The Gift of the Magpie

by Donna Andrews

  “Don’t forget,” Josh said. “We need those suggestions.”

  They dashed upstairs again, still looking worried.

  “Going someplace interesting?” My grandmother Cordelia strode in. Her tall, imposing figure was clad in jeans, a plaid flannel shirt, and disreputable sneakers. Work clothes, obviously.

  “What if I told you I was having tea with the president of the garden club?” I asked.

  “Then I’d wish you joy of it and look around for someone who’s doing something that’s either useful or enjoyable. But you don’t look dressed for a tea party. Got any Helping Hands projects going? I’m dressed for that.”

  I filled her in on Harvey the Hoarder, and as I could have predicted, she immediately volunteered to help out.

  “Much more my cup of tea than the garden club,” she said. “I can’t wait to get this Harvey decluttered and organized.”

  “Remember, we have to go gently,” I said. “He hasn’t even agreed yet to let us help him.”

  “We’ll charm him into it.”

  When we got to my car, I shouted for Caroline, who came running over to join the party. The two of them hadn’t seen each other in some weeks, so they chatted happily, catching up. Which was fine with me, since it left me free to think about how to tackle Mr. Dunlop.

  Although I suspected they hadn’t forgotten the purpose of our trip.

  “Probably a good thing Randall has you to deal with this Harvey the Hoarder character,” Caroline said at one point during our drive. “After all, you have experience dealing with hoarded houses.”

  “Only one.” I hoped that didn’t sound too curt, but I wasn’t fond of remembering that experience. Mrs. Edwina Sprocket, the previous owner of our beloved house, had been a hoarder, and we’d bought the house as is—meaning we, rather than her surviving family, had to deal with the cleanout.

  “Yes, but your mother has told us all about how well you dealt with it.” Cordelia nodded with approval. “She said you were wonderfully efficient.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But even a house chock-full of stuff can only be so bad. We just had to deal with the stuff—not with Mrs. Sprocket fighting tooth and nail to hang on to every bit of junk.”

  “True.” Cordelia set her jaw. “But however bad it is, we’ll deal with it.”

  “Absolutely!” Caroline chimed in. “Do you know if it’s a big house?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “The neighborhood runs to small lots. And small houses, for the most part. But I’m afraid the only times I was there before, I was focused on the yard. Anyway, we’ll see in a minute—we’re almost there.”

  Harvey Dunlop’s house was on Beau Street—which local wags preferred to call The Street Formerly Known as Beauregard. Several years ago, after much debate, the town council had agreed to rechristen the half-dozen streets in town that carried the names of Confederate luminaries—but they hadn’t yet agreed on what the new names would be. Eventually, Randall had sent two of his workmen around with buckets of paint to give the streets in question provisional new names. In addition to the Beauregard to Beau change, Jeb Stuart Street had become Stuart Street easily enough, and Forrest Lane—named after Nathan Bedford Forrest—had only taken a small stroke of the paint brush to become Forest Lane. Jefferson Davis Avenue had become Davis Avenue, since we already had a Jefferson Street. Robert E. Lee Street had become L Street, which was no doubt highly confusing to tourists who expected to find K and M Streets nearby. The only real problem had arisen when the two workmen nearly came to blows over how to modify Stonewall Jackson Street. They finally agreed to disagree, which was why all the signs along the northern side of the road in question identified it as Stone Street, while across the way on the southern side it had become Jackson Street. People eventually got used to it. Locals knew where they were going anyway, and luckily it wasn’t a street most tourists would ever need to find.

