On the desk blotter sat a pad of lined paper, its top page half-written on in red pencil. On closer inspection, it was a list that began FA LIBRARY followed by Twelve Months of Flowers, The Pinetum Britannicum, and a dozen or so more titles. Looked as if Charles Murphy had been planning to go to the library when he died. A red pencil lay beside the pad, along with a coffee cup, the bottom coated with dried coffee. Emily took a few pictures. Then she lowered the camera and rocked back on her heels. The room was a perfect time capsule. She ran a finger across a bare corner of the desk. Dust-free, but still a time capsule.

“I never come in here. I keep the door closed because I can’t bear . . .” Mrs. Murphy said.

“May I?” Becca asked, indicating the desk.

“Help yourself.”

Becca opened the desk’s file drawers. They were packed with folders and hanging files, each with a typed label. Emily started a list titled Husband’s Office, writing down the categories of things they’d be sorting through. She took more pictures of the room, the desk, the bookcase, zooming in on the procession of carved wooden birds lined up, tail to beak, across a topmost shelf. Duck decoys. Long-legged wading birds. Smaller birds. Emily recognized a puffin and an owl.

Mrs. Murphy flipped a wall switch and a spotlight over the birds came on. Becca pulled over a chair and climbed from there onto the desk. She reached up and took down one of the birds, wiping it with the bottom of her shirt. She gazed at the bird for a moment before handing it to Emily. The pale gray bird with a long narrow beak was standing on one leg, its head pulled back as if it were about to spear a fish. Delicately carved, carefully painted, fitted out with brilliant paperweight-glass eyes, and signed on the underside, it had to be worth something to a collector.

Emily took pictures and handed the bird back to Becca. Then Becca climbed down and wrestled open a sliding closet door. Emily took a picture, counted the boxes and suitcases that were inside, and added them to her list. They’d have to be opened and at least visually inventoried. Her foot was starting to ache.

“There’s more.” Mrs. Murphy’s hand fluttered as she gestured toward the window. “Murph loved boats. We have one in the yard.”

Emily looked out. Sure enough, there in the backyard, alongside a freestanding garage, was a motorboat mounted on a trailer. Emily took a picture. “And in the garage?” she asked.

“Tools. Paints and varnishes and I don’t know what all.”

Emily’s list had gotten so long she needed a second sheet. At the top, she wrote, Hazardous waste.

“We should have a quick look while we’re here,” Becca said.