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“Tables.” Trey made his way through to the back wall, pointed to a stack of them. “Folding. I thought I remembered these.”

“Those are perfect. How many are there?” After a quick count, Sonya nodded. “Five. Good start.”

Owen crouched down. “You know what these are? They’re field tables. Military field tables. They’re old, man. In good shape, though.”

“Can we set one up? They look right,” Sonya said, “but they have to be sturdy.”

“Some chairs here.” After she called out, Cleo lifted one, unfolded it. “Old but sturdy. Not enough, but another good start.”

“We need to test them. If any of them need a little work”—Sonya glanced over at Owen—“maybe?”

“The lawyer can handle simple repairs.”

Within an hour they had a collection of tables, chairs, two urns, a three-legged stool, and an assortment of vintage chafing dishes.

“Some of these are silver, some are copper, but there’s no sign of tarnishing.” Sonya ran her fingers over a domed lid. “I really hope Molly has help. I bet these were used for big parties, for weddings. I think…”

“Can’t say I paid too much attention.” Owen studied the assortment. “But yeah, they had this kind of thing set up in the ballroom for the one we crashed.”

“We’ll use them again, and Molly’s—or whoever’s—work gets appreciated. I want to go through the serving platters, bowls. Here’s what I’m thinking, Son. We rent the plates, glassware, flatware, but we use some of our own. It doesn’t have to be uniform.”

“It shouldn’t be uniform,” Sonya agreed. “Mixing patterns and styles adds charm. I say we keep going, keep knocking down the list. Same thing upstairs. Then when we have what we’re going to have, we move it into the apartment. Use that as a staging area.”

“You want to move all this up into the apartment?”

Sonya gave Trey’s arm a pat. “Not the tables and chairs. No point moving them twice, but the rest?”

“This is going to take a while,” Owen repeated.

The servants’ bell began to ring, followed by barking, hissing. And the lower basement door creaked open.

“Absolutely no.” With purpose, Sonya strode over, started to shove it closed. “God, need a hand. It’s like someone’s pushing it back.”

Trey rushed over, and over her head, gave it a hard shove. “Cold to the touch.”

“Fine. She deserves the scary basement. She can have the scary basement.”

“She can’t, cutie. You’ve got furnaces, water heaters, and more. The Gold Room’s one thing, but this is another.”

Owen pulled a flashlight off a shelf, switched it on. “Let’s go check it out.”

“Isn’t that just what she wants you to do?” Cleo pointed out.

“Why disappoint her?” Owen got another flashlight, tossed it to Trey. “Hang back here,” he told Jones.

Trey opened the door. “We won’t be long.”

“Oh, but—” And as the door closed behind them, Patsy Cline sang out on Sonya’s phone:

“Crazy.”

“You can say that again” was Sonya’s opinion.

Trey tried the light switch. “Light’s working.”

“Colder down here than it should be.” After turning off his flashlight, Owen looked around. “As clean down here as the rest of the house. Not even a stray spiderweb.”

They worked their way through the labyrinth of rooms.