by Ann B. Ross
Well, what does one do? It’s hard to reach a closed mind, especially a mind that never questions itself.
Chapter 35
Why couldn’t everybody just get along? Why couldn’t we live and let live without debasing those who disagree with us? Why couldn’t we try to see the other side and treat one another as we wanted to be treated? Well, of course, we’d been instructed to do just that long before my time, but a lot of good it was doing in the present circumstances.
So, with a long inhalation of breath, I thought that maybe it was up to me to put it into practice. Maybe I should start by taking the first step toward mending a few fences.
There was such a thing as common courtesy, you know, though there seemed to be a dearth of it currently, perhaps even in my own actions. To that end, I called Nell Hudson at A-One Realty, told her what was on my mind, and asked her to keep me informed.
Actually, I didn’t know where or how to start on repairing fences. Should I go around to the seven churches and offer apologies for my angry thoughts? They’d think I was crazy, especially because what I thought on any subject whatsoever wouldn’t matter a hill of beans to any of them. I’d not actually done anything to anybody, except maybe to Madge, and certainly to Helen.
Nonetheless, I screwed up my courage to the sticking point, as somebody somewhere had described it, and called Madge Taylor.
“Madge?” I asked when she answered her phone. “It’s Julia Murdoch. Are you busy? I can call back later if you are.”
“Oh, no, don’t do that. I mean, I’m always busy, but I have time to talk.”
“Well, good,” I said, trying to order what I wanted to say without giving in completely. “Well, Madge, it seems to me that the two of us should try to come up with something that would accomplish what both of us want. You want a place to house homeless boys, and, even if I haven’t acted like it, I want you to know that I do, too. The problem arises with the location you’ve chosen. I mean, doesn’t it bother you that your neighbors dislike your being next door to them?”
“They’ll get over it. We intend to be good neighbors ourselves, so they’ll come around. Or,” she said, and I could almost see her shrug her shoulders, “they’ll move.”
I was stunned at her complete disregard of the legitimate concerns of her neighbors. And this was the woman who cared so deeply for the dispossessed and the disadvantaged.
Keeping a tight rein on my temper, I continued in a modulated tone. “Madge, you know that the Cochran property isn’t zoned for a group home, which is what you are in spite of what you call it. And your determination to stay there is what’s causing so much upset. If you would consider moving to a more appropriate location, I will do whatever I can to help, and I mean help in any way possible. Couldn’t we discuss the matter and come to some kind of an agreement?”
“What’s to discuss?” she said in a dismissive tone. “There’ll always be people who have no concern for the have-nots. We recognize that, so we know we’ll always have that attitude to contend with. We’ve learned to live with it and go on doing what we’re called to do.”
“Regardless of who it hurts?”
“Hurts how?” Madge demanded.
“Well, it hurts the neighbors by devaluing the investment they have in their homes, and—”
“Well, see, that’s your problem, Julia. You’re always thinking in terms of financial gain. You don’t think of those who don’t even have a bed, much less an investment in anything.”
A half dozen retorts ran through my mind, but I steeled myself to keep them unsaid. “That’s really not true, Madge. I’m as concerned for the homeless as you are, but it seems to me that whatever we do for them should be within the bounds of the law. Doing something—no matter how beneficial—that’s illegal doesn’t set a good example for those young boys you want to help. What’s going to happen to them when the commissioners deny you a variance? How will you explain to them—especially to those who might’ve already run afoul of the law—that you’ve done the same thing?”
Madge didn’t respond right away, and I let my question hang in the air between us.
“Let me just assure you,” she finally said, “that we are well within our rights to be there. Do you really think that we would have expended so much time and effort and, yes, money as well, if there was a possibility that we’d be forced to move?” She stopped and let her question hang in the air. Then she answered herself. “I don’t think so.”
In the white noise that rushed into my brain, one thought stood out: Rigged! It’s been rigged all along!
“Does that mean . . .” I started and stopped, then managed to say, “Are you telling me that you already have a zoning variance?”
“I am not without friends, Julia, and I’m not so stupid as to do anything without guarding against all contingencies. I’ve come up against people like you before, so I’ve adopted the boy scout motto—‘Be prepared.’” And with a soft laugh, she said, “I’m not only prepared now, I’ve been prepared for whatever roadblocks you or anybody else decide to throw up.”
“Then,” I managed to say, “I guess we have nothing to discuss. But,” I went on with a little more strength, “just remember that I tried to work with you. I tried so that we’d both get what we want. I’m sorry that only one of us will.”
I hung up, discouraged and dismayed, but also more determined than ever that I would be that one.
* * *
—
I replayed that conversation over and over in my mind and concluded that it was Madge’s sense of smugness that most troubled me. She had not been interested in even hearing my side, much less in working something out to our mutual benefit. My offer to help in any way possible, which she would have correctly interpreted as financial help, had been completely ignored. Which meant to me that she had all the monetary help she needed.
