glance at Bobby said that perhaps they needed to leave before Olivia began quoting more of Matt Hogarth's redecoration spiel or enumerating her French dining experiences when Trent abruptly demanded, "Why is this door locked?"

Planted before the battered door that should have opened in the hallway, he was frowning deeply.

"I wouldn't know," replied Bobby mildly. "None of us have ever seen the rest of the house. Why don't we get out of your way...um...and let you conduct your inspection, Mr. Volpe? If you have any questions, we're next door."

"You need to stay," Trent said aggressively, then turned to Julian. "How do we know they haven't stolen things from the house?"

"Hold on," Alex protested. "I understand that we're strangers in your parents' home and it's uncomfortable. But we were Bruno's friends, as at least a dozen people have told you. It's not like you caught Bobby carrying a canvas bag of loot."

Julian placated, "Stan—my dad told me about Mr. Goren. He's a former police officer."

Olivia corrected, "He's an FBI agent and has been for over ten years."

Bobby reached into his trousers pocket and held open his identification for the incredulous attorney, who started to remove it from his hand, only to have Bobby snap it back. "My Federal ID is not up for grabs, Mr. Trent. If you need further bona fides, I can give you a number for SAC Marcus Thuringer, director of the Boston field office."

Olivia hissed at Leo, "Agent Thuringer has an airplane. A Cessna 180, and we've flown in it."

"Min," Bobby said firmly. "Please stop."

"Sorry, Papa," the girl said, taking a deep breath, then folded her arms in front of her, adopting the chill attitude of a Sphinx.

"Stan, please. I'm sorry, Mr. Goren." Julian had tried the door to the hall and now looked confused. "This isn't even the correct door. This one used to be in the basement—it's the door from the storage room. My mom would let Enzo and me bounce softballs off it when we were bored on rainy days, which is why it looks like that. This should be a swinging door—eaiser to take food in and out of the dining room—with an etched glass window."

"I think...it made your father feel more secure," Bobby said quietly. "He did address that to me once."

Julian said resignedly, "And I did ask my father if he wanted to come live with us."

Leo snorted and muttered sotto voce, "Yeah, like Mom would have put up with that."

"Leo!" was Julian's rebuke. "Mr. Goren, my dad didn't happen to tell you where he kept the key, did he?"

Alex surveyed the kitchen. There were nails and hooks for hanging up utensils, but nothing resembling a key dangling anywhere. Judging by the lock, it would be a vintage key, an oval bow at one end, a bit and pin at the other.

"Where would a man hide a key?" she mused aloud, then smiled. Crossing to the refrigerator, she opened the door and checked inside the fruit and vegetable bins. She then retrieved the brass key from under the egg tray. "I think this is what you're looking for, Mr. Volpe."

Alex had kept her voice level, but Bobby grinned at her, and Julian swiftly apologized. He fitted the key in the lock, and there was a click as the pins lined up, so Julian turned the oval-shaped brass knob and swung open the door.

"What on earth–" he said.

With the chunky wooden door opened, the passageway leading to the front door should have been visible. The hallway light was on, so a newer door was visible at right, under the staircase to the upper story, stained to match the original woodwork, and at left was the arched opening to the dining room. Straight ahead stood two panels of heavy black drapery, seven feet long, suspended from a thick curtain rod spanning the hallway, truncating the passage.

Julian stepped through the door first, followed by an incredulous Trent and a sour-faced Leo, and, driven by curiosity, Bobby, Alex, and Olivia trailed behind them. Opening the door to their right revealed a compact three-quarter bath (toilet, shower, and sink) with handicapped-accessible features that fit snugly under the stairs. The dining room was turned into a bedroom, with a sturdy walnut-finished queen-sized bed positioned in front of a window obscured by blackout curtains, a matching six-foot tall dresser and a bureau with mirror, and a night table next to the bed on which was perched a 32-inch flat-screen television, all with an attractive carved-wheat motif, and a zippered soft-sided hanging garment holder storing Bruno's shirts and trousers.

