“They wouldn’t open the door despite the fact I could clearly hear the television,” Everett says. “So I left it in their mailbox.”
“I drove by after work, too,” I add. “The older kid was out front with five or six of his friends. Every single one of them gave me the bird.”
Lottie groans. “I feel terrible. Especially knowing the wife is a nurse who works long hours at the hospital while her husband and kid run amok.”
“Don’t feel bad,” Carlotta says, finally joining our conversation instead of the peacock’s. “That man is a wasteof space, and those boys need to learn respect. Let me just go over there and have a little chat. I know people who know people.”
“Carlotta—” Lottie starts.
“Back in my day, we handled neighborhood disputes with flaming bags of dog poop and a firm understanding of property boundaries.”
“That’s literally arson,” I point out.
“Or,” Carlotta continues, “I could seduce the dad and then blackmail him into controlling his kids. It’s foolproof.”
Everett closes his eyes for a second too long.
“What if I just accidentally run over their mailbox?” Carlotta suggests. “Repeatedly?”
“Stand down,” I tell her. “We’ve got this handled through legal channels.”
“Boring,” Carlotta mutters. “You might as well just send them a strongly worded letter and a basket of muffins.”
“I thought of that.” Lottie nods.
Carlotta rolls her eyes. “You would.”
I pull up Daryl’s rap sheet on my laptop. “Speaking of legal channels, Daryl Pickens has an impressive record. Three DUIs, multiple driving on suspended license charges, and a failure to appear in court.”
“Charming,” Lottie says.
“And I found out the house is in Tammy’s mother’s name,” Everett adds. “She rented it to them when she moved to Arizona about a year ago. Tammy is paying the mortgage while Daryl drinks beer and plays video games.”
We all sit there for a moment, unified in our rage and frustration at a situation where we’re legally powerless to do much beyond filing paperwork and hoping the courts actually follow through.
“I wish we could teach those punks a lesson ourselves,” I mutter.
“Same,” Everett says. “But we’re civil. And this is why we have courts.”
He doesn’t sound convinced. Neither am I.
Lottie’s phone rings, and she glances at the screen. “It’s Mom.”
She puts it on speaker.
“Lottie, have you seen Midge’s husband?” Miranda’s voice is frantic.
Lottie blinks. “Mom, Midge told me her husband passed away a couple of months ago. I think maybe she misplaced him at the cemetery?” She snorts at her own joke, and Carlotta cackles.
“I know that, Lottie,” Miranda says, exasperated. “But she’s been carrying his remains around in this precious blue velvet box. She only brings him to Daughters of Honey Hollow meetings because he rarely missed one. He was our accountant. Bernard was very dedicated.”
Lottie gasps. “I took the blue velvet box! I tried to catch up with Midge in the parking lot when she left it behind, but she was already gone. Wait.” She looks in the box again. “There are no ashes in here. Just rocks.”
“Well, that’s him. That’s Bernard,” Miranda says cheerfully. “Midge had his ashes turned into memorial stones. Oh, you’d be surprised what they can do with ashes these days. You can be turned into jewelry, or a star, or even a vinyl record, or a firework! I personally want to be?—”
Lyla Nell chooses this exact moment to try putting one of the rocks in her mouth.
“OH MY GOODNESS!” Lottie lunges across the coffee table like a defensive linebacker, snatching the rock from Lyla Nell’s hand.
