by Ann B. Ross
“Oh, my word, and walk away patting themselves on the back for doing so much good. Sam, we have got to get them away from the Pickenses before they turn that house into a thrift shop for the SPCA or a coalition of state-run soup kitchens.”
Sam smiled. “Not quite that bad, honey. But another possibility is that they’ll sell it.”
“Sell what? They don’t own the house. What would they sell, and who would they sell it to?”
“They could sell their name, their donor list, and any grants they may’ve gotten. And they could sell to private businesses that run things like elder-care homes, child-care centers, and so on all over the country. A lot of times, these entities make money by, in turn, selling franchises to local people to run them.
“But whatever they do, it’ll change the tone of the neighborhood and open the door for similar enterprises. The first thing—and you can count on Madge doing this—is to put a sign out front. And that sign will not only identify the house, it’ll indicate that the neighborhood is in decline. A business of sorts has begun the invasion.”
Thinking of a camel’s nose, I said, “We have to buy that big house, Sam, and get Madge and her crew out of the Cochran house. The next thing will be to buy that, but if Pete Hamrick and his Ridgetop people get mad enough at us, they may hold on to it out of spite.”
Sam nodded. “Maybe, but when word gets out that their grand hotel plans have fallen through, Pete and Ridgetop will have their hands full with angry investors. They could be more than willing to unload it. Just sit tight, honey, and let’s see what happens.”
* * *
—
Well, what happened was that Tom LaSalle handed over deeds to the Pickerell, Osborne, and Winstead houses to Mildred and me late Tuesday afternoon, then left for Atlanta. About the same time, Sam sewed up the big Victorian and put Binkie to work on an airtight lease. Talk about being house poor! It made me queasy just thinking about it.
I had not seen or heard from Madge since spending some time in her holly bush, but somebody had told somebody else who had told Mildred that Madge was deeply depressed and would start crying whenever anyone asked her about the Homes for Teens. She’d lost heart, it was said, and had even stopped making fund-raising phone calls.
I had a twinge of conscience at that, but had to wait for Binkie to finish wording the lease before she notified Madge that some bighearted donors had come to the rescue.
Sam and I had gone earlier to Binkie’s office to dictate the terms of the lease, which, besides the usual legalities, included the requirement that Freddie Pruitt be assigned the turret room for as long as he was in the care of Homes for Teens. We also made certain that the house was to be used as a home for homeless teens and for no other purpose, and that the lease would become null and void if the Homes for Teens was turned over to any other entity, nonprofit or not, regardless of how much good it did.
I wanted to insert a requirement that Madge remain as director of the home and as president of the board of Homes for Teens just to keep her too busy to have any more enthusiastic nonprofit ideas. But Binkie said we were skirting a legally binding lease already.
That didn’t concern me, though, for if Madge signed it—and I was sure she would—she’d either abide by the terms of the lease or I’d publish the lease for all to see how unlawfully inclined she was. Which would certainly put a crimp in her fund-raising ability. As far as I was concerned, she and Pete Hamrick were two of a kind—people for whom the rules didn’t apply—so if it took a little sleight-of-hand chicanery to get the best of them, so be it.
* * *
—
Then, just as I thought that we’d completed our end run around Ridgetop, succeeded in providing Madge a more suitable domicile, and emerged as contributors to the greater good in general, the town exploded. Everybody and his brother were raising the roof about one thing or another, having believed that their ships were about to come in, then realizing what a poor investment they’d made. But it all boiled down to having been gulled into Ridgetop’s scheme of a luxury hotel. No one would admit to having bought into it, but there were a lot of grim faces and angry frowns around town. Two of the commissioners announced that they wouldn’t stand for reelection—wanting, they said, to spend more time with their families.
The newspaper went so far as to assign an intrepid reporter to track down the source of the uproar, but ended up with a short article titled TOWN RIFE WITH RUMORS that was full of quotes by persons intent on anonymity.
“We missed out,” one unnamed source said, “and it’s a dad-blamed shame. Omni International had big plans for us.”
Another claimed it had been the Europa chain, or maybe whoever it was who’d built a hotel in Abu Dhabi. And one source insisted that it had been the president himself who’d had his eye on Abbotsville for a “unique boutique hotel.”
Mildred and I discussed the article in disbelief. “Can you believe,” she asked, “what some people will fall for? Julia, we can pat ourselves on the back. We’ve saved these idiots from terminal disillusionment and future bankruptcy.”
“None of them would thank us,” I said, “so it’s a good thing we’re hiding behind a corporate name.”
Great Dane Properties was identified in the article as the culprit that had dashed the hopes of the investors—none of whom would publicly admit to being one.
“I just hope,” one anonymous source said, “that whoever bought up that property has to eat dirt. They’ve stopped progress in its tracks.”
And thank goodness for that, I thought when I read it.
* * *
—
Pete Hamrick, after threatening lawsuits against the Pickerells, Jan Osborne, and the Winsteads for failure to comply or some such thing, left for an extended vacation in Belize. In that way, he was able to avoid aggrieved investors and, I assumed, nurse his own grievances with tall drinks that came with miniature parasols.