Julian pivoted, face perplexed. "This was our dining room. Mother had the most beautiful dark mahogany table and chair set, Hepplewhite style. It seated twelve. We ate all our holiday meals here—Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter, birthdays. There was a matching glass-fronted cabinet, a sideboard, and a small liquor cabinet. And what happened to the floor? Look at those scars–"

"Excuse me. I'm sorry I'm late," interjected a businesslike female voice, and a slim, rigid-backed woman in her late fifties, with close-cropped pepper-and-salt hair and snapping dark eyes, appeared in the kitchen doorway. She wore a navy blue business suit and sensible low-heeled shoes to match her professional visage.

"There was an accident on I-84, and you did call me at the last minute, Mr. Trent," the latter continued tartly. "People do have previous obligations. I had to take a few minutes to reschedule a client. How are you doing, Bob? Hello, Alex. Nice to see you, Olivia."

"And you are?" Julian asked, puzzled.

"Your father's attorney," Trent said crisply. "Emery Moretti."

"I assumed..."

"That I was a man?" Moretti said blandly. "Yes, most people usually do if they've only seen my name."

Julian stepped forward and then smiled. "Wait, you're Emily Moretti. From St. Gregory's Academy.

"Class of 1985, yes. I wondered if you'd remember me." She nodded at Leo. "It may be hard for you to believe, but your dad and I dated way back in the Dark Ages." She smiled a little as Leo made a face. "He was voted Most Ambitious by our senior class. We were at least correct on that prediction. Alas, Amy Mullins did not go to Hollywood, nor did Jerry Mulvaney end up playing for the Celtics."

Alex and Bobby watched Julian's face soften, as it did any time he spoke about his childhood. Moretti added, "I especially remember Brother Elias's history class, and civics with Sister Matilda." She chuckled. "I wonder if you still remember that civics class project you completely wrested control of from me, Tom O'Hara, and Melanie Costas. We were so pissed at you! But you knocked it out of the park as usual, Sister Tilly was pleased, and at least we all got an 'A' out of it.

"But you're not the only one who's resorted to using a different name, Jack. I found too many people ignored a female attorney, so I began using my middle name. Now, you asked about the dining room–"

He shrugged, the "Julian" mask returning to his face. "Well, I'm confounded here, Emily...Emery. Why is this curtain hanging here? Why did Dad install a locking door between the kitchen and the hall? Why is Dad's bedroom furniture in the dining room? And what happened to this floor? Mom and Dad were so house-proud that it was always a showplace."

Moretti eyed the scratches and shallow dents in the dining room's once beautiful maple-stained hardwood flooring; when she responded, her nostalgic attitude was gone, replaced by the sterner one. "If you had visited, Jack, or at least paid attention the few times a year you spoke to your father, you'd know that your brother Enzo spent the last three years of his life in this room. Due to his muscular dystrophy, it became impossible for him to climb the stairs. God knows he tried as long as possible. Bruno put his foot down when he wanted to resort to all fours. Instead, your father rented hospital equipment so Enzo could continue to remain at home, except for the final month of his life, when he required intensive care. Hospital beds, oxygen tanks, IV poles, and the rest are not kind to hardwood floors.

"After Enzo died, your father decided it was easier to keep his bedroom downstairs near the kitchen. Since he had the bathroom under the stairs enlarged when your brother's illness worsened, it was available for his use when he switched bedrooms."

"And the curtain?"

"To keep light out from the entryway windows since the dining room had no door, and also to hold heat in this part of the house so he could turn down the radiators in the other rooms. Why heat parts of a house you're not living in?" responded Moretti. "Your father was a practical New Englander, after all."

Bobby said softly, "I never realized he kept himself so cocooned." He ran his fingers over the heavy material. "This...must have made him feel safer since he was alone. Fewer chances of falling than using the stairs. F-Funny, we spoke about everything else- I'm sorry, Em, we didn't know. I would have tried to help him."

