I reached into my coat pocket and took out my mother’s gold pocket watch, feeling the smooth, worn metal of the case in my palm.

“This was my mother’s,” I said, laying the watch on the table between our coffee cups.

“The jeweler in Oakridge valued the gold case at two hundred dollars last spring.”

He picked up the watch, opened the back catch to check the maker’s mark, and snapped it shut again.

“I’ll have the certified property tax records back here in forty minutes,” he said.

He tucked the watch into his vest pocket, picked up his hat, and went out to his sedan.