Madge Taylor, when offered the house on Wilson Avenue, did a complete about-face from sad and droopy to flying high again. Once more assured that what she wanted was what the Lord wanted, too, she regained the sense of righteous purpose that marked whatever plan she concocted.
Binkie had called her in to announce the desire of an interested party to provide housing for the Homes for Teens, and Madge’s face had lit up. “They’re donating a place?” she’d cried. “Free and clear, with no strings?”
“Not quite,” Binkie had told her, then went on to tell her that the house was not a gift, but would be rented to Homes for Teens, Inc.
“Then I want a lease,” Madge had said, indicating that she could learn from experience.
“The next thing she said,” Binkie told me, “was that she wanted it airtight because she’d learned to examine all gift horses in the mouth. I assured her that the donors felt the same way, and told her that there would be no rent payments, as such, but that she would be responsible for the property taxes.
“She didn’t like that, but I told her that the donors were adamant that the Homes for Teens have some skin in the game.”
I’d smiled at that, because it had been Sam who’d insisted on their having skin in the game. “That,” he’d said, smiling at me, “is the way your man in Omaha puts it. Everybody accepts a part of the risk.”
“So, of course,” Binkie had gone on, “she wanted to know who the donors were. Per the instructions of both of you, I didn’t tell her, just reminded her of how much rent the interested party was forgoing. She signed it and left as happy as a lark, mostly, I think, for coming out better than Pete has.
“Her parting remark was that she just hoped the Cochran house would bankrupt Pete Hamrick for lying to her. ‘He used us,’ she told me, ‘and I’m glad he’s getting his own back—everybody knows he’s a snake-oil salesman now.’”
“Yes,” I said, agreeing with the assessment, “and, Binkie, everybody know
s that he used his position as a county commissioner to further his own interests. And that goes for the other commissioners, too. The sooner we get them all off the board, the better. And the new board, whoever they may be, should strengthen the zoning ordinances by specifying exactly what can go where and heavily penalizing anyone who tries to ruin a neighborhood by putting in something that will benefit the public. They need to recognize that neighbors are the public, too.”
“Then,” Binkie said with a grin, “maybe you should run for commissioner, Miss Julia.”
“Huh,” I said, smiling at the thought, “not me. I do my best work behind the scenes.”
* * *
—
“They’re moving, Miss Julia!” Hazel Marie’s voice over the phone was filled with wonder. “Can you believe it? They’re actually moving! A van’s parked out front and they’re taking out furniture. Oh, I can hardly believe it!”
“Well, my goodness,” I said, “wonder what brought that about?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care. I’m just relieved to see them go. J.D. is convinced that his fence did it—a constant reminder, he said, that they weren’t wanted. But I don’t think they cared about that one way or the other.”
She was right, I thought, for Madge Taylor was so wrapped up in her own virtue that she wouldn’t recognize a snub if a wall went up around her.
Keeping up my cloak of anonymity, I asked, “Where’re they moving to, Hazel Marie? Do you know?”
“No’m, and that’s another thing I don’t care about. Wherever it is will be better than next door to us. And if that’s selfish and coldhearted, I can’t help it. Although I do wish them the best.”
“We all do, Hazel Marie, and if it’s a legal location, I’m sure they’ll be all right.”
“Well,” she said with a sigh, “I guess now I’ll have to worry about who’ll move in next.”
Cautioning her against worrying too much too soon, I brought the converstion to a close and immediately dialed another number.
“Mildred,” I said when she answered, “we need to get Tom LaSalle back on the job. The Cochran house is being emptied as we speak.”
Chapter 47
Even though a group home next to the Pickenses was no longer a source of contention, I couldn’t get over the fact that my church—with full knowledge—had supported an illegal undertaking. And no one—not the preacher, not an elder or a deacon, much less an ordinary member—had acknowledged the lapse in judgment. So even though Sam continued to attend Sunday services at the First Presbyterian Church, I decided to absent myself by taking a sabbatical year.
I had done all I could do to inform the church leadership as to the nature of Madge’s group, so it wasn’t as if they hadn’t known what they were doing. They chose, however, to ignore that information, so I now chose to ignore them.
But with Christmas within sight, I had to admit that I was missing the church more than it appeared to be missing me. My absence from Sunday morning services had apparently drawn no particular notice, nor did my nonattendance at the special programs that the church offered throughout the season. I did, however, console myself by attending the First Baptist Church’s presentation of Messiah and the Advent spectacular, complete with drums and bagpipes, that Mildred’s Episcopal church offered to the community.
It was strange, though, and unsettling to have empty Sunday mornings when I had for so long had a church service to attend. I hardly knew what to do with myself during those times when I had normally occupied a pew in the sanctuary. It didn’t, however, take long to adjust to having the time to drink a leisurely second cup of coffee and to begin reading Lloyd’s Narnia books again. And I’ll have to say that the stories about a lion far outweighed the movie reviews I’d been getting from the pulpit.
