Page 9 of Something Old

“Yeah, that could’ve been worded better.”

Madeline gave him a long, searching look, and Grover chose that moment to be disobedient for about the first time in life. He roused himself from where he’d been lounging out of sight on the verandah and ambled through the open door and into the store.

There was a furious hissing screech.

Grant’s eyes flew from Grover to Madeline. He’d heard of people not liking dogs, but what a ridiculous overreaction! It didn’t even sound human. Madeline, however, seemed as startled by the sound as he was.

A gray blur shot from behind the counter and delivered three claws-out swats to poor, slow-moving, unsuspecting Grover’s nose. He yipped in surprised pain, then whirled in a slow, clumsy circle, trying to see where the stealth attack had come from. A cat. Yeah, that made more sense than the idea Madeline might’ve made such a sound—and Grant should’ve suspected as much. Madeline was exactly the sort of woman who’d have a cat.

Grover, still confused, the blur nowhere to be seen, lowered his scratched nose to the floor and started tracking.

Madeline blocked his way as he neared the counter. “Yours?”

“Yeah, sorry about that.” Grant grabbed Grover’s collar. “He’s usually good. I didn’t think he’d come in.”

“Don’t let him hurt my—the—cat.”

That was a weird way to word it, and who was she kidding? Grover was as gentle as a lamb. The idea he’d hurt anything, ever, was preposterous. He was the victim! “You should do something about that animal. It’s vicious.”

Madeline looked at the dog, looked at the door, looked back at Grant.

Grant decided it was unwise to pursue his character assassination of her clearly neurotic pet. He cleared his throat. “So?”

“So what?”

“Will you come take a look?”

Madeline tapped her mouth with one finger and studied him—and then Grover—once more. “At least some of the stuff is ‘really nice?’”

Grant nodded.

“Fine. Give me your address. I’ll see what I can do. I’m opening soon, though, and I’m hoping to be busy once I do. I’ll try to fit you in before then, but I don’t know exactly when.”

“Doesn’t matter. Any time works. I’m always there, rarely leave.”

For some bizarre reason, his words made Madeline sad. She gave him another one of her quickly-becoming-familiar scrutinizing looks. “Okay, good. I’ll see you . . . soon, I guess. Put your address and contact info in my phone.”

He did as bidden.

“Should I call first?”

“Not necessary.”

Grant was almost out the door, Grover in tow, when Madeline called, “Should I bring my cat?”

Grant didn’t bother to reply, just shook his head. Her throaty chuckle sounded again, following him out into the gray day, and he realized with irritation that he was smiling. Well . . . whatever. It didn’t mean anything—and it especially didn’t mean he found her funny. It was just that people who laughed at their own jokes were sort of . . . mildly amusing or something.

Chapter 8

Zipping along in her minivan, Madeline sped past the sagging eight-foot fence, without a thought of slowing to scan for its street address. The “privacy” fence was so dilapidated it was a joke. It didn’t shield street traffic from the eyesore stretching out behind it, nor did it protect the contents—should any of them be worth protecting—from anyone who happened to pass by. More boards were broken and missing than were not, and whole sections had fallen and would’ve lain flat, except for the junk and debris that held them up. Everything from washing machines and old freezers to tire-less motorcycle bodies and ancient vehicle chassis littered the yard. Madeline was sure there was uglier stuff too—just that you wouldn’t see it until you were closer. Barbwire stretched across the top of the boards that were still standing and formed a deadly web in the gaps where panels had fallen.

She shook her head, sorry for whoever it was living in such a state. They must be horribly unpopular with their neighbors, even if the lots were small acreages, and this dump wasn’t pressed right up against anyone else’s house or anything. She also felt oddly chastised or warned or something. She easily could’ve gone this route herself.

Still might, if you’re not careful, Ronny said sharply in her head, her tone only half-kidding.

“Shut up,” she muttered, squinting at what lay ahead. It wasn’t the time or place to kibitz with Ronny.

When the narrow road ended abruptly—no cul-de-sac, no sign saying when or if it continued elsewhere—Madeline reversed in a three-point turn and backtracked more slowly. She finally saw a house number to use as a reference and then spotted another nailed to a tree. She slowed as the barbwire atrocity came back into view, and she noticed a tilting post with four faded plastic numbers fixed to it. She idled by the potholed driveway it marked, then darted a look over her shoulder, half expecting someone to be there filming her reaction or something. This couldn’t be right.