“I don’t know anything about it,” she claimed. “You just looked at the floor, and that means you know exactly where it is,” I countered.
Victoria stepped between us and tried to block my view. “Stop interrogating my daughter right now,” she snapped.
The older officer came up the stairs and joined us. “If property belonging to the homeowner has been removed, that is a relevant matter,” he said.
Victoria laughed sharply and shook her head. “A sentimental storage chest is hardly a criminal emergency,” she argued.
“No, but concealment of a beneficiary’s property can create legal trouble,” Lydia noted. “I suspect it will sound very ugly when spoken slowly in a courtroom,” Lydia added.
Cassandra’s bravado began to waver under the pressure. “Where is it, Cassandra?” I asked again.
“It is in the garage,” she finally admitted. Victoria snapped around and glared at her daughter.
“Cassandra, be quiet,” she ordered. “What does it matter?” Cassandra burst out.
“You said she wasn’t coming back and that Dad was going to sell the place anyway,” she shouted. The hallway went completely still as the words hung in the air.
Even Victoria seemed to realize what had just been said in front of the police. “Sell the place?” Lydia asked with a sharpened gaze.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” Cassandra whispered. “You did,” I said softly.
The garage smelled like paint thinner and damp cardboard when we walked inside. It sat apart from the house and was connected by a breezeway with screens that banged in the wind.
My mother had loved the garage because it was practical and cluttered. There were paddleboards leaning against the wall and crates of holiday decorations.
The cedar chest was shoved behind a stack of boxes as though hiding it badly made the act less ugly. I walked straight to it and put both hands on the dry wood.
The carved border around the top was one my grandfather had done himself. The brass latch was bent as if someone had tried to force it.
“Open it,” I said to Cassandra. No one moved for a long moment.
“Why me?” she asked with a flinch. “Because if I open it and see that anything is damaged, I might say something I cannot take back,” I told her.
She stepped forward and knelt down to lift the latch. The lid opened with a familiar whisper of hinges.