"As if Bruno would have allowed me to tell you, Bob!" she answered gruffly. "You know how independent he is...I mean 'was.' Viola Perrino knew—but she kept it to herself."

"How do you and the Gorens know one other?" Trent asked suspiciously.

"Ms. Moretti's one of our trivia players," Olivia piped up. "At the Dark Crystal. She's on the team called 'Agatha Quiztie.'" She wrinkled her nose at Leo. "It's a joke, you see. After the mystery writer Agatha Christie. I don't suppose you've heard of her."

"That's enough, Olivia," Alex chided; Olivia promptly clasped her hands behind her back, assuming a martyred expression.

"I don't understand," Julian repeated.

"Mr. Goren," Moretti said patiently, "is 'The Wizard' at the Dark Crystal's twice-weekly trivia game. It's been written up in several area magazines, including 'Yankee,' and also in the New Haven Register as the most difficult trivia game in New England. Ms. Eames and Olivia are part of the game, too. They're well known here in Milbury, especially after Mr. Goren's book was on the bestseller list last year and Ms. Eames' book was so well received."

Julian looked quizzical. "Books?"

"You're about to make me blush, Em," Bobby said.

Alex quipped, "Fame hasn't spoiled me—I still do my own grocery shopping."

"You play trivia?" Trent asked Moretti with a condescending look.

"What," Moretti asked with raised eyebrows, "only pickleball or golf permitted in your rarified circles, Mr. Trent? For your information, the other women on my team are a pediatrician, a reporter with the Hartford Courant, and a senior executive at Electric Boat."

"Her team wins at trivia," Bobby corrected. "Best team several months running now. I should start posing more difficult questions."

Moretti smiled. "Now I've done it. My team will ride me out of town on a rail. Mr. Trent, Jack, what is it you need? I do have other clients today."

"We wanted to tour the home to prepare the listing for the realtor and evaluate the antique furniture." Trent straightened up as he replied for Julian.

"My goodness, you might have waited until tomorrow after the will is read, Mr. Trent," Moretti said coolly. "Is it just because Jack and his family want to skip town as soon as possible tomorrow afternoon?" Her eyes shifted to Julian, who had the grace to look uncomfortable. "But since I'm already here, very well... Bob, can you reach that curtain rod? It's just a tension rod- No? Just give it a good yank then, but stand back."

Bobby obligingly gave the curtains a hard tug while stepping backward, and the fabric barrier fell with a thud to the floor. He then stood the curtain rod on one end, leaning it vertically against the stairway wall, shoving the heavy drapery aside with his feet.

With the makeshift barrier out of the way, the long passageway extended as it should. On their right, the stairway with its white-turned balusters and dark railing that ended in a curled newel post ascended to the second story. At left, closer to the front door, were a pair of closed pocket-panel doors with a tiger-maple pattern. The wide front door with its twin sidelights and clerestory window opened on a small foyer.

Moretti briskly led the way into the room to the right of the front door by sliding open a second set of tiger-maple pocket-panel doors. It was the old "front parlor," containing an attractive stone fireplace topped with a polished walnut mantel. The sole furnishing of the room was a tall, round wooden "plant table" placed before the sheer-curtained front window. Olivia and Leo bumped heads while inspecting the stained, square cardboard box next to it, producing matching scowls. Inside were two strings of old-fashioned C-7 incandescent Christmas lights, a plug-in timer, three worn boxes of faded, vintage Shiny Brite ornaments, and a dozen "Hot Wheels" miniature cars with fishing line tied around them, ornament hooks fastened to the fishing line.

"These must have been decorations for the tree we bought for Mr. Volpe at Christmas," Olivia said sadly. "This is the window it was in—remember, Papa?"

"Those look like Enzo's cars," Julian said in a low voice. "I didn't know Dad kept them."

"Looks like your dad used them for tree ornaments," Bobby observed, dangling a black Mustang between his fingers.

