on a vehicle registered as a farm truck when the radio crackled to life.
“Your lucky day,” I murmured as I waved him on his way, then turned my full attention to a report of bad news from a familiar address.
“They’re at it again,” the female voice on the radio added to the end of one of her characteristically businesslike messages.
Feeling every bit as exasperated as she sounded, I acknowledged the call as I pulled out into traffic with lights and sirens clearing the way. As unlikely as it was that the call was, in fact, an emergency, I did my job and treated it as if it were. Minutes later, I left Route 146 and headed for an old neighborhood of neatly kept bungalows and—for the most part—law-abiding senior citizens.
I slowed down when I turned onto Honeysuckle Drive and parked my car between the two houses on the cul-de-sac at the end of the street. The emergency call had been made by the owner of 1231 Honeysuckle, but I had no doubt that I’d end up talking to the neighbor at 1233.
As I opened the wrought-iron gate and walked up the flagstone path to the first house, it occurred to me that the front porches of 1231 and 1233 accurately reflected the homes’ owners. The porch I was stepping onto was glossy white and furnished with wicker furniture, cushy floral pillows and hanging baskets of cascading petunias. Next door, the other porch was pony-spotted with multicolor layers of peeling paint, had rusted milk cans and cracked ceramic crocks overflowing with bright flowers decorating its sagging steps, and supported an old sofa. Also floral. No car in front of Marta Moye’s impeccably kept house—she no longer drove. A vintage yellow Cadillac was the only thing that was impeccably kept on the property next door.
Marta, who had recently celebrated her sixty-eighth birthday, was sitting on the wicker sofa, obviously waiting for me. Today, she was the one who had called 911, so hers was the story I needed to hear first.
Despite the flowing woven cotton jumper she wore, her usually pale, round face was flushed bright red beneath a halo of pink-toned gray hair. As much with agitation as with heat, I thought. She sputtered as she stood, still clutching her tiny Yorkie, Peanut, against her ample breasts.
“That…that… man… urinated on my hedge!” she shrilled the moment I set my foot on her porch.
That man was Larry Hayes, the proprietor of the AntiqueAttic and Marta’s senior by at least a decade. I glanced at my watch knowing that, these days, Larry opened the Attic closer to noon than ten. That was, when he bothered opening it at all. I shook my head slowly, thinking that his retirement hours were leaving him plenty of time for his feud with Marta.
Rumor had it that there was a good reason that the break in the fence between their backyards had remained unrepaired for decades. Scandalous, the usual local gossips maintained. Such carrying on—especially at their age! And they wondered if the affair had been going on before Marta’s husband had died and Larry’s young wife had deserted him.
But a month earlier, on my first official visit to the two frame houses, I’d noticed that the passageway had been crudely repaired—on both sides of the fence. A neat square of latticework on Marta’s side. Mismatched scraps of lumber on Larry’s. And the same ladies who had been happily outraged now happily discussed the inevitable consequences of “that kind of behavior.”
The feud between the two seemed to be escalating. In the past week, their calls to 911 had almost become a daily event. Most of them in the morning, when the two seemed to take particular pleasure in annoying each other. Usually, I tried to be patient. I liked Larry. I liked Marta. But today, with the memory of a root-ensnared skeleton fresh in my mind, their complaints were particularly irrelevant.
Twenty minutes later, after taking enough notes to keep Marta happy, I climbed the steps onto Larry’s front porch. He looked
“Your lucky day,” I murmured as I waved him on his way, then turned my full attention to a report of bad news from a familiar address.
“They’re at it again,” the female voice on the radio added to the end of one of her characteristically businesslike messages.
Feeling every bit as exasperated as she sounded, I acknowledged the call as I pulled out into traffic with lights and sirens clearing the way. As unlikely as it was that the call was, in fact, an emergency, I did my job and treated it as if it were. Minutes later, I left Route 146 and headed for an old neighborhood of neatly kept bungalows and—for the most part—law-abiding senior citizens.
I slowed down when I turned onto Honeysuckle Drive and parked my car between the two houses on the cul-de-sac at the end of the street. The emergency call had been made by the owner of 1231 Honeysuckle, but I had no doubt that I’d end up talking to the neighbor at 1233.
As I opened the wrought-iron gate and walked up the flagstone path to the first house, it occurred to me that the front porches of 1231 and 1233 accurately reflected the homes’ owners. The porch I was stepping onto was glossy white and furnished with wicker furniture, cushy floral pillows and hanging baskets of cascading petunias. Next door, the other porch was pony-spotted with multicolor layers of peeling paint, had rusted milk cans and cracked ceramic crocks overflowing with bright flowers decorating its sagging steps, and supported an old sofa. Also floral. No car in front of Marta Moye’s impeccably kept house—she no longer drove. A vintage yellow Cadillac was the only thing that was impeccably kept on the property next door.
Marta, who had recently celebrated her sixty-eighth birthday, was sitting on the wicker sofa, obviously waiting for me. Today, she was the one who had called 911, so hers was the story I needed to hear first.
Despite the flowing woven cotton jumper she wore, her usually pale, round face was flushed bright red beneath a halo of pink-toned gray hair. As much with agitation as with heat, I thought. She sputtered as she stood, still clutching her tiny Yorkie, Peanut, against her ample breasts.
“That…that… man… urinated on my hedge!” she shrilled the moment I set my foot on her porch.
That man was Larry Hayes, the proprietor of the AntiqueAttic and Marta’s senior by at least a decade. I glanced at my watch knowing that, these days, Larry opened the Attic closer to noon than ten. That was, when he bothered opening it at all. I shook my head slowly, thinking that his retirement hours were leaving him plenty of time for his feud with Marta.
Rumor had it that there was a good reason that the break in the fence between their backyards had remained unrepaired for decades. Scandalous, the usual local gossips maintained. Such carrying on—especially at their age! And they wondered if the affair had been going on before Marta’s husband had died and Larry’s young wife had deserted him.
But a month earlier, on my first official visit to the two frame houses, I’d noticed that the passageway had been crudely repaired—on both sides of the fence. A neat square of latticework on Marta’s side. Mismatched scraps of lumber on Larry’s. And the same ladies who had been happily outraged now happily discussed the inevitable consequences of “that kind of behavior.”
The feud between the two seemed to be escalating. In the past week, their calls to 911 had almost become a daily event. Most of them in the morning, when the two seemed to take particular pleasure in annoying each other. Usually, I tried to be patient. I liked Larry. I liked Marta. But today, with the memory of a root-ensnared skeleton fresh in my mind, their complaints were particularly irrelevant.
Twenty minutes later, after taking enough notes to keep Marta happy, I climbed the steps onto Larry’s front porch. He looked
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