“I didn’t.” She followed his gaze out the car window and up the steps. There were potted flowers and balloons. Weird. She hugged him “Thanks for the ride, Walter.”
He waved her off as she climbed out of the car. She walked up the steps to the main house, because she needed to put the food away, and because Walter wouldn’t leave until he saw her safely inside the house. The porch was too dark to see much detail other than mysterious outlines. She unlocked the front door, and flipped on the porch lights, a matching set of old train lanterns she’d rewired years ago as a Father’s Day gift for Clem. Light spilled forth in round circles on both sides of the doorway. There were two potted mums, one yellow, one orange, a bundle of Indian corn, a Thomas, two pumpkins, four balloons, a floral bouquet and a bunch of cone flowers that must have come from someone’s garden. Cards and colorful note paper dangled from each.
She gave Walter a wave and watched his taillights disappear. So many things on her porch. She picked up the toy train, running her fingers over the edges. A slight dip indicated the paint had worn thin from hours of play. A long piece of scotch tape hung off the train, twisted and turned on itself until ending on a card. In spite of the uneven scrawl, the message was unmistakable. “We luv ar tren.”
Leaning against the door frame, she caressed the precious toy, a smile blossomed on her face as she pictured a little moppet pushing the toy round and round. She didn’t know which child gave her this treasure, but one way or another, she’d make sure this kid got to see a special display.
THE FIRST BAG OF FLAMING dog poop appeared on his door around eight o clock Tuesday evening. When the doorbell interrupted his channel-surfing-beer-drinking-wallow in pity moment, one person sprang to mind. Claire. No one else had used the bell. She’d had plenty of time since the morning’s debacle to see the rationality of his decision.
The door grudgingly let go of the frame after the second time he jerked the doorknob. No-one encumbered his view of the street. A hedge rustled; an owl hooted. Then a flickering of light drew his attention to the doormat.
“Fire! Call 911!”
“Crap.” No one else was there and no one seemed to know his house was about to burn down. The flames grew larger but hadn’t spread. His primal brain kicked in, some stop-drop-roll nonsense. “Oh. I can smother it.”
James raised his foot to go outside, but a putrid smell triggered his gag reflex. His eyes watered as the flames grew larger. No way in hell was he going to stomp that out. The ugly hall rug caught his attention. With his left elbow shielding his nose and mouth, he bent forward, grabbed the ghastly floral thing and tossed it out the door. A small hole let a flame sneak through. The ratty thing had too many air gaps. The only way to smother the flames was to press down. His solar plexus pulsed in revulsion making it impossible to stand upright, or even move properly, but he flung another corner over the middle section and stomped on the edges in a frenzied dance.
His breathing smoothed out and he stopped, legs astride and shaking. Even the best drycleaner in New York would not get the shit out of that rug. Not to mention the singed spots. He wouldn’t get the deposit back.
From the porch, James assessed his surroundings with an eye for risk, after all, he specialized in eliminating small problems before they got worse. That was all he had to do. Then he could maximize the efficiency of the house so it didn’t happen again. The hedges along the perimeter allowed the tricksters an easy escape. He could remove them. And why not? He’d already forfeited the deposit. He should check the rental agreement first in case of weird fees for hacking at shrubbery.
A shadow moved in the downstairs window across the street. He remembered Claire’s warning that Miss Jones was the neighborhood watchdog. He could work her nosiness to his advantage. He’d introduce himself tomorrow evening after work and pump her for information. He could go over now, but since he’d ruined the rug, and his slippers and probably didn’t smell too good and everything else near the door looked either flammable or valuable, he decided to find the required by law rental fire extinguisher in case the prankster came back and then to take a shower.
The shadow moved again. Miss Jones had to be on the case already. He’d talk to her in the morning. By the following night, surely Claire would be over her disappointment, and he’d be back on track to make partner.
Chapter 12
Neither the pharmacy nor the hardware store was open when James drove to work at seven thirty a.m. After a second bag of flaming dog poop arrived on his doorstep at 10:30 PM, he needed another fire extinguisher, or ten, as soon as possible. The fire department dismissed the flames as a practical joke and didn’t seem too concerned about finding the culprit as they claimed it was an isolated incident and the sort of thing that occasionally happens in the run up to Halloween. He hadn’t slept well, so his special East Coast energy drinks would be his best friend today.
Work provided no refuge. A stack of while you were out slips waited on his desk before his admin arrived. The author was a mystery. None were signed. Walter, the sly fox, diverted all calls from reporters to James’ personal extension. So did Karen Woozler in Communications. Grace took a while to realize the problem, perhaps a little too long for someone as skilled as she supposedly was.
By 9:30, James had repeated his hastily
