“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 enough 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.”
“Oh, my word, DSS is Madge’s bailiwick. I wouldn’t want her to know anything about this—she might accuse us of trespassing on her territory.”
Sam laughed. “She just might, at that. But don’t worry. I’ll be most circumspect.”
“Just so you’re cautious about who you ask and what you say. I wouldn’t want to embarrass the boy or his
