Page 2 of Cowboy Mountain Man

Mrs. Bell’s house still looks like Mrs. Bell might come downstairs and ask what I’m doing in it. That’s always the hardest part of these jobs. The belongings outlast the person, and somebody has to turn them into a list.

It feels so impersonal… but necessary.

I remind myself of the last part.

Moving through the space, I photograph the table, then record a few notes on my tablet. The front room holds a stone fireplace I’d love to curl up in front of, a floral sofa, and two baby-blue wingback chairs. Definitely not my style.

But the stacks of dusty, leather-bound books sitting beside one chair? I can appreciate those. They’re topped by a pair of reading glasses, which makes this job feel like opening a time capsule. I leave those exactly where they are.

The dining room is easier, somehow far less personal. Though I can almost hear the laughter of past occupants and happy memories when I stand still for a moment. Table. Six chairs. Sideboard. China cabinet full of dishes with gold rims.

Straightforward. Easy to photograph by the pale amber light slanting through the windows.

My stomach growls. I ate a granola bar somewhere outside Poughkeepsie and called it lunch. There may be a second one in the rental car, assuming it hasn’t become permanently fused to the inside of the glove compartment.

Kitchen first. Check-in at the inn where I’ll be staying, and then food.

I push through the swinging door and stop. A chipped white mug sits beside the sink. That alone isn’t strange. I’ve found half-finished cups of tea in houses left empty for years. But this mug is white, plain, and clean. Beside it lies a folded paper towel with a brown coffee stain.

I lower my camera.

The rest of the kitchen wears a soft layer of dust. It covers the yellow windowsill, the top of the refrigerator, and the shoulders of a ceramic rooster. Just like you’d expect.

But the mug? Not a speck.

My eyes dart around. Neither does the space around it.

The chill slithers back down my spine. Only this time I can’t blame it on the ice in the air or the caw of a large, black bird.

I glance toward the back door. A muddy boot print marks the floor beneath the window. Then another. The mud has dried in ridges, but the prints appear to sit on top of the dust.

Heathens, I imagine Mrs. Bell would say.

Instead, my voice cracks. “Okay.”

Maybe the attorney sent someone to check the house. A contractor. A real estate agent. Somebody who drinks coffee and has never met a doormat. Entirely reasonable.

My heart thumps against my ribs. My shoulders tighten with unease. I take pictures anyway. The back door is locked. I check it twice, annoyed with myself on the second attempt.

Outside, a narrow yard ends at the trees. An old red barn that could use a fresh coat of paint stands beyond a sagging fence, its broad doors secured with a chain. One window is open upstairs.

I’m about to turn away when I see the tracks. Two tire marks cut through the weeds beside the house and continue toward the barn. Grass has started growing in the center of the main driveway. Whoever drove around back did it recently enough to flatten the wet leaves.

I photograph those through the glass. Then I pull up the attorney’s number.

The call fails.

Great.

I try a text.

Hi, Martin. I’m at the Bell property. Has anyone been here recently? There are fresh-looking boot prints in the kitchen and a clean coffee mug. Just checking before I continue.

The message sits there, spinning and spinning and spinning.

I set my phone on the windowsill and open the kitchen drawers. Silverware. Dish towels. A collection of takeout menus from restaurants that may no longer exist. By the time I finish photographing the cabinets, the text has gone through.

No answer yet.