Of course I understood it—Ronnie was partial to French perfume. But Lillian, who was standing stock-still beside the table, listening to this recital, gasped. “You mean he run away?”
“Oh, he came back, but we heard a car crank up down the street, and J.D. is convinced that Ronnie chased off a prowler. Or something worse, and J.D. gave him an extra treat last night and one this morning, too.”
“Oh, my goodness,” I said, patting my chest. “A prowler! That’s scary, Lloyd, but I’m so glad it wasn’t anything worse. And so glad that Ronnie was on guard duty. We’ll have to tell Mr. Thurlow that Ronnie is a hero.”
It was all I could do to keep from revealing my relief that even though I’d been smelled, I’d not been seen, but I managed fairly well. At least nobody accused me of anything, not even Lillian, who could usually tell when I’d been up to something.
—
It being a Saturday morning with no school, Sam invited Lloyd to go downtown with him. That was a sign to me that he was feeling better, for he’d been content to stay home during the past few days. Now, though, he was ready to catch up with whatever was going on in town, probably at the Bluebird, which always buzzed with news. There was a large, round table in the back where men retired from the daily grind generally congregated to speculate on the world situation and to pass around current local rumors.
“You might think of getting a haircut,” I suggested, “since you’ll be downtown anyway.”
Sam laughed. “That’s on my list. Lloyd, let’s go do that, and we might get in a little Christmas shopping, too. Then we’ll have lunch at the Bluebird.”
So off they went just as Mildred called, saying that we had business to conduct. So off I went as well, but not before glancing at the want ads in the newspaper, as I’d lately taken to doing.
—
Ida Lee, Mildred’s highly competent housekeeper—or rather, her general factotum, as Mildred called her—led me to the study. Mildred was sitting behind a large desk strewn with papers as a short, thin, fairly young man with a full head of curly hair and a fashionable hint of beard was standing by.
“Julia,” Mildred said, looking up as I entered, “come in. This is Tom LaSalle from Pearson, Hahn, and Everett in Atlanta. He knows everything there is to know about real estate. Tom, this is the other fifty percent of Great Dane Properties. Pull up a chair, Julia, and let’s get this show on the road.”
I soon learned that Tom LaSalle was whom you’d want to get a show moving right along. Edgy and almost abrupt in his movements and his words, Tom, as he urged us to call him, was one of those people who couldn’t sit still. He was constantly on the move, twitching, doodling, frowning, smiling, talking, explaining, fiddling on his laptop, sitting down, and getting up again. No wonder he was as skinny as a rail, but he knew his business and soon let us know it, too. But he’d have worn me out if I’d been around him much longer.
He had both Mildred and me sign documents granting him authority to act for us in the purchase of the properties that we had our eyes on. From the sound of his report, though, he’d already assumed all the authority he needed.
Jumping up to spread a map of the block on the desk, Tom LaSalle jabbed a finger at the Pickerell house. “Got this one. Already signed on the dotted line. Couldn’t be happier.”
“What did he say about the previous offer?” I asked. “I mean, was he hesitant about accepting ours?”
“First of all, he doesn’t know it’s your offer. Following Mrs. Allen’s instructions,” he said, nodding at Mildred, “I’ve kept your involvement under wraps. The assumption is that I represent something similiar to the Ridgetop Corporation.” He twirled a pencil in his hand. “But, no, no hesitation after I explained that Ridgetop was taking advantage. And they were. No doubt about it. Played on his fear that a group home next door would make his house unsalable.”
“What about Mrs. Osborne?” Mildred asked.
He frowned, twitched his mouth, then said, “Thought I’d have a problem there, but worked it out. She’s signed, too, but she was ready to sue Ridgetop for undervaluing her property. Had to point out the can of worms that would open up, delaying the sale of her property and so forth. No longer a problem.”
“And the Winsteads?”
As quick as a flash, Mr. LaSalle revealed sparkling white teeth in a grin, then cut it off just as quickly. “Had an ally there in Mrs. Winstead—she wanted to sell. He didn’t. Until I made him a high market value offer. He’s happy now.”
“How high a market value?” Mildred asked, not one to spend money carelessly.
“I’d done my homework. Knew what their property was worth, and so did he. Didn’t overpay or underpay, which Ridgetop was trying to do. Now, ladies,” Mr. LaSalle went on, “on your authority, we’ll close on the Pickerell property Tuesday morning, the other two that afternoon.” He began dealing out two piles of papers. “Here are copies of the offers of purchase, the due diligence, a summary of the closing costs, and the amounts for each one. Sign and/or initial where indicated. Already got a bank account open in the corporation’s name with my name as the designated agent. I’ll need the stated amount deposited
