Then my eyes lit on Mr. Pickens’s fence and my smile turned grim. Why, I wondered for the hundredth time, couldn’t Madge have found a more suitable place to do her good works?
Taking in the Cochran house beyond the fence, I saw that lights were on in the front room, but the porch was dark—somebody had failed to replace a lightbulb. It was a little late for any of the good ladies to be working in the empty house, so I thought it likely that lights had been left on in the front room on purpose. Maybe, I thought, Madge wanted to discourage visits like the one we’d had by making it look as if someone was in residence. And perhaps someone was, for one car was parked in the driveway.
Slowing before coming abreast of the Pickens house, my attention was drawn by a car turning onto Jackson a few blocks in front of me. Watching through the windshield as it approached on the narrow street, I saw it swing into a space directly in front of the Cochran house. A man jumped out from behind the wheel and, hunched over in a dark overcoat, hurried up the walk to the porch.
Intrigued by a seemingly late-night rendezvous, I pulled to the side of the street and watched as the front door opened and the man slipped inside.
Now, what was that about? Huddled over the steering wheel while appreciating the warmth of the heated seat, I knew I couldn’t linger with lights on and motor running. I had to either go on home or turn everything off and freeze half to death while waiting to see what would happen next.
Well, never one to just wait it out, I drove on past the Cochran house and turned onto the side street beside Jan Osborne’s house at the end of the block. After parking, I buttoned my coat up to my neck, pulled on my gloves, and hid my pocketbook under the seat. Feeling safe enough to cross the Osbornes’ yard—the house was dark—I hurried toward Mr. Pickens’s extended fence, edged onto the sidewalk to get around it, and crept toward a privet bush beside the front porch of the Cochran house.
All I wanted to do was see who was meeting at such an odd hour and why the man had seemed in such a hurry. My chosen bush, though, was on the opposite side from the lit-up living room, so I carefully picked my way to the back of the house, stooping over as I passed the small, dark kitchen windows, and slid along the opposite side toward the front porch until I got to a lighted window. Which was no help at all, for the blinds were closed.
The only thing to do, because I’d come that far, was to hunker down between a large holly bush and the corner of the porch. I couldn’t see a thing and I couldn’t hear a thing, but I’d be able to do both when the man decided to leave. The front door would open, spilling light onto the porch, and, with luck, there would be a few words between him and whoever he’d been meeting. But, oh, how much better it would’ve been if I’d been scrunched down to watch and wait in July instead of December.
Huddled in my coat, shivering in the cold, I found reason to appreciate Mr. Pickens’s six-foot-high fence—it was a shield from any sharp eyes peering from his windows. The night was still and quiet as I crouched between the cold stucco of the house and the needle-edged leaves of the holly bush. I pressed my ear against the wall to catch any stray words from inside when two sharp, sudden noises jolted the silent night—one in front of and one behind me.
Startled, I cringed back as the front door of the Cochran house swung open not four feet from where I was squatting, just as the back door of the Pickens house banged open and yard lights flared on with Lloyd calling, “Wait, Ronnie!”
Hoping that Ronnie would do his business on the other side of the fence and forget about taking up guard at the corner, I kept my attention on who was stepping out onto the porch. And, like Callie, I couldn’t help but overhear what was said.
A woman’s voice issued from the doorway, saying, “Don’t you know how hard we’ve worked? You can’t do this to us.”
“Can and will, Madge,” the man said, his words muffled by a scarf but clear enough. “You’ve got six months to a year, but after that, you’re out. Just be glad I’m giving you a warning.”
He turned to leave, and as I ducked back behind the corner, Madge—for that’s who it was—called out, “But, it’s not fair, Pete! You rented it to us!”
Pete Hamrick, now identified, chuckled and said, “Check your lease.” Then he started down the porch steps toward his car.
Just then Ronnie appeared at the corner of the yard right at the end of Mr. Pickens’s fence—as I knew he was wont to do—and set up a howl that could’ve wakened the dead. I could see his silhouette against the yard lights—his head thrown back, his neck stretched out, as deep, baying sounds rolled from his throat and echoed around the neighborhood. Chills from more than the cold ran up and down my back from the mournful howling.
Lloyd came running, calling, “Hush, Ronnie, hush! Come on, boy, you’ll wake the whole town!”
Pete Hamrick, his shoulders hunched in his coat, scurried to his car, cranked it, and got out of there. Madge stood for a minute in the light of the
