“They’re locked in the bottom cabinet in the home office,” she said, stepping back toward the stove.

“I’ll get them for you after dinner.”

“I’ll get them myself now,” I said, getting up from the heavy oak chair.

The home office smelled of leather bindings and floor wax.

A single brass lamp glowed on the corner of the desk, throwing a bright circle of yellow light across the blotter.

I went around behind the desk and got down on one knee next to the dark wooden filing cabinet.

The bottom drawer had a small brass lock set into its frame.