The Garrison mansion had loomed over the north side of Millbury for as far back as anyone cared to remember—its three stories of fake gingerbread trim and perpetually scowling dormers perched atop a crown of buckled porch railings and wind-gnawed shutters.

Once, long ago, its windows were rumored to have glowed with chandelier light and the perfume of the lady of the house had scented the front walk as she swept down for deliveries. Now it crouched at the edge of the abandoned marsh, a starved animal with its last meal stuck between its teeth, daring anyone to walk up its front steps.

Several agents tried their luck, but each time a prospective buyer crossed the threshold, they fled with wrinkled noses and faint, horrified mumbling about the "stench."

When the latest in a long string of potential buyers—a remote investor from Boston—declared the building "cursed, or at least revolting beyond economic repair," the bank's patience finally cracked. They called in the only local experts with a reputation for solving "problematic situations": Nora Hargrove and Ed and Millie Cacciatore—the "unofficial detectives" of Millbury.