“I see you haven’t completely gutted the place. Yet,” he said, eyeing the intact wallpaper with terrifying ferocity.

“Some of it will have to change,” Maggie said, heading down the hall to the kitchen. The refrigerator stood by itself on a now-empty wall.

“Good Lord, girlie! You owned the place for five days,” Wallace sputtered. His heavy eyebrows lowered, obscuring his eyes.

“They weren’t the original cabinets, which I’m sure you knew,” she said, plucking two plastic cups off the rolling cart and grabbing the lemonade.

“Mrs. Campbell is rolling over in her grave,” he predicted.

She had the feeling she was getting a glimpse of Future Dean. Maybe she should have offered the man coffee.

“I bet you didn’t even keep the portrait. You probably just chucked everything into the garbage.” He was working himself up into a good fit, and Maggie had concerns about whether or not his heart could handle one.

“Why don’t we have a seat,” she suggested and led the way back to her office.

Blustering about progress and the disrespect youth had for the past, Wallace followed. His tirade cut off abruptly when he stepped into the room.

She smiled as he eyed up the art she’d collected from the first floor and stacked up against the walls. Knickknack treasures found in built-in curio cabinets were half-packed in boxes with bubble wrapping. Framed photos were spread out on a second table.

“Where’s the furniture? You chop it up for kindling?” he demanded.

“We moved it into the garage for safekeeping.”

He didn’t acknowledge her answer. “This must be your sorting pile for the trash,” he said, eyeing the paint-splattered worktable that held a few treasures she was keeping unboxed so they could be photographed first. There was an exquisite crystal decanter, an old inkwell, a few antique glassware items, and the needlepoint she’d rescued from the front den. It said: WHERE IS THE ADVENTURE IN FINDING ONESELF IF ONE USES SOMEONE ELSE’S MAP?

“Mrs. Campbell stitched that herself, according to her granddaughter,” he said, peering at the needlepoint. “Not that you’d care. It’s hung on that wall in Aaron Campbell’s study for over a hundred years.”

“It will hang there again once we refinish the floor and fix the plaster ceiling,” she told him.

“You don’t even realize what you’re sitting on,” he muttered to himself, settling heavily in the metal chair opposite her.

“Then tell me. I don’t just fix things up; I also tell the stories of what happened within the walls I’m fixing.”

“Aaron Campbell put this town on the map,” Wallace snapped. “His novels still to this day bring in tourism dollars because he was a master storyteller. Have you bothered reading even one?”

“Not yet.”