  Strange that I remembered so little about Mr. Dunlop’s house from the time Randall and I had browbeaten him into cleaning up his yard—was it only a year and a half ago? No, come to think of it, more likely two and a half. I’d look it up later. The yard had been filled with pots and planters—some broken, some intact but empty, and others nourishing healthy stands of ragweed, stinging nettles, poison ivy, purple loosestrife, crabgrass, jimson weed, and who knows how many other undesirable bits of greenery. We even found a small stand of kudzu near the house, getting ready to make its play for world domination. He also had several defunct cars on cinder blocks in various parts of the yard, along with enough scattered car parts to assemble at least another half-dozen rusty vehicles. He was apparently fond of birdbaths and garden statuary—the more battered or incomplete the better—beehives, fish tanks, well-weathered lumber, and random bits of plumbing gear. He’d tried to screen the whole thing from neighbors and passersby by planting a tall boxwood hedge, but apparently his green thumb only worked on weeds. A lot of the boxwoods had died and been replaced at random intervals with smaller boxwoods, and last I’d seen it many of the surviving ones didn’t look as if they planned to hang on much longer. If you asked me, the wildly variable boxwoods added another whole level of chaos and disorganization that far outweighed any contribution they made toward screening the mess.

  Horrible as his yard had been, according to him, every single object in it was something he wanted to keep. A few things he was planning to use “one of these days,” or at least might need at some future date. Most of the junk items were, according to him, either valuable heirlooms or family mementos of great sentimental value.

  I’d finally gotten him to agree to the cleanup by offering to give him an itemized receipt for every single thing we hauled to the dump, plus a signed promise from Randall that if at any time he actually did need any of it—or found a buyer for it—Randall would haul it back from the dump himself. There were rumors that in the months following the cleanup he’d gone up to the dump a time or two to peer through the chain-link fence at his stuff, but Randall hadn’t gotten any requests to haul any of it back. Maybe that boded well for cleaning out the inside of his house.

  Well, I could hope.

  And then again, maybe he hadn’t called to have anything brought back because he’d managed to reclutter his yard again all by himself.

  As we drew near the house, I could see that the hedges were, if possible, even more bedraggled and unhealthy than I remembered. But at least the yard was still mainly clear. He’d started a new and much smaller collection of weeds and flowerpots, but apart from that it didn’t look too bad.

  The house, on the other hand, was a disaster. Had it been that bad a couple of years ago? Surely I’d have remembered if it had been. Maybe it had taken a lot of damage from this fall’s storms.

  Or maybe we’d been so focused on the yard that we’d turned a blind eye to how awful the house was.

  At least it was relatively small: a modest frame bungalow with wide front porch running its entire length and a matching detached one-car garage to the right and a little behind the main house. I couldn’t tell if the siding had originally been painted white or pale gray. It was all gray now; peeling paint and weathered wood underneath. The roof was more blue tarp than shingle. The porch listed downhill toward the left side of the house, and I hoped there was something to hold the porch roof up other than the six dilapidated pillars I could see. It looked as if Mr. Dunlop was trying to keep the porch clear, or at least methodically organized—there was actually a wicker rocking chair that, unlike every other possible seat within sight, was not filled with pillows, empty flowerpots, deceased houseplants, empty popcorn tins, small garden tools, milk crates of recyclables, and who knows what else. But all of it was neatly stacked, as if he hoped that with enough organization he could ward off the neighbors’ complaints.

  Most of the windows had at least one pane of glass that was cracked or replaced with plywood. And inside, I could see venetian blinds tightly closed, no doubt to shield the mess inside from prying eyes.
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  “This one’s going to be a big project,” Cordelia remarked.

  I parked in front of the cracked concrete walkway that led to the porch. We all got out and stood for a few moments, looking at the house.

  “At least it’s one story,” Caroline said.

  “There could be a basement,” Cordelia countered.

  I spotted a flicker of movement in the house to the left of Mr. Dunlop’s. A curtain in one of the front windows opened a crack and I saw first a face and then the twin lenses of a pair of binoculars as one of Mr. Dunlop’s neighbors inspected us.

  The front door of the house to the right opened and a portly man in a plaid jacket came out and stared at us with undisguised curiosity.

  “Excuse me.”

  Chapter 3

  We turned to see that someone had come up behind us, a tall, thin man in a baggy gray suit and a fussy little blue bow tie. He strode forward with an awkward, jerky gait and planted himself between us and Mr. Dunlop’s house.

  Where had he come from? And why was he blocking our path?

