Mystery

Treasure written low on a wall

Mara arrived at Nash House in the shoes she used for damp stone. Etta Nash met her beneath an umbrella too small for either of them. One of its ribs had come loose. Etta kept pushing it back as she explained that the agent wanted photographs by Monday, the roof wanted money now, and she wanted someone to tell her whether the marks were old. “In that order?” Mara asked. Etta looked at the umbrella. “Depends who calls.”