Moretti escorted them between the two narrow, full-length glass-fronted bookcases that acted as a room divider; these were back-to-back units; on the opposite side, they were open-shelved. The second room contained a smaller fireplace framed in brick with a white-painted wooden mantel, which was fitted with a gas log. "Back parlor and," she explained, pointing toward the door, "exit to the kitchen."

Julian was silent as his eyes roved the room, painted a cream color with brown woodwork around the windows and doors. "It hasn't changed."

"But where's the furniture you've been bending my ear about?" Trent asked brusquely.

"These rooms should be full of the items I told you about, especially the front parlor. A French settee and matching armchair, a three-tier Victorian table with claw feet, an escritore, several more pieces, all solid mahogany...now this back parlor was where we watched television at night, with the comfy sofa and armchairs, so there was nothing much worthwhile here."

"I don't see any vents," Leo asked, looking at the walls. "How does the air conditioning work?"

"This is an old neighborhood," Bobby explained. "I don't think a house in town has...um...central air. The heat comes from radiators," and he pointed to the pair of ornate iron items under the narrow windows to either side of the back parlor fireplace.

"No A/C! This is Jurassic!" He made a face and headed back between the bookshelves. "Was your room upstairs, Dad?"

"Yes. At the front of the house, the one on the left as you're facing the front window."

Giving Olivia a sour look, Leo marched out of the room and ran up the stairs. Moretti followed him more slowly, with Julian and Trent behind her, the Gorens bringing up the rear. At the top of the stairs, Julian pointed to the door opposite and said in a reminiscent tone, "That room has what looks like a closet door, but it leads into the attic. The stairwell made that room smaller, so Mom used it as a sewing room. Next door down is the bathroom, and finally, the last door was my room."

His cell phone rang, echoing in the almost empty hall. As his father moved aside to take the call, Leo sauntered toward what Julian had designated "my room." Olivia chose to tag behind him. It was empty save for a cheap floor lamp in front of the window that faced the front of the house. It had no lampshade and was connected to a timer to make the house look occupied. Olivia peeked through the slats of the blinds. "The street looks different from up here, between the sugar maples."

Bobby ambled behind Olivia, but Alex was drawn to the window at the end of the hall, where she could see much the same view. She sank into the colonial-style walnut bench set before it, wondering if Emma Volpe had ever taken the same position to watch the seasonal color change.

"Trees," Leo scoffed from the interior of the bedroom. "Who cares?"

"Well," Olivia asked impatiently, "what do you like?"

"Minecraft. Nintendo. I have a Playstation, too. My own iPhone, the newest model. A MacBook Pro."

"I have a mobile, too, and a laptop," she replied. "But what else? Do you keep a blog? I do. Papa and Mama supervise the comments, though. I read lots of books—Papa has a huge library and in one corner of our basement, I have my very own library. I play tennis at school. At Big Brothers I play football—you call it soccer here—or basketball with my friends. I prefer tennis, but it's fun to play with everyone. We have trivia on Tuesday and Saturday nights, and sometimes on Fridays we go into the city—New York City—to visit Mama's sister or her brother or Uncle Mike, who you saw at the funeral—he isn't an uncle by blood, but Mama and Papa's friend from the NYPD—and we go to museums or city concerts or up to Maine to visit Donna—I was her bridesmaid last fall!—or to Boston or to Providence for the Waterfire."

"I...play football and that other junk at school...and Dad said he's gonna take us out on our ATVs when he gets the chance."

"What do you read?"

"Books are boring."

"So you just...play video games and muck around with school sports? No other things? Haven't you ever been hiking in the woods?" Leo shook his head. "Gone stargazing? How about sitting outside reading at a national park and having a butterfly land on your book? Have you ever danced on the beach with someone special?" He shook his head at each event mentioned. Finally, she breathed, "Well, no wonder then!" and wandered from Julian's old bedroom with her chin tipped upward.

"No wonder what?" he demanded, following her.

"You're so poor," she said sympathetically, then drew his attention to two doors on the opposite side of the hall. "One of those must be your uncle's room. Let's see."

