“You don’t know that,” he said, his voice dropping as he leaned closer. “She kept a gray tin bandaid box. I saw her with it on the kitchen table after your grandfather died, and she did not put it in the dresser with her jewelry. If she had a second will, or the cash from the hardware sale, that is where she put it.”
“The hardware sale was twenty years ago,” I said. “There is no cash left from that.”
“Help me pull the shelving unit away from the cellar door when we get back,” he said, his hand resting heavy on the steering wheel. “If we find that tin, we find what she was hiding from us.”
“I will think about it,” I said, opening my door to escape the dry heat of the cab.
I left David in the hardware aisle, where he was staring at the heavy contractor trash bags and tapping his brass keyring against his thigh. I walked toward the back of the store, my wet boots squeaking on the linoleum. The customer service counter was tucked into a quiet alcove near the layaway bins and the winter coat racks, away from the main registers.
