Back Dead Reckoning
Chapters (21)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Page
  3. Dedication
  4. Acknowledgements
  5. Chapter 1
  6. Chapter 2
  7. Chapter 3
  8. Chapter 4
  9. Chapter 5
  10. Chapter 6
  11. Chapter 7
  12. Chapter 8
  13. Chapter 9
  14. Chapter 10
  15. Chapter 11
  16. Chapter 12
  17. Chapter 13
  18. Chapter 14
  19. Chapter 15
  20. Chapter 16
  21. Chapter 17

“It’ll be fine when it’s clean,” I said with determination, and I set to with the broom, sweeping down all the cobwebs, and then started in on the dust and debris on the planks of the floor. To my surprise, Dermot picked up a few rags and the glass cleaner, and began to work on the windows.

It seemed wiser not to comment. After Dermot finished the windows, he held the dustpan while I swept the accumulated dirt into it. When we’d completed that task and I’d brought up the vacuum to take care of the last of the dust, he said, “These walls need paint.”

That was like saying the desert needs water. Maybe there had once been paint, but it had long ago chipped or worn away, and the indeterminate color remaining on the walls had been scuffed and stained by the many items leaning against them. “Well, yes. Sanding and painting. The floor needs it, too.” I tapped with my foot. My forebears had gone crazy with whitewash when the second story had been added to the house.

“You’ll only need part of this space for storage,” Dermot said, out of the blue. “Assuming the antiques dealers buy the larger pieces and you don’t move them back up here.”

“That’s true.” Dermot seemed to have a point, but it was lost on me. “What are you saying?” I asked bluntly.

“You could make a third bedroom up here if you only used that end as your storage,” Dermot said. “See, that part?”

He was pointing to a place where the slope of the roof formed a natural area, about seven feet deep and the width of the house. “It wouldn’t be hard to partition that off, hang some doors,” my great-uncle said.

Dermot knew how to hang doors? I must have looked astonished because he told me, “I’ve been watching HGTV on Amelia’s television.”

“Oh,” I said, trying to think of a more intelligent remark. I still felt at sea. “Well, we could do that. But I don’t think I need another room. I mean, who’s going to want to live here?”

“Aren’t more bedrooms always a good thing? On the television, the hosts say they are. And I could move into such a room. Claude and I could share the television room as a sitting room. We would each have our own room.”