Sam, bless his heart, never indicated in any way that he was disappointed in my decision to sit out the services, nor did he ever attempt to shame me into going back. There are a lot of good things I can say about my darling husband, but one of the most appreciated is that he respects the decisions I make for myself.
But would you believe that it was three months before I was missed? Here I was, making this sacrificial statement by absenting myself, and nobody had noticed! Obviously, the church was progressing right along without me—and I use that word deliberately, for the church was getting so aggressively progressive that Pastor Ledbetter, now retired, petitioned the presbytery to reactivate him, and I was thinking of extending my sabbatical for another year.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
* * *
—
The Cochran house, three-fourths enclosed by a fence the likes of which no one had ever seen before, now sat empty and forlorn. No FOR RENT or FOR SALE signs were out front, and what had once been so prized by so many was now abandoned and tossed aside. Except by J. D. Pickens, who was consumed by worry over who would pick up the pieces.
“No telling who’ll move in next,” he muttered, rubbing his hand over his mouth. I had stopped by to visit with Hazel Marie, expecting that they’d be rejoicing in seeing the last of a group home next door.
“Why don’t you buy it?” I ventured to ask. “That way, you’d have some control over who your neighbors are.”
“I would,” he said, “or try to, anyway. But it’s not on the market. No agent to contact, and no owner of record except that strange corporation that nobody knows anything about. Or,” he amended himself, “who’ll admit to knowing.”
I knew that, because Mildred and I had put Tom LaSalle on the trail of an owner—someone who could sign a listing agreement—and he’d had no luck. I had a feeling that we might have to send Tom to Belize.
But the strangest thing happened, or almost happened, a week before Christmas. Hazel Marie called to tell me that someone had moved into the Cochran house.
“Overnight, Miss Julia!” she said, almost gasping for breath. “Yesterday nobody was there, but this morning somebody is. And would you believe they’ve got the windows covered with coats and towels and I-don’t-know-what-all. And Lloyd said he saw a hippie-looking man with a backpack wheel a bicycle inside, and another one with long hair and tattoos all over him, and he had a backpack, too. And,” she went on, “J.D. is beside himself because he says it’s squatters who’ve moved in. And, Miss Julia, I didn’t think it could get any worse than a group home, but now it looks like it can.”
Well, of course I was up in arms over the thought of unauthorized persons just taking over an empty house as if they owned it—another instance of defying the law! What in the world were we coming to?
But I’d not reckoned with J. D. Pickens, who with uncharacteristic restraint quickly solved the problem. He invited Sergeant Coleman Bates and ten or so of Coleman’s fellow deputies, as well as the sheriff himself, to dinner at his house, requiring only that they come in full uniform. Abbot County Sheriff’s Department cars, including two occupied K9 vehicles prominently parked in front of the Cochran house, lined Jackson Street—one or two under NO PARKING signs—and deputies in padded leather jackets walked back and forth along the sidewalk with that impressive, creaking swagger that a duty belt heavy with firearm, handcuffs, taser, reloaders, and who-knows-what-else inspires. Even though the temperature hovered around forty degrees, Mr. Pickens grilled steaks outside, dancing in place as Lloyd’s boom box played what passed for music. Over and over, and at deafening levels, a song about somebody coming for the bad boys blared throughout the neighborhood, while Ronnie, dizzy with excitement, scampered across both yards.
The Cochran house was empty again the next morning. But our long-term problem with it wasn’t solved. Tom LaSalle was sure that he’d eventually find an owner without going to Belize, although he wouldn’t mind going if that’s what it took. In the meantime, Great Dane Properties now owned three houses, and neither Mildred nor I knew what to do with them.
When approached,
Jan Osborne was delighted to stay where she was and rent from us, which of course obligated us to replace the roof and the furnace for her. Mr. Pickerell was grateful to be able to rent his house from us as well, as he’d not been able to find a suitable place for his wife. The Winsteads, however, who’d been the last to want to sell, were the first to move out. Mildred, who loved doing such things, was researching the history of their Tudor house and applying for listing on the National Registry of Historic Places. Which meant we were in for a long restoration project to put it in its original condition.
So what was our long-term plan for that block after we acquired the Cochran house? We didn’t have one. At this time, it was enough to have moved a group home and, according to Mr. Pickens, forestalled a drug house, thereby saving the neighborhood from a precipitous decline.
I’d say that was a fairly good piece of work.
* * *
—
It’s a wonder to me how rumors, both true and false, first get started and then run rampant throughout the town. As closely as Sam, Binkie, and I had guarded the secret of who owned the Victorian house on Wilson Avenue, somehow it had gotten out. And I had not even told LuAnne. Maybe somebody had looked it up at the Register of Deeds office. And, now that I think of it, it had probably been Madge who had done the research. And if so, I hoped she felt chastened and chastized upon learning that her archenemy not only owned the house but had made it available to her.
