A second heavy recovery truck backed into Harry’s paved driveway, its amber hazard lights blinking steadily against the dark windows of his silent estate.

Nora put two stoneware mugs of hot black coffee on the porch railing and came to stand beside me.

“The bank receiver called the town librarian’s office twenty minutes ago,” Nora said quietly.

“They’re changing the deadbolts on the main house at noon tomorrow.”

“That was quick,” I said.

“Once two hundred thousand dollars in tax liens hits a property title, mortgage banks don’t sit around waiting,” she said.

She straightened the dark wool cuffs of her green cardigan.