“Michael and I have to be … elsewhere,” I said.
“Right,” Michael said. “Maybe we’ll join you when we’re back from … elsewhere. I’ll grab something we can eat on the way.”
He opened the refrigerator door and began rummaging.
“Just ignore these,” Dad said, waving a foil-wrapped object. “I’ll move them later.”
Rob shuddered.
“You’re not just leaving the cashbox lying around,” Barrymore Sprocket said. I glanced over to find him standing in the doorway behind us, looking shocked and indignant.
“I thought we’d lock it up,” I said. “And do the accounting in the morning.”
“I was hoping to report to the family,” he said, “on the results of the sale so far.”
“He’s got a point, Meg,” Dad said. “We really ought to take care of that before we start celebrating. If you have something else to do, I’ll stay behind and count it.”
“And I’ll help him,” Barrymore said.
“But Dad—” Rob said.
“Have them put the tab on our Visa,” Dad said, thereby showing that he knew the way to Rob’s heart: free food. “Your mother will be there to sign. And have them deliver a pizza for us. How about a sausage and mushroom—will that work for you, Barrymore?”
I didn’t stay to the end of Barrymore’s explanation of what sausage would do to his stomach.
“We’ll be back later,” I said, and headed for the driveway.
On the way, we passed Rose Noire loading her leftover merchandise into her car. Actually, she was sitting cross-legged on a large box supervising while Officer Sammy and a gorilla-suited Horace loaded the car.
“And it’s important not to let ridicule and social pressure prevent you from expressing your true nature,” Rose Noire was saying. “I expect some people to laugh when I explain that in a previous life I was one of the sacred cats in the temple of Bastet.”
“Narrow-minded people,” Horace said. “The Egyptians considered the ape sacred to Thoth, the lord of books.”
“I like cats,” Sammy put in, hastily.
Michael and I waved and continued on to the car. Michael’s car, which wasn’t as blocked-in as mine, though we did have to drive across part of what had once been a flower bed to get out.
“That flower bed was in the wrong place anyway,” I said.
“That’s the spirit,” Michael said. “So we’re off to Carol’s house,” he added as he maneuvered his car off the grass and onto the driveway. “I trust you know where it is?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “That’s not where we’re going. Head for the Spare Attic.”
“It’ll be closed by now,” Michael said, but he didn’t argue with me, and at the end of our driveway he turned right, not left. A left turn on our small rural road took us to civilization, or at least to the town of Caerphilly, and from there we could pick up the main roads that led west to Richmond, south to Yorktown, or north to D.C. A right turn led us even farther out into the countryside until the road finally dead-ended five miles away at Caerphilly Creek. Apart from the nearby farmers and anyone unfortunate enough to be living in converted 1920s motel rooms at the ramshackle Whispering Pines Cabins, the only reason anyone ever had for going past our house was to visit the Spare Attic.
Chapter 37
The Spare Attic was a clever name for a fairly utilitarian place. The same local businessman who’d turned the Whispering Pines Cabins from a hot sheets motel into a residential hotel soon realized that many of his unfortunate clients had more stuff than they could possibly fit into their dinky cabins. So he’d bought the old abandoned Brakenridge textile mill, dirt cheap; thrown up inexpensive chain-link partitions in the central factory floor; and rented out the resulting storage units at exorbitant prices.
At least he’d tried to charge exorbitant prices until a lack of renters forced him to realize that apart from the tenants at the cabins, not many people wanted to rent his bins.
When old Ezekiel Brakenridge, Ginevra’s father, had built the factory in the nineteenth century, he’d doubtless put it on the banks of Caerphilly Creek for a good reason, though I didn’t know whether he needed the creek for power or just liked to have a convenient source of running water to pollute. But the mill was even farther from town than we were—probably about fifteen miles. However much people in town needed storage space, most of them balked at driving that far for a bin. And the people nearby were mostly farmers who had plenty of barns and outbuildings for storage—as we would, once the Sprockets were out of our lives and we could bring our possessions onto the property without the risk that Barrymore and his kin would redefine them as Sprocket family heirlooms. So for now we’d rented a bin for our overflow stuff. At least the stuff that wouldn’t suffer from the Spare Attic’s lack of sophisticated climate controls—in fact, its almost complete lack of any heat or air conditioning whatsoever.