  “What are you doing here?” He had folded his arms and was frowning at us. Combined with his bad posture and stick-thin, angular shape, the gesture made me think of a praying mantis. A very large praying mantis that had been carelessly transformed into human shape by a lazy or incompetent wizard.

  “I could ask you the same thing,” I said. “I’m with the county.”

  Sometimes saying that impressed people. Apparently this was one of those times. The man’s face brightened and he rubbed his hands together.

  “Are you here from Adult Protective Services?” He sounded eager.

  “From the mayor’s office.” I reached into my purse, pulled out one of my business cards—not the blacksmith one, but the one that proclaimed me as Special Assistant to the Mayor—and handed it to him.

  His face brightened even more.

  “Morris Haverhill,” he said, offering me his hand. “Representing the family. Harvey’s my cousin.”

  We all shook his hand solemnly. His hand was bony and oddly dry.

  “I’m glad to see the county’s finally taking this seriously,” Mr. Haverhill said. “Want me to brief you before we go in?”

  Behind Haverhill I could see a small flicker at one of the venetian blinds in Mr. Dunlop’s house. He was watching us: Mr. Dunlop, who was protective of his property to the point of paranoia. And I had the sneaking feeling that if he liked and trusted his relatives, Mr. Haverhill would be inside, not out here lurking on the sidewalk. Entering in Mr. Haverhill’s company might not go over all that well.

  I arranged my face in a stern expression.

  “Mr. Haverhill, I appreciate your willingness to help,” I said. “But I’m afraid I’ll have to insist that you stay out here. In fact, it would be much better if you could go home and leave this to us.”

  “Nonsense! How can you expect—”

  “Mr. Haverhill, I have previous experience with Mr. Dunlop,” I said. “Not to mention extensive experience with hoarding situations.”

  To my relief, neither Caroline nor Cordelia laughed. In fact, they nodded and mirrored my stern expression.

  “In situations like these, the hoarder often comes to resent the very friends and family members who are trying to help them,” I said in the most solemn tone I could manage. “When that happens, the best thing is to back off and bring in the authorities—which you’ve done. So now you need to step away and let us do our job.”

  “It’s the best thing, believe me,” Cordelia said.

  Caroline merely nodded emphatically.

  “But I need to—I want to help.”

  “And you can help,” I said. “It’s a big job, and we’ll need all the help we can get. But for right now, the best way you can help is to let us get on with our job.”

  It must have sounded plausible—and reassuring. His eyes flicked back and forth, studying our faces briefly. Then he blew out a long breath.

  “Well, you’re the experts. Just keep me informed, will you? We want to do anything we can to help out poor old Harvey.”

  He handed me a business card, which I tucked in my pocket without even looking at it. Not that I wasn’t curious, but I was playing to an audience of one right now—Mr. Dunlop.

  Caroline, Cordelia, and I watched while Haverhill went back across the street where several cars were parked. He got into the nearest one, a light blue sedan. And then he sat there, watching us.

  “Troublemaker, if you ask me,” Caroline said. “We’ll need to keep our eye on him.”

  I wasn’t sure what trouble Haverhill could cause, but I agreed with her assessment. So I nodded, and headed up the driveway toward Mr. Dunlop’s front door. And then, realizing how treacherous the sidewalk was, with its broken concrete slabs and places where tree roots were heaving slabs into the air, I hurried back to take Cordelia’s arm and keep an eye on Caroline, to make sure we all got safely to the door.

  The porch steps were unsteady, and several porch boards were alarmingly spongy. I wasn’t keen on standing under that dramatically slanting porch roof, but there was no way around it. A paper Christmas wreath was taped to his door—a very familiar-looking wreath, since I could tell it had been cut out of one of the gaily printed bags that the Caerphilly Market used in place of plain brown paper during the holiday season.

  I reached out to ring the doorbell, then noticed that it seemed to have been rewired on the outside, with an old and rather frayed power cord that ran up to the top of the doorframe, then over to disappear inside the nearest window. The whole jerry-rigged contraption looked like an accidental electrocution waiting to happen.