So where was it coming from? If Madge had bought the Cochran house, where had she gotten the money in the first place? Even if each board member had contributed a thousand dollars, there wouldn’t have been enough for a 10 percent down payment, which meant that they wouldn’t have qualified for a bank loan. And they’d had no public fund-raisers before buying the property, so where had the money come from?
I called Binkie and asked if she knew or at least if she knew how we could find out.
She was silent for a few seconds, then said, “Miss Julia, I apologize to you. I went to the Register of Deeds office when you first brought this to my attention, but the sale hadn’t been recorded. Since then I’ve been so tied up with a court case that I’ve not checked it again. I’ll look into it as soon as I can, but it may be awhile.” She paused again, then went on, “It’s unlikely, though, that the owner’s name will tell you much, especially if the board of directors is listed as owners. It won’t tell you how or where they got the money. It could’ve been a private loan.”
“But why would anybody do that?” I asked. “Who would lend a nonprofit that much money? And how would they ever repay it? They exist entirely on gifts and government grants.”
“The more likely possibility,” Binkie replied, “as I’ve mentioned before, is that it was an outright gift.”
After hanging up, I was more distraught than ever. I knew what the listing price of the Cochran house had been, and I knew that the Cochran estate might have accepted a low offer just to be rid of it. Even so, with a house in such a desirable location, I couldn’t imagine that the estate would’ve given it away.
Somebody had to have put up the money, but who and why? Yes, I could concede that someone could’ve donated that much simply for the sake of housing homeless teens, but donating that amount under the table, with no fanfare, no recognition with a picture in the newspaper handing over an oversize check? Knowing the people in this town, I didn’t think so.
Something, I thought darkly, was going on that no one knew about. And reca
lling what Hazel Marie had told me when this first started, I wondered who it had been who’d asked if Mr. Pickens would sell Sam’s old house. He had been the first to be approached about selling out, and now somebody had an eye on the Pickerell house and on Jan Osborne’s, too.
Who would want to buy a house, much less three houses, one on either side of and one behind a group home housing half a dozen semidelinquent teenagers? And not only who, but why?
But maybe, I consoled myself, it was all just gossip, speculation run wild, as rumors were apt to do in Abbotsville.
Chapter 36
Just as I was about to give up and get out the paper, ribbon, Scotch tape, and scissors to begin wrapping Christmas presents, Hazel Marie called.
“Miss Julia! I’m so upset I don’t know what to do, and J.D. is in Virginia and won’t be home until the end of the week, and I hate to tell him when he does get home.”
Picturing an influx of teenage boys lined up to move into the house next door, I asked, “What in the world, Hazel Marie? What’s happened now?”
“Well,” she said with a great sigh, “let me sit down before I fall down. It’s something I would’ve never imagined happening, and J.D. is going to be beside himself.”
“What? What is it?”
“Well,” she said again, “I’d just put the girls down for a nap when Mr. Pickerell—you know, he’s our neighbor who lives right behind the Cochran house? You know him, don’t you?”
“I know who he is. What did he want?”
“Oh, Miss Julia, he came over to tell us—although I know he knew J.D. wasn’t home. And now that I think of it, that’s probably why he came when he did.”
“Tell you what? Hazel Marie, get to the point. What’s going on?”
“He’s sold his house! He said he feels real bad about it, but that some agent showed up yesterday and made him a onetime take-it-or-leave-it offer. Mr. Pickerell said that it was a pretty low offer, but the agent told him that a group home in the neighborhood devalues the whole area. So he thinks he’d better do it while he can, because the agent pointed out that when a bunch of kids move in, he’ll be lucky to sell it at all.
“And you know, Miss Julia, that his wife isn’t well—bedridden, in fact—and he hopes to be able to buy into one of the retirement complexes where she’ll get lifetime care. So I guess I can’t blame him. But J.D. will.”
“Worry about him when he gets home. Right now, what we need to know is who’s buying it. Who would want something not even on the market and needing work, too? To say nothing of having a house full of teenagers in the backyard?”
“I don’t know who it could be,” Hazel Marie said, defeat obvious in her voice. “I asked Mr. Pickerell and all he said was that it was somebody representing a holding company. Whatever that is.”
Hmm, a holding company, I thought, but knew no more about such a thing than Hazel Marie did. But it sounded to me as if certain cards were being held awfully close to somebody’s chest. But, then, I have a naturally suspicious nature.
“I’ll ask Sam,” I said. “He’ll know. But, listen, Hazel Marie, to be on the safe side, why don’t you call your other neighbor, Mrs. Osborne, and tell her about Mr. Pickerell. I’d like to know if the same person approached her.”
“That’s a good idea. I’ll do that right now and call you back.” Hazel Marie hung up, and I stood there, waiting for the phone to ring again, all thought of wrapping presents left by the wayside.
I snatched up the phone when it rang some twenty minutes later.
“Miss Julia?” Hazel Marie asked, as if I might’ve been someone else. “Jan Osborne said it was some lawyer from Asheville who made an offer for her house. He told her he was representing a group who was interested in buying old houses, but she doesn’t remember the name of it.” Hazel Marie paused, then said, “She said his offer was so stunning that she didn’t hear anything else he said.”
“Stunning, how? Too little or too much?”
“Well, it didn’t sound too much to me, but it was more than she expected. She said she’s decided to accept because it needs a new roof and a new furnace, which she can’t afford. And on top of that, she said it’s an answer to prayer because she’s been so worried about her daughter being next door to all those boys. Miss Julia—” Hazel Marie paused, then in a quavery voice said, “I don’t know what to think. First Madge moving in, and now the Pickerells and Jan Osborne moving out. What is going on?”
“Madge isn’t selling, is she?” Now, that would’ve been a shocker.
“No, I guess not, but it sounds like something’s going on with the rest of the block.”
It sounded like it to me, too. “What about your other neighbors?”
“There’s only the Tudor house on the far corner behind the Osborne house. The Winsteads live there, but their last child is in college, so they could be thinking of downsizing.”
“Which means they could be tempted to sell if an offer came along. Hazel Marie,” I said, a light beginning to come on, “it sounds to me that somebody wants that whole block. Thank goodness that you and Mr. Pickens bought the empty lot behind your house. You own a third of the block. Whoever is sneaking around trying to buy up everything will be stopped cold when you won’t sell. The question is why. Why would anybody want it, especially with a group home right in the middle of it? I mean, we all thought that would make the properties around it less desirable, but it seems to have done just the opposite.”
“I don’t know, Miss Julia,” she said, “and I could just cry.”
“Well, don’t do that. What you have to do is hold on tight. Do not sell, regardless of what you’re offered. We have to find out who wants it and what they want it for.”
* * *
—
“Sam,” I asked as we finished lunch, “what’s a holding company?”
He looked up in surprise. “A holding company? Where did that come from?”
“That’s what I want to know. What it is and where it’s coming from.”
“Well, a holding company is a company that holds enough stock, real estate, or patents in other companies not to actually run those companies, but to control their policies and management. The owners receive certain tax benefits and protection of their personal assets.” Looking slightly askance at me, he went on, “Then there are certain entities called personal holding companies, which are limited to five or fewer individuals, which operate pretty much the same way, only on a smaller scale.”
“Like that man in Omaha?”
“Hardly,” he said, laughing. “I think he’d qualify for something a little larger. Why’re you asking?”
“Somebody is buying up property around the Cochran house—the Pickerells are selling, Jan Osborne is on the verge of it, and Hazel Marie thinks the Winsteads might sell. And you remember that somebody’s already approached Mr. Pickens about selling his house. And,” I went on, “Binkie thinks it’s possible that someone may have bought the Cochran house and donated it to Madge Taylor and her crew. I’m wondering if that same someone could be who’s trying to buy up the rest of the block, and if so, why would they have already given one house away?”
“Well, now,” Sam said, looking off into space as he thought about it, “that is interesting. I don’t know, honey, but you’re right. It doesn’t make sense for the same people to buy up everything around a property they’ve already given away. But of course they could’ve just rented it to Madge.” Then, as if he’d just thought of the possibility, he asked, “You think Pickens would sell?”
“I hate to think that he would. They love that house. It has special meaning to Hazel Marie because it was yours. And probably to Mr. Pickens, too. But he could get mad enough to do it if the commissioners grant Madge a variance. If they do, and somebody comes along and offers him a good price, he’d have little reason not to.”
“Hmm, or he could get mad e
nough to refuse any offer out of spite. He might decide to stay just to be a thorn in the flesh of that group home.”
I nodded. “You can never tell about him, that’s for sure. I just wish we could find out who wants all those houses and why they want them. It’s putting a whole different light on everything.”
“I doubt it’s the houses they want,” Sam said, “whoever they are. More likely, it’s the property they’re after. But even that makes no sense with the Cochran house right in the middle of it. And if it was a gift to the Homes for Teens, I can’t see Madge Taylor and her board giving it up.”
“Unless,” I said, “she gets an offer over and above what it’s worth. If they made it worth her while, she’d take the money and run to another neighborhood, without one thought of uprooting those wayward boys she’s so concerned about.”
Sam smiled. “Not getting a little cynical, are we?”
I smiled back. “No more than usual, as you should know. Oh, Sam,” I moaned, leaning my head on my hand, “it’s getting too much for me. I’ve tried to make amends with Madge—to work with her in some way—but she’s so convinced that she’s in the right that there’s no talking to her. And another thing, as if that wasn’t enough, Lloyd is tutoring a freshman in algebra, and I think that child’s not being looked after.”
Then I told him about Freddie Pruitt and how Lloyd was seeing that he got breakfast on their tutoring days. “Could you find out what his home situation is?”
“Wouldn’t Lloyd know?”
“I’m not sure. I get the feeling that he’s protective of Freddie, so he might not want to talk about him. If he even knows anything. Freddie, himself, might not say much. Deprived children can be ashamed to admit they’re in need, you know.”
Sam nodded. “That’s probably true. But, sure, I’ll look around, ask a few questions, and see if the boy’s being cared for. I’ll start with the Department of Social Services—maybe find out if they have him in their sights.”
