“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