The wind thoroughly knocked from Leo's sails, he tagged after her into the bedroom across the hall after giving Bobby and Alex a baffled look. They were watching the proceedings with strangely sober eyes. Of all the things she could have recalled from the book tour, Alex mused, she chose the simplest. When Bobby touched her hand, she knew he had similar thoughts.

"Mama, come see!" Olivia called when she saw framed posters still mounted in Enzo's old room, one of a Pontiac GTO, another of a Maserati. "Enzo liked sports cars, just like you and Papa."

Alex peeked inside. "Check out the GTO, Bobby—I'm pretty sure I had that poster on my wall."

Bobby chuckled from behind her. "Someone in my old neighborhood had one like that, only in black. I can't t-tell you how Frank coveted that car!"

The final door of the second story proved to open on the main bedroom, not huge, but spacious, with a small tiled en suite bath with double pedestal sinks, a walk-in shower, the toilet, and a ceiling-height cupboard for supplies. There was also a walk-in closet.

Trent kept following in their wake as if they could suddenly steal the floorboards, and when Julian finished with his call, his expression perturbed, the attorney waved his arm around the empty bedroom. "The house appears to be in fine shape if someone wants an out-of-fashion place like this. 'Vintage' isn't much of a selling point today. The land's probably worth more than the house. A better marketing ploy might be listing it for revitalization. But there's not a stick of furniture here worth a dime, Jules. Were you putting me on? I saw an old oak washstand and swivel mirror dresser, your father's bedroom furniture, a couple of end tables, the bench out in the hall, the Welsh dresser in the kitchen–"

"I don't understand, either," Julian agreed and turned to Moretti, "but I believe Ms. Moretti might."

"I do," she said and led them back downstairs. A moment later, Olivia was frozen and agape as Moretti led them into the last of the rooms, the one on the right as you entered the front door, sliding the pocket-panel doors apart with a flourish.

"I guess we need to write more best sellers," Alex observed as Bobby gave the room a long, covetous look, "and buy Papa a house with a room like this, right, Min?"

Olivia murmured, "Ah, la vache!" as she stared, for all four walls of the room, even the narrow walls on either side of the pocket-panel doors, were covered with built-in bookshelves. There were even shelves under the front window. Better yet, there was a book ladder to reach the top shelves on the interior wall; Olivia hopped on the bottom step and pushed with her foot so that the ladder slid to the right.

"Wow!" she gasped to Julian. "This is brill! I didn't realize your dad had so many books. He never talked about them!"

"We had books," Julian concurred, his eyes going soft again, "but not enough to fill this room. The original owner of the house was an attorney and had this room built specifically as his law library and office. He met clients in this room when he lived here. When Dad first saw this room when the house went up for sale, he said every shelf was full. Dad read books, but he wasn't a big reader, if that makes sense. When he wanted to relax he'd go out on the sun porch and work on a piece of furniture. My mother loved to read, though. She was fond of that Western author...what was his name? Billy Zane?"

Bobby corrected mildly, "I think you mean Zane Grey. He was...a popular writer in the early to mid-20th century."

Alex added, "Billy Zane is an actor. He played a great psychopath in Dead Calm."

"Zane Grey, then. Mom collected his books in hardcover. We kept reference books in here, too: Mom and Dad's furniture reference books, and the Brittanica. Mom kept some of her Hummels here, too, around the door, and the rest in the glass cabinets in the front parlor—I guess Dad got rid of them?—and this is where Enz and I did our homework at night. Dad wouldn't allow us to be distracted by TV."

"I envy you doing homework in this room," said Bobby wistfully, thinking of his mother's shabby kitchen table shared with his brother.

"What you're looking for is here," Moretti said, hefting a copier-paper box from the floor. "All the receipts. Your father told me you would want it."

"Receipts?" Julian said, puzzled.

