She told Mary Jo Santagate, a teachers’ aide at her school, that she disliked the house’s clutter and wished that her husband had not kept their dead cat frozen in their refrigerator: she dreaded opening it to cook.
On the rare occasions Mr. Nichols appeared, he would be sitting in his car in the driveway, drowsing or reading the paper or maybe doing nothing at all.
Neighbors marveled at the tools and gadgets he had amassed through his job at I.B.M. and his evening shifts in the Sears hardware department, including six lawn mowers.
Neighbors marveled at the tools and gadgets he had amassed through his job at I.B.M. and his evening shifts in the Sears hardware department, including six lawn mowers.
a large, flat, outdoor sign for advertisements or notices
But even two weeks after the body of Ms. Nichols was found, it was hard, on this street, to comprehend the idea that along with his tools and his trash, James Nichols had been hoarding his wife the whole time.
She gave her nieces’ and nephews’ days an idyllic cast, Mr. Miller recalled, taking them to pick fruit before going back to the house to make preserves and pies.
When he was found dead in December, slumped in a chair inside his home in this Hudson Valley town, there was no will to be found, only masses of decaying books, cameras and computers.
There was the afternoon Denise Darragh asked him to help her with an injured squirrel, and he — still wearing his suit jacket — killed it with a hatchet as the children playing in her yard screamed.
He told the police he believed she had left to join a religious cult or had killed herself; to neighbors he simply announced, flatly, that she had left him.
He rode around the neighborhood on a lawn mower, once using it to move the couple’s book collection from their first house on Stephanie Lane, the looping street just behind Vassar Road, to their second on Vassar Road.