“Yes, that’s right. But Martha sorely needed the money. From what I understand, she was almost destitute. So buying it was practically an act of charity. Plus, he’s letting her stay there through the holidays.”
The wheels in Goldie’s head were spinning furiously like the cylinders of a three-window slot machine, where one of those cylinders had just stopped at BAR.
“So, he owns two houses on Falcon Drive that are next door to each other?” she asked, needing verification.
“No. He ownsfourhouses on Falcon Drive next door to each other,” the old woman corrected, chuckling. “I’ve told him he ought to rename the street Banyan Lane.”
Goldie paused and looked closely at the five houses on Martha Eggleston’s side of the street. She pointed to the house next to the former Ash residence. “I didn’t see a for sale sign here,” she said.
“No, but that’s the mayor’s. He’s owned it for about six months and intends to rent it out as a source of extra income. But there are some restorations he wants to do inside first.”
“How did he come to buythishouse?” Goldie asked.
“It was owned by a widower named Nathan Louis. Nice man, no children, but bad arthritis. Said he always intended to move to warmer weather, and after twenty years, he did.”
Another spinning cylinder of the slot machine in Goldie’s head suddenly stopped. Now two windows read BAR-BAR. She pointed to the house next to that.
“And this one? That had a for sale sign.”
“Yes. That used to be Jason Shirk’s.”
“The previous sheriff?”
“That’s right. He had a heart attack in late October of last year. About ten days before Halloween.”
“And the mayor ownsthatone, too?”
Harriette nodded. “He didn’t want Jason’s daughter in Idaho Springs to have to deal with the sad business of disposing of the property. Again, with the war and the slow economy, that could take some time.”
“Where’s Idaho Springs?” Goldie asked.
“About fifteen miles down Highway 70. That’s where Sheriff Shirk was buried.”
Goldie nodded as the final cylinder in her mental slot machine stopped. The windows now read: BAR-BAR-BAR.
“Wow! That’s a lot of property to have money tied up in,” she observed. “And all on the same side of the same street.”
“Yes. I suppose it is,” the older one agreed. “I don’t want to gossip, but I’ve heard the mayor and his son, Peter, argue about it. Peter thinks his father has greatly overextended himself, and the mayor says the war won’t last forever and he’ll eventually make his money back plus a profit. Meantime, he said he was happy to remove the worry of a slow real estate market from the shoulders of others. Mayor Banyan’s quite a Christian gentleman.”
“Yeah, a regular Jerry Farwell Jr.,” Goldie observed.
Harriette looked at her, not understanding, but Goldie smiled and continued her line of thought. “So Peter doesn’t approve of all the real estate his dad has gobbled up, eh?”
“I think it’s just one of many things they disagree about. But it’s none of my business.”
Goldie looked at the model again, then pointed to the final house on the Eggleston side of the street.
“And what about this one? Who owns that?”
“Why, that’s my house, dear.”
Goldie’s eyes widened. “Your house?”
“Yes,” Harriette verified.
“You’re not thinkin’ of movin’ anytime soon, are ya?”
“Oh, goodness no. I should say not. I raised my family there. That’s where I’ll die.”
