The Junkyard Kennel Hid a Fortune

3: 3

I sat in the kennel until dawn.

All eighteen of the old dogs woke up, and I walked them and fed them as each one needed.

I went down the line pouring kibble from the sack, but my eyes kept drifting to the things sitting out in the yard.

The Song-dynasty water vat, the Ming painting, the Shang-Zhou door knocker.

And that solid-gold stone trough, hundreds of pounds of it.

Any single piece was worth more than the ancestral home and the antique shop combined.

But how was I supposed to move them?

If my two uncles ever found out, they'd never stop coming around to make trouble.

I'd already paid the price for yesterday, over that jade pendant.

And the trough was too heavy. There was no way I could move it on my own.

I needed a plan that covered every angle.

I dug the half-bucket of black paint out of the toolbox in the corner and painted over the gold face I'd scraped bare the day before.

Then I pulled out my phone and called Leslie.

It took until the third ring before he picked up, still fuming. "What? It's the weekend. The county records office is closed."

"Leslie, could you come out to the kennel?"

"What's worth going out to that run-down kennel for?" He flared up at once. "Miranda, do you think I only said all that yesterday because I was angry?"

"Just come. I have something to show you. If you still want a divorce after you've seen it, I won't stop you."

The line went quiet for a moment, then he hung up.

Around noon, Leslie came.

He stood in the kennel gateway, shadows under his eyes, clearly having slept badly.

When he saw me, he pressed his lips together.

"What am I supposed to be looking at? Done? Are we getting divorced or not?"

I walked over, took his hand, and pulled him into the yard.

"Leslie, crouch down."

Grudgingly, he crouched in front of the stone trough.

I took out my little knife and scraped a small patch of black paint off the side.

Leslie froze.

He reached out and touched the gold, then rubbed his eyes hard, his voice starting to shake.

"Mira... this is..."

"Gold," I said. "The whole trough."

"And not just the trough. The water vat in the kennel is Song dynasty, the painting on the wall is Ming, and even that chamber pot by the outhouse door is an antique."

Leslie shot to his feet, swept his eyes around the kennel, unable to hide his shock and excitement.

I told him about the dream, and his mouth fell open wider and wider.

"So Grandma..."

I nodded. "Grandma knew my eldest uncle and the others would never let me have any peace, so she left everything to me this way."

Leslie covered his mouth, tears spilling out before he could stop them.

"You idiot. When you handed that jade pendant to Anthony yesterday, do you have any idea how much it hurt me? Your father left that to you!"

"I know." I tugged at the hem of his shirt. "People matter more than things. There was nothing else I could do."

"So what now?" Leslie wiped his face. "These things can't stay here. Sooner or later someone finds them."

We talked it over all afternoon and finally settled on a plan.

We'd say we were renovating the kennel, and haul the pieces out mixed in with the construction debris.

Small things first. The trough was too heavy, so we'd deal with it last.

No time like the present.

That same night I got in touch with a work crew, picking a few who were quick with their hands and kept their mouths shut.

Leslie watched the whole thing.

But we never expected it to go sideways the very next day.

The antiques were buried in the construction debris, just loaded onto the little truck, when a black sedan cut across our path and blocked the way.

The car door opened, and my younger uncle, Frederick James, stepped out.