"From antique dealers for the furniture and any other antiques no longer here, including those Hummel figurines you mentioned that your mother picked up for pennies at flea markets. Hospital beds, IV poles, oxygen tanks, physical therapists, home nurses...none of that comes cheap, Jack. As your brother's health deteriorated, your father sold every valuable in this house to rent the items he needed. He even gave up most of the jewelry your mother inherited from her mother. In the end, just a few months before Enzo went to hospice, your dad rented a big widescreen TV because your brother was confined to his bed. They'd sit in Enzo's room afternoons, suppertime, and evenings, watching old television series and movies. Leave It to Beaver was Enzo's favorite. He told me once that Wally and the Beav reminded him of you two when you were kids." She handed the box to Trent. "You take this, Mr. Trent. There are photographs of all the items that were sold, and you'll see that all the price evaluations and the sale papers are in order. Everything accounted for."

Then she turned to the Gorens. "I'd very much like to meet that dog of yours," she said with a friendly smile. "You always talk about him on Saturday nights. I love collies—I think I was watching Lassie while still in the womb."

Alex laughed. "Why not come and make his acquaintance then?"

"It would be my pleasure." Moretti turned to the other two men. "Please don't forget to lock up, Jack. Even devoid of expensive furniture, this is still a very valuable property. I'll check the doors before I leave. We'll see you tomorrow at my office. Good day."

On their way out the back door, Olivia whispered to Bobby, "What does 'revitalization' mean, Papa?"

"New construction," he answered reluctantly.

"You mean...they'd demolish it? This house? That library?" Olivia said, appalled. It was the idea that silenced her at last.

Moretti was amused when, upon entering the house, Olivia went directly to her bedroom, opened the door completely, and then sat at the edge of her bed, hands folded in her lap, eyes on her thumbs as she rubbed them against each other. Alex was biting her lip, with Bobby suppressing a smile.

"How long should I stay here?" she asked politely.

"Well, you've knocked about half off by acknowledging your behavior," Alex said firmly. "You just sit, and we'll talk after Ms. Moretti meets Sam."

"Yes, ma'am," and now Olivia began to waggle her feet back and forth.

They escorted Moretti into the living room, where Sam came charging down the stairs from Bobby's office to meet a new friend. After she had fussed over the collie and made Bandit's acquaintance, she sat on the sofa, looking back toward Olivia's room with an inquiring expression.

"She knows she was rude," said Bobby ruefully, "but the t-temptation was too much. It's what we do to punish her. She has to sit at the side of the bed. No reading. No painting. No cross stitch. No pets. It...um...stops her long enough to think."

"The problem with this time is," Alex added, "I think she feels the crime was worth the punishment."

"I suppose I should be sitting at the edge of a bed, too," Moretti said ruefully. "That wasn't very professional of me to lose my temper with a relative of a client, but Jack's...excuse me, Julian's attitude towards his dad has gotten my goat for years, and Trent sets my teeth on edge."

"I can't say we've...um...behaved very much better," Bobby confessed. "Now, you didn't come here to meet Sam, did you?"

"Not just to meet Sam. I'd like you two, at least, and Olivia if possible," Moretti said without preamble, "to be at my office tomorrow at ten."

Bobby sank into his recliner. "W-we're included in Bruno's will?"

Moretti nodded. "All three of you."

Alex took a deep breath. "This worries me. The last time a will was read, we came home with Olivia."

"Well, this bequest isn't Olivia-league," Moretti said with a smile. "But Bruno appreciated your friendship and wanted to acknowledge it."

Bobby protested, "We didn't do it for–"

"I'm sure Mr. Trent will think we did," Alex retorted. "And possibly Mrs. Volpe."

"I keep seeing...Bruno's boy Jack trying to come out," Bobby said in a heavy voice. "But Julian eventually muscles him away every time. Eames–"

"I'll call Tony," she said, rising from the sofa and disappearing into their bedroom.

"Is Olivia required?" Bobby asked Moretti. "She's already missed a day of school, a-and she hates doing that."

"The will is short. She can probably make the afternoon session." Moretti told him. "But there's something I know she'll want to see—that you'll all want to see."

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