Chapter 37
Try as I might to get into it, the Christmas spirit kept eluding me. Sacks, shopping bags, and boxes were piled up in the guest room waiting to be wrapped and placed under the tree, and I just turned my head whenever I passed it on my way downstairs.
Too many worries and concerns were tumbling around in my head to be waylaid by mundane chores. One after the other, they flashed through my mind—Hazel Marie, Mr. Pickens, Helen, Thurlow, Freddie Pruitt, and, most of all, Madge and her nonprofit group, which was supposed to be an asset to homeless boys but so far had done nothing but put the entire area in the loss column.
Even now, it was denuding the neighborhood—first the Pickerells, then the Osbornes, and maybe soon the Winsteads, all seemed to be bailing out. Who could be buying those houses? A holding company? And what could a holding company want with them? Soon the only occupants left on that sizable city block would be the Pickenses and a pseudo–foster family in the Cochran house.
So would this secret holding company fix up the other houses and rent them out or resell them for a higher price? Because, let’s face it, there would have to be money made in some form or fashion. Neither people nor companies just buy up houses out of the goodness of their hearts and do nothing with them. There had to be some deep, dark game plan behind it all.
And then I had it. No, not the game plan, but the thread that would unravel everything—the Cochran house. That’s what had started it all and that’s what held the key. The presence of a group home in the middle of the block devalued all the other houses—nobody wanted to live next to it. Yet even with that knowledge, somebody was luring the neighbors into selling—letting them think that they were getting out while the getting was good—before the Cochran house was occupied by a swarm of teenage boys. Only J. D. Pickens was refusing to succumb, and how long would that last?
But wait. Even if he finally gave in and sold Sam’s old house, how would this secret group get rid of Madge and her group? That house would still be a sore thumb to whoever owned the rest of the block. But if—and by this time, my mind was running at high speed—if someone had deliberately and with malice aforethought donated that house to the Homes For Teens group in order to devalue the other houses, could it then be undonated?
That’s what I had to find out—who actually owned the Cochran house. I’d never get a straight answer from Madge, so I might as well give up on her. The Register of Deeds at the county courthouse! Or would it be at city hall? I didn’t know, but Sam would and so would Binkie.
And if some deed book on some shelf somewhere indicated that the board of the Homes for Teens was the legitimate owner, that same board might be in line for a truckload of money after they’d played their part in getting rid of J. D. Pickens and his family. And after that? Who knew what was planned next?
But it seemed as plain as day that somebody wanted that entire block stripped clean of single-family residences. And if that was the case, Madge was in for a rude awakening because after she’d done her job—unbeknownst to her, perhaps—of running off the neighbors, she’d be gotten rid of, too.
I flew—well, as fast as I could manage—up the stairs to the sunroom, where Sam had his office. With a tap on the door, I opened it and went in.
“Sam, sorry to bother you, but could you go to the courthouse for me?”
He looked at me from over his glasses. “Right now?”
“Yes. Well, as soon as you can. Listen, I think we need to find out exactly who owns the Cochran house. I’m wondering if that holding company bought the Cochran house, then donated it to Madge’s group, and if so, it wouldn’t still be listed as the owner, would it? Wouldn’t it now be listed as owned by Madge and her board?”
Sam nodded. “If it’s been donated, with a free and clear title, to Madge’s group, then, yes, they’d be listed as owners.”
“But,” I said, leaning over his desk in my eagerness, “what if it’s still in the name of the holding company? Don’t you see, Sam? If that company still owns it, that means they can evict Madge anytime they want to—which would be right after the Winsteads and the Pickenses sell out.”
“So,” Sam said, snatching off his reading glasses, “you’re thinking there’s a devious reason behind situating a group home where it is?”
“It’s the only thing that makes sense, and I’m ready to raise the roof about it. Whether or not Madge has been in on it from the start, I don’t know. I’m inclined to think that she hasn’t, but who knows? But if she hasn’t, the only profit that nonprofit is going to bring her is a lesson learned the hard way.”
“Uh-huh,” Sam said, rubbing his hand across his mouth as he thought about it. “And getting a variance on the zoning would be the icing on the cake. To Pickens, it would mean his final move had been cut off, and he’d have to live next door to a group home and go through years of courtroom wrangling, or sell out.” Sam stacked some papers and put them aside. He stood up, then, before turning, suddenly stopped short. “Zoning variance,” he said, almost under his breath, but looking as if a lightbulb had lit up in his head. “Julia, depending on the kind of variance they get—if the commissioners grant one—anything and everything could go up on that block.”
“You mean,” I asked, beginning to understand, “something worse than a group home?”
“It’s possible. I hate to think in terms of a conspiracy, but
