6 - Pages of Sin

expensive. A number of grand, elegant armoires lined the walls. Throughout the room, mismatched but fancy chairs and dainty settees had been arranged in small conversation circles, each complete with coffee and end tables and a chandelier overhead.
    Every inch of the table surfaces was taken by silver tea sets and vases and dozens of filigreed and wood and silver picture frames holding photographs of family and friends and flowers. There was a frightening amount of fragile objet d’art.
    Each conversation circle butted up against another one. It looked like the most whimsical Victorian tearoom. On drugs.
    There was more ormolu and toile and brocade than I’d ever seen in one place. Most pieces appeared to be genuine antiques and even though some looked a bit well-worn and frayed around the edges, each was highly polished and free of dust. The room smelled fresh and clean with a hint of rosewater in the air.
    The walls were painted a pale sky blue and light, filmy drapes and soft carpeting complimented the color. Except for the overly ornate chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, the lighting fixtures were actually subtle. There were Tiffany-style sconces on the wall and Satsuma vase lamps with white shades on several of the end tables. I only recognized the Satsuma style because my knowledgeable friend Robin had once pointed them out to me when we were shopping.
    “It’s like every gay decorator in the city decided to store their best stuff here,” Mom whispered.
    I snorted a laugh. But it was true. Everything was in exquisite taste, fit for minor royalty. There was just too damn much of it. And yet the overall effect had a certain fanciful appeal. I wondered if Wanda had spent time in each of those chairs or divans, sipping tea or reading. Did she and her husband sit in here together? Knowing Byron, I couldn’t imagine he would feel comfortable in this distinctly feminine room.
    “I should have worn my tiara,” Mom said as she scanned the old jeans and funky T-shirts we’d worn to clean out Wanda’s closets.
    “There’s got to be some dust balls in here somewhere,” I muttered. If there wasn’t any dust, I was going to be very depressed. How could a deceased hoarder keep a cleaner house than I did?
    Mom led the way along a four-foot-wide carpeted path that had been cleared for walking. The path was bordered on either side by the backs of settees, a few sets of neatly stacked tea tables, a small writing desk here, a drop-leaf table there.
    “This looks like a genuine Chippendale escritoire,” Mom murmured reverently as she stopped to examine the refined little desk. “Robson would love it.”
    “It’s pretty,” I said.
    “I’ll have to ask Byron what he plans to do with all this furniture.” She continued to examine the antiques as she walked slowly along the narrow carpeted path. The trail meandered through the large room and then narrowed and forked three ways. One thin pathway led to a staircase, another headed toward a darkened hallway, and the third went into the kitchen.
    I shuddered as I pondered which path would lead to the site where Wanda’s body had been found. But that was me, always wondering where the bodies were hidden.
    “Let’s open these drapes and get some light in here,” Mom said, and pulled the heavy cord. The curtains slid open, revealing another splendid view of the colorful front gardens. It cheered me to know that despite being housebound, Wanda had managed to surround herself with beauty.
    She never would have made it onto the Hoarders show. Her home was way too pretty and dust-free. Wanda may have had her problems, but dirt wasn’t one of them.
    Mom went straight into the kitchen and a few seconds later, I heard the refrigerator door open. I figured she was tucking the taco casserole into the freezer.
    “It’s spotless in here, too,” she announced.
    “Good.” I’d remained several yards behind her, fearing what we might find in the kitchen. What could I say? Mom was made of tougher stuff than me. But with her announcement, I let go of the uneasy breath I’d been holding and stepped around the corner to take a peek.
    The kitchen counters were indeed clean and free of the sorts of crap I’d seen on the show. There were no animals anywhere, thank God, unlike that one Hoarders couple who’d kept hundreds of rabbits inside their house. The little critters had multiplied to such an extent that they’d taken over the couple’s kitchen, turning it into a