Darned if You Do by Monica Ferris Page B

minutes.”
    It was clear that Tom Riordan had allowed his passion for acquisitions to literally cover other problems in his home. As the group trailed back into the living room, awed by the sheer size of his collection, Connor, bringing up the rear, agreed with Valentina that while the house’s floors and windows were sound, the plumbing was all but defunct and the wiring probably dangerous.
    Then he proposed that they all work together today to clear at least half the living room. That space would then be available to hold items that might have value or that were good enough to be donated to charity.
    â€œIs that all right with everyone?” Valentina asked. They all nodded.
    Valentina said, “Georgie, you’re the closest thing we have to an expert. Help us sort now—and maybe when we come back tomorrow morning, you can stay here and look at things we’re hauling out to the Dumpster, so we don’t throw away something valuable.”
    But Georgie shook her head. “I can make some suggestions, but really, I’m not enough of an expert, especially on as many different things as I saw in here,” she said. “I think you should hire someone to give you a professional opinion. I’ll be glad to look at things, but please don’t take my word for their value.”
    They set to work and quickly sorted out a great many obviously worthless things: a dried-up leather coat, old calendars, moldy clothing, shoes, and blankets, canned goods bulging in the middle, broken picture frames, filthy stuffed animals, alarm clocks with broken faces, three-legged chairs, and two small portable record players missing their insides.
    They set aside an old coaster wagon, two flat-tired Schwinn bicycles, a big Chinese-style white vase with blue dragons on it, an enormous bowie knife in a crumbling leather sheath, three cast-iron frying pans, a rusty 30-06 rifle, a dozen institutional-size cans of baked beans, a coffee table, a beat-up metal detector, five dead cell phones, an antique wooden chest full of 78 rpm records, and an old, wooden, pendulum-powered wall clock.
    â€œSo, I guess it’s not all worthless junk,” said Valentina, looking over the objects.
    â€œI could sell that wagon, as is, on eBay for a hundred dollars, like that,” said Georgie, snapping her fingers.
    â€œWell, that gives me hope,” replied Valentina. “So now we’re set up to tackle the rest of the house tomorrow. See you all here at nine.”
    *   *   *
    I T was the middle of the next morning. Phil was working alone in Riordan’s bedroom. The heavy blue plastic liner over the smashed roof cast an eerie light, as if the room were underwater. Under a pile of broken glass, which Phil was scooping up with a dustpan, he found a crushed box of Handi Wipes.
    It looked empty, but when he picked it up, it rattled. He stuck a finger into the opening and encountered small, solid objects with bumps all over them. Peach pits, he thought. He began to toss it into a trash can, but something about the varied feel of the objects changed his mind, and he turned the box over to shake its contents into his palm.
    â€œGreat jumpin’ horned toads!” he murmured (although not exactly in those words). In his hand were three pieces of jewelry, two rings and a brooch. “Naw!” he corrected himself, annoyed. Stones that size couldn’t be real. One ring was a kind of dull silver set with a big piece of deep blue glass; the other was gold with two big clear stones flanking a large dark gray cabochon stone that shifted in color as he moved it in his hand, showing glints of electric blue. The brooch was nearly three inches across, also gold colored, with lots of filigree; it featured a green center stone the size of his thumbnail, flanked by four clear glass stones.
    The pieces were a bit ostentatious, Phil thought, but maybe Doris would want them. He dropped them into a pocket and