The Book of Old Houses by Sarah Graves Read Free Book Online Page A

green,
Dave thought.
Black. And dripping.
“Guess so,” he agreed, and listened carefully as the storekeeper told him how to find Bert Merkle’s place.
    â€œNot a house, really,” he said. “More like sort of a trailer that’s been built-onto every which-a-way. Back from the street, a lot of old overgrown bushes all tangled up around it.”
    Inside, Dave tried to pay but the storekeeper wouldn’t hear of it. “Can’t miss the yard, though,” he went on. “Junk right out to the lot-lines, sheet metal, cardboard, bottles and cans, scrap wood, you name it.”
    A couple of kids ran in, bought sodas, and ran back out.
I was like them, once,
Dave thought, watching them go.
    â€œI hear Merkle even got a summons from the code-enforcement guy, telling him to clean up that yard of his or else. Merkle went to the hearing, told them he’s got to have all that stuff. Said it shields his energy, makes it hard for his enemies to find him,” the storekeeper said.
    Dave thought Merkle had better get himself some more junk. “Guess it doesn’t work on little men, though,” the storekeeper added. “Or for that matter on you.”
    â€œThanks,” Dave said. “And thanks again for the coffee.” The bell jingled as he exited.
    Out on the sidewalk he decided to retrieve the Saab from Jacobia Tiptree before doing anything else. The longer the car sat, the more interesting he might become to her and that friend of hers, Ellie White.
    And that he
didn’t
want. That the two women were something other than run-of-the-mill Eastport housewives he’d figured out too late. Also the swift, decisive way in which his gun had been taken from him had felt a bit too much like confiscation for his comfort.
    But the box opened with a key. And over the years Horace had taught Dave a few smatterings of the lock-picker’s art. So he could get the weapon back one way or another.
    He couldn’t help wondering whether the women themselves would pose problems, however. He hoped not. They were both rather likable, he thought as he retraced his steps along Water Street.
    He entered the water-company office with its windows full of healthy-looking potted plants; Horace always said the ability to grow good houseplants was a sign of a well-ordered soul. There he asked questions about Eastport people’s families, houses, and ancestors, explaining his interest by saying he was an amateur historian.
    He did the same at the soda fountain, Wadsworth’s Hardware, and a pizza place in which the aroma of spiced tomato sauce hung tantalizingly. But his thoughts never strayed very far from the two women, Jacobia Tiptree and Ellie White.
    Quite likable indeed, he decided, picturing again the lean, dark-haired one with the faint aura of violence hanging around her like an invisible cloud. Beside her the red-haired young mother with the amazing pale-green eyes and penetrating glance had resembled a colored illustration from some old children’s book about fairies and sprites.
    Remarkable, really, each in her own way. Horace would have liked them.
    Dave hoped they would both turn out to be smart enough to mind their own business.

    Back at my house I stomped up the porch steps, let the dogs out, then waited for them to dash back in again before slamming the screen door so hard behind us all that it nearly fell off its hinges.
    Nobody home, I thought; Bella must’ve gone to the store.
    â€œGod
bless
it!” I shouted into the empty house. “I swear if
one more thing
happens around here that
I do not want to happen,
I’m going to get one of those damn guns out of the cellar and
shoot
myself with it!”
    But someone
was
home; my son, Sam, popped his head out of the parlor. Tall and handsome with dark, curly hair, long eyelashes, and a lantern jaw, he was living here at least temporarily after returning from the alcohol-treatment place.
    â€œMom?” he