And all Mother’s other holiday favorites were back. Intricate blown glass ornaments catching the light in all the windows—but high up, where they’d have better odds of escaping the roughhousing that was sure to take place when cousins and friends came over to visit Josh and Jamie. Multiple trees—the music-themed one in the front hall, the food-themed one in the dining room. Even a literary-themed one in our library—who knew there were so many book-shaped Christmas ornaments in existence?
“Should we put all these under the tree?” Rob and the boys were back, each having to peer around a stack of presents higher than his head.
“Or as close as you can get them,” I said. “Caroline, just give me a few minutes to change into something presentable and we can take off.”
“I’m going to run out and see Rose Noire,” Caroline said. “I’m dying to see her new herb-drying shed.”
I resigned myself to the possibility that Caroline might not be accompanying me to see Harvey the Hoarder. I didn’t share Rose Noire’s fascination with all things New Age, but even so I enjoyed visiting the herb-drying shed—which also doubled as a yoga studio and meditation room and housed her collection of crystals and other minerals. Maybe—
“Mom?” Jamie looked worried about something. Josh was frowning, too. Since the twins, in spite of being boon companions, usually worked hard on doing everything differently from each other, something serious must be going on. “Aunt Caroline brought a lot of presents.”
I glanced over to the tree. Yes, the present stash was looking much more robust.
To make room for the new additions, they’d had to relocate the dogs’ Christmas beds, elegant red velvet cushions with green-and-gold bows that Mother had set on either side of the fire. Tinkerbell, my brother’s Irish wolfhound, had already adjusted to her new location and was dozing contentedly. Spike, our eight-and-a-half-pound fur ball, was sniffing at the new presents and uttering the occasional growl of suspicion and resentment.
“There are a lot of people here,” I said.
“But she brought at least two for me,” Josh said. “And probably two for Jamie.”
“And she gives good presents,” Jamie added.
“We need to think of something really good for her.” Josh folded his arms as if expecting me to protest.
I stifled a sigh. It was nice that they’d become focused on giving in addition to receiving presents. I just wished they’d relax a little about picking their outgoing presents. We’d been agonizing over what to give various friends and family members since before Halloween.
“Good idea,” I said aloud. “I’ll pick her brain and see if I can come up with any suggestions while we’re driving around.”
“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.