“I wonder what Derek would have thought,” Charles said.

Norman pointed at the next catalog page. “I bet that’s the lot you’re after.”

“Yes.”

“Number sixty-four. You got here just in time.”

“Going once, twice, sold. Lot sixty-two for five thousand six hundred dollars. Next will be lot sixty-three, two Windsor chairs. Bidding will open at five thousand. Do I see five thousand?”

“Those are nice,” Norman said. “I don’t do furniture, but those are nice. From Vermont, 1920, all handmade. The real things. It must have taken a long time to pull all this stuff together.”

“A lifetime.”

“And poof, here it’s all gone in three hours. Kind of funny, you know?”

The auctioneer’s voice stabbed the air, slicing and cutting, on and on, relentlessly.

“And his wife doesn’t want it.” Norman said. “It’s her selling it off, right?”

“I believe so.”

“She’s making a bundle. Especially after that desk! I wonder if she knew he was worth so much? His stuff, anyway. Did you get the list?”

“The catalog?” Charles asked, with it in his hand. “This?”

“No, the list from the police.”

“I don’t know of any list from the police.”

“It’s the stuff that got stolen, you know, that night he got killed.”

“Any other bid? Going once, twice, sold. Lot sixty-three for thirteen thousand dollars.”

“They want dealers to be looking for it,” Norman said.

“No, I didn’t get that list.”

“Next will be lot sixty-four, a set of thirteen antique books. Bidding will open at ten thousand. Do I see ten thousand?”

“This is you, right?”

Charles nodded.

“Good luck,” Norman said.

“Thanks.”

“I guess no books got stolen.”

“Ten thousand, thank you. Do I see eleven?”