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July 8, By CERNY I’ve been an antiques dealer for 25 years, so the phone inviting me to visit a sprawling estate sounded routine. Another wealthy owner who had died. Another mansion. Another lifetime of things the surviving family members didn’t want. Another ending to another life. Sorting trash from treasure is what I do and I it. The estate was not far outside of Chicago's westerly city limits and an architectural oddity. Acres of fallow fields were split in two by an endlessly winding driveway. A small pond abutted a private. Once an enormous barn, the main house was made up of 20-plus rooms that covered floors, all overstocked with the relics of lives well lived. It would take weeks to empty the massive house. The closets were packed with the clothes of an old couple. Plain to fancy dresses in one, men's suits and worn work clothes in another. Where her tastes seemed a bit garish, his were subdued. A mismatched couple? A case of opposites attracting? In the basement was an enormous professional-caliber dark room, its contents crammed up against the ceiling tiles: Boxes of vintage cameras, lenses, old printers, film developing tanks and drawers of home-processed photographs. The quality was impressive, the amount of equipment suffocating. If it was a hobby, it was an interest that bordered on obsession. The huge kitchen was as bright and as colorful as an embossed Victorian postcard. It had been designed by a feminine hand so strong and sure, I could feel her presence. How hours did she spend preparing the thousands of meals on the huge Mission Oak dining table? After dinner he could have played the large pipe organ, which barely fit into the far wall of the paneled room. I could envision her knitting or reading, the music echoing throughout the mansion and into the nearby woods. When I opened a random drawer beside the kitchen sink, the contents startled me. Inside were hundreds of political buttons, and they were an odd mix. The oldest were mostly for Republican candidates, while the newer ones were Democrats. The overseeing the estate sale approached me as I sorted through them. Within moments I had bought the contents of the drawer. swinger clubs WarehamI slipped through the patio door, pausing for a moment to let my eyes adjust. The cool, dark interior of the house contrasted sharply with the scorching brightness outside. The seconds played out and I cocked my head, listening for any tell tale signs of occupancy or pesky pets that might to my presence. Satisfied that I was alone, I got down to the quick, efficient business of cat burglary. Humming to myself, I popped into the kitchen first. The “cookie” jar is the easiest hit in a typical upscale suburban household. I could probably make a decent living just from that, but I am lazy. The volume that would be required would turn the whole thing into something uncomfortably close to a real job. I wrinkled my nose at the thought, as I searched through the pantry. Bingo. The old fake can of baking powder. Too easy. And it looks like little Homemaker here was stashing more than mad money. I pocketed the considerable amount of cash and dumped the rest of the contents on the shelf. Half a dozen small plastic baggies filled with white powder tumbled out. Nice. The street value calculations were second nature; and so were the penalties. I slid of the baggies back into the can and put it back as I found it. Rule number one of being a thief don't get caught. Rule number two if you do get caught, don't be a dumb ass and have felony quantities of illegal substances on your person. Luckily for me, even misdemeanor amounts would buy groceries for a month. I slipped the into my boot and moved through the house, scanning each room. Finding nothing promising, I moved up to the second floor and the master suite. I deal strictly in cash, – prescription or otherwise – and the occasional piece of jewelry. The latter had no real value, but came in handy for greasing wheels when it came time to turn those into the preferred cash. Running through a fence wasn't the most profitable approach, but I wasn't in the dope dealing business. Safe cracking was my specialty, but I rarely bothered on small jobs like this. Even if they had a safe, chances are, it would contain wills and birth certificates and sentimental items. girls xxx
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