Edna, who probably would have agreed to anything to make sure she got that free signed book, said quickly, "We'd be happy to let you, wouldn't we, Harry?"

"I guess so. It's kind of messy down there, though."

"Not a problem at all," I said, anxious to get the go-ahead.

An hour later we were sifting through the most crowded basement I had ever seen. Edna said she and Harry had been married over fifty years, and had lived in the same house the entire time. I could believe it. There was about fifty years' worth of garbage piled around us. Harry had given us a general idea where to look, but I was honestly having questions about how long it had been since Harry had last been down there.

Finally, we found the boxes we were looking for. There was a small corner devoted to junk from the gallery. There were about a half a dozen boxes in all. Two were labeled Sculptures, one labeled Records, one labeled Christmas Decorations, and two labeled Paintings. Each had about an inch of dust built up on it. I wiped off the boxes and said, "Here goes."

It wasn't there.

There were ten paintings in all, ranging in size from about three feet by three feet, to one that was only six inches in diameter. But the Lando Ford painting wasn't one of them.

"Shit," I exclaimed. I felt like crying. "So what now?"

"I guess we find out who he gave them to. If he knows, we continue on. If he gave them to Goodwill or someplace like that, then we go home."

Disappointed, we wiped ourselves off, both looking forward to getting back to the hotel and showering, then went upstairs.

"Any luck?" asked Harry.

"I'm afraid not," I answered. "We found the paintings, but there were only ten there, and it wasn't one of the ten. Do you happen to remember who you gave the others to?"

"My brother. We split them up when our father died." He held up his hand as I was about to say something. "And before you ask, my brother died about five years ago. I assume his son—his only kid—has them. What he did with them, I can't tell you. The fact is, I'm not in touch with my nephew. He's—excuse the language—an asshole."

"Harry!" scolded Edna. "Don't use that language in this house."

"Well he is."

She turned to Sabrina and said in a conspiratorial voice, "He is, you know."

"Last I knew," said Harry, "He lived in Wahoo, Nebraska. A few hours from here. We lost contact a long time ago when he cheated us out of some money my brother left us. He pulled a fast one, and we never saw a dime of it."

"That's horrible," said Sabrina with a look of disgust. She struck me as someone who would always root for the underdog.

"Wahoo?" I asked.

"I assume he still lives there. This is the Midwest. People stay where they are. His name is Russell. Russ Simpson."