There were photos of her as a young woman as well, including one taken up north with the Lodge in the background. But there were no photos of him in her collection. He had checked, many times.

He crossed the room and passed under another archway into the hall, which stretched from the front entry to the kitchen at the back. A formal dining room with a large mahogany table and high-backed chairs was directly in front of him. To his right was the staircase to the second floor, with its polished dark-wood banister.

Sighing, he took a few steps along the hallway, toward the back of the house. The place was empty. There was no one here. He had been mistaken.

He was about to call out, just to make sure, when he heard a noise from above his head. A creak, as if someone had stepped on a loose floorboard.

He froze. His head tilted back slowly as his gaze followed the rise of the stairs. Was someone up there? He swallowed hard. He half expected an attacker to come racing down the stairs toward him. But the landing at the top was shrouded in darkness. He saw no one there.

He heard the footsteps then, as abrupt as gunshots in the stillness. Someone was crossing over his head, walking from the back of the house to the front. To the spare bedroom, he thought. He’d been in there a few times. There was another display cabinet in that room for her ketchup bottles, he recalled. And a twin poster bed with a white coverlet. An antique floor lamp with stylized crystal droplets hanging from the edges of its shade. Her trusty old Singer sewing machine, vintage 1960s. And, of course, the magnificent wall-length shelving unit, with its secret document drawer.

He felt a chill go through him. Could that be what the intruder is looking for? The ledger?

Determined to find out what was going on, he returned to the foot of the stairs, clamped his hand tightly on the banister, and slowly started up, half pulling himself as he went, coaxing his tired legs to take the steps one at a time.