Page 4 