I looked past her into the hallway. The framed photographs of the old shipyard that used to hang near the door were gone. Only pale squares on the wallpaper remained.
Jake stepped out of the shadow of the porch stairs. His face was pale, and his fingers were tapping against the seam of his trousers. He looked at me, then at the pocket of my coat, and gave a single, tight nod.
“We need the key to the workshop, Emily,” Richard said. He took two steps down the porch stairs, stopping on the middle step so he could look down at me. “The appraiser is coming tomorrow morning at eight.”
“The workshop is locked,” I said.
“We know it is locked,” Richard said. “That is why I am asking for the key.”
“I don’t have it,” I said.
Richard looked at Mr. Harlow. His eyes narrowed, and his jaw set into a hard, straight line.
“Mr. Harlow,” Richard said. “I assume you have advised my daughter about the legal consequences of withholding estate property.”
“I have advised her on many things, Richard,” Mr. Harlow said. His voice was formal and measured. “Including the exact limits of an executor’s authority before the court issues letters testamentary.”
Richard did not answer. He stared at Mr. Harlow for five seconds, then turned back to the house.
“We will find it,” Richard said.
I turned toward the gravel path that led around the side of the house to the cedar-sided shed. The grass was tall and wet, soaking through the canvas of my boots. Jake followed me, his boots crunching softly behind mine.
The wooden door of the workshop was solid cedar, five inches thick, built to keep out the river damp. A heavy iron padlock hung from the latch.
“Did you get it?” I whispered.
Jake reached into his pocket and pulled out a small brass key. It was cold when he dropped it into my palm.
“They didn’t check under the bench,” Jake said. “They were too busy looking through his desk drawers in the den.”