  I looked around, picked up a fallen stick, and pushed the doorbell with that.

  I could hear a melodious “ding-dong” inside.

  Nothing else happened.

  I rang twice more before finally getting a reaction.

  The section of wood on which the door knocker rested suddenly swung out, revealing a hole about two inches wide by three tall. A watery blue eye appeared in the opening and then disappeared.

  “Go away!”

  I could see fingers groping toward a leather strap attached to the trapdoor. Before he could pull it closed, I grabbed the door knocker and held on tight.

  “Mr. Dunlop! It’s Meg Langslow.”

  He gave up trying to grab the strap but he didn’t answer.

  “Remember me? A while back Randall Shiffley and I helped you get your yard in shape.”

  “And now you’re back for the rest of my stuff, I suppose.”

  I couldn’t exactly argue with that.

  “Mr. Dunlop, it’s really cold out here, and it’s kind of hard shouting through that little hole in the door. Why don’t you let us in so we can talk more comfortably?”

  “Who’s that with you? Did you bring the cops to strong-arm me?” His tone reminded me of Spike, who barked all the louder when something frightened him.

  “This is my grandmother, Cordelia Mason.” I stepped aside so Cordelia could smile at the trapdoor.

  “And this is a friend of ours, Caroline Willner.”

  Caroline followed Cordelia’s example. And they were both on their best behavior, trying to look like harmless little old ladies.

  “We just want to talk to you,” I said, returning to my place in front of the peephole.

  At first I didn’t think he was going to react.

  “Just you,” he said. “If the o— If the ladies are cold, they can wait in the car. And you’re not coming in here—back away and I’ll come out.”

  Caroline, Cordelia, and I retreated to stand by the car. Then the door opened, hesitantly. Mr. Dunlop stepped out and then immediately turned to lock the door behind him.

  He wasn’t very tall, and he seemed even shorter, thanks to his stooped posture. Back when we’d cleaned up his yard, I’d had some reason to look him up in the town records. He’d been forty-seven then, so he’d be forty-nine now, or maybe fifty. But he looked—well,
not exactly older, but a lot more faded than you’d expect from someone his age.

  He came down the walkway toward us, favoring his right leg slightly, and stopped a few feet away from us.

  “I want to show you something.” He turned and limped along the inside of the hedge until he reached the gravel driveway, then led the way not to the garage door but around the corner to the smaller side door. He stopped beside the door and pointed to the doorknob. That and the dead bolt above it were both bright, shiny, and probably decades newer than anything else on his property.

  Caroline and Cordelia had decided to ignore the “just you” part, and were following us, though at a discreet distance.

  “I put that in after what they did to me last fall,” he said. “Before, I only had a padlock on the door. They just pried it right off.”

  “Oh, dear.” I wasn’t sure where this was headed, but I didn’t think a sympathetic attitude would hurt.

  He pulled a key ring out of his pocket, unlocked the door, flung it open, and gestured as if to invite us to enter.

  “Look at it!” His voice shook with … rage? Pain? Something, anyway.

  I braced myself and stepped in.

  It wasn’t cluttered.

  I was so surprised that I stopped in the doorway, and Cordelia bumped into me.

  “Sorry!” she said.

  “My fault,” I said as I stepped aside to let her and Caroline enter.

  We gazed around at the interior of the garage, collectively puzzled. It wasn’t empty. He had parked his car in it, which was more than a lot of people could manage. Compared to the house—well, at least the porch, which was the only part we’d seen—it was downright minimalist. There were more tools hanging on the walls than seemed quite necessary, but they were all hanging on the walls. One corner held a dusty clump of patio furniture that didn’t look as if it had seen the light of day in years. The bags of grass seed and fertilizer had cobwebs on them. But it mostly looked like a perfectly normal garage. The only odd part was that he’d rigged up some extra storage overhead, hanging random things from the joists with hooks or ropes and storing larger things by balancing them across the joists. I spotted a moose head, a brass spittoon, a sled, a couple of crab pots, and yes, an oversized kitchen sink. But even the overhead storage area fell short of my definition of cluttered.