Antiques St. Nicked by Barbara Allan Page B

closed in the 1960s, Simon bought the property for a song. But our favorite Santa never developed it. He had long-term plans for the land.”
    â€œWhat about the coin? Why was it stolen only to be discarded?”
    She stared at the old orphanage. “I believe it may have been about stopping any construction on this site.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause, dear, new construction might turn up a very old body.”
    She told me about the notorious nurse, Maude Tanner.
    â€œSo we’re here to find a body?” I asked, goggling at her. Every time I think I’ve heard her worst idea, she tops herself.
    But Mother’s only answer was to exit the car, and I hurried to catch up with her, setting Sushi down. We three went up the dozen or so crumbling cement steps to a wide porch precariously held up with rotting wooden columns.
    Mother tried the heavy front door and found it locked.
    Undaunted, she said, “There must be a key around here somewhere. ”
    â€œUnder the welcome mat, maybe? Gee, for some reason there isn’t a welcome mat here at Friday the Thirteenth Orphanage.”
    But Mother tried various possible hiding places anyway, and came up empty. I tried, too, with no better luck.
    A familiar barking came from inside, and suddenly Sushi’s furry face popped up between slats of a boarded-up porch window.
    â€œWell, she got in,” I said, amazed.
    â€œLet’s ask her how,” Mother replied.
    â€œSushi’s smart, Mother, but she doesn’t talk.”
    â€œHer tracks in the snow do!”
    We followed the little tracks around back where the prints went up stone steps to a smaller porch, stopping beneath a boarded-up first-floor window. One board had fallen away, allowing room enough for doggie entry. But I easily removed another rotting board, allowing Mother and me to climb over the sill.
    We found ourselves in a large kitchen, although few remnants remained to indicate that other than the linoleum-topped counters. The cupboards had been torn out, leaving ugly scars, light fixtures ripped from the ceiling, frayed electrical wires dangling like stripped veins.
    Mother said, “Scavengers.”
    â€œWell, at least the stuff’s being recycled.”
    â€œI’m glad to hear such a positive attitude coming from you, dear. Because we have things to do.”
    Sushi scampered to a stop at my feet. Feeling certain that she wouldn’t wander too far, I let her roam free, confident she would only sniff and look into any holes in the floor, not fall in. I wished I was as confident about Mother and me.
    We moved along a long dark hallway to the front of the building where the midafternoon sun coming through the space between the slats of boarded-up windows gave us some light, at least.
    In the once-grand parlor, the scavengers had been even more bold, removing all the wainscoting from the lower sections of walls, leaving only faded floral wallpaper and the dirty outlines of where pictures had hung. A large fireplace had been robbed of its mantel.
    The house was giving me the willies, even if I wasn’t sure what the willies were, and to compensate I joked, “Maybe our nurse got stuffed up the chimney.”
    Mother said, “I don’t think so, dear.... I’m not getting any vibes.”
    She claimed to get such vibes when her bunions were hurting her, which was a psychic feat no matter how you spelled it.
    Mother moved on to the dining room and I followed. Here most of the parquet floor had been hauled off, along with a hanging light fixture, leaving a good-sized hole in the middle of the ceiling.
    We returned to the main hallway and climbed a wide, wooden staircase that, remarkably, still retained its oak banister—too big and awkward to haul away, maybe. As I went up, my hand slid along the smooth wood as hundreds of children’s hands once had done.
    The second floor had been made into one large, long room.
    â€œThis is where the