“And I already tried to reason with Beau Cassell,” I said. “That was a complete dead end.”
Eleanor folded her arms across her chest. “There is no more mercy in him than there is milk in a male tiger.”
“How about the farmer who owns the land?” Debby handed Ruth another tissue. “Can we appeal to him?”
“Old man Yerkel hates Cassell, which is why he’s been stalling on selling him the farm,” Martha said. “However, he doesn’t give a hoot about historical preservation. Mrs. Yerkel did, but she’s gone. They moved to the Outer Banks for her health, but she died this summer, and he now needs the money for her massive medical bills.”
“Why did they leave all that stuff in the house?” I remembered peeking inside the kitchen and seeing the table, dishes, and paintings on the walls.
“She was too sick to pack it up, and he didn’t care.”
“It’s all rotting away in there,” I said. “It’s criminal.”
“Yes, it’s a shame,” Debby said. “My sister said Mrs. Yerkel had some beautiful samplers.”
My ears pricked up. “Samplers?”
“Oh, no, those she donated to the Historical Society,” Martha said. “In fact, Althea Gunn restored some of them for us.”
“It looks as though Cassell will win the farm after all. There’s no hope now.” I felt sick.
“That’s assuming he gets the zoning change. It’s not a done deal yet.” Eleanor turned to Ruth. “The more immediate problem is that you have no money. Was everything tied up in this fund?”
Ruth ran a hand through her hair, leaving it sticking up at a new angle. “We never kept much in our checking account—only a couple of thousand—the rest was in the money market fund, and we moved it over when we needed it. All I really have left is this house.”
“How about an estate sale?” I suggested. “Do you have any items you could get rid of for some ready cash?”
Ruth brightened. “Oh, yes. There are so many books, Stanley’s clothes, his skis . . .”
“I’ll help,” Martha said.
I smiled at her. Martha was great at organizing large-scale events, and a project like this would be good to keep her busy and take her mind off her troubles.
“Me too,” Eleanor said.
“Don’t you ever work at your store?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Only when I feel like it. Which isn’t very often.”
Ruth jumped up to consult the calendar on the wall. “We can hold it this weekend. The following weekend is Thanksgiving, which is no good, and then people will be rushing around for Christmas. I think the weather forecast is good for Saturday.”
“Is that enough time to get ready?” I asked.
“I know what to get rid of,” Ruth said, a firm note in her voice.
The conversation swirled around me as I struggled to get my thoughts together. Stanley was gone. There was nothing more I could do for him.
Let go of the green banana, Daisy. I pictured pulling my hand out of the hole and found myself rubbing my wrist. Cyril was another story, however. I’d never give up on him.
* * *
When I got home, I found Joe in his favorite place, the kitchen. He was cooking a spinach frittata, and the toasty smell of eggs and cheese bubbling together suddenly made me realize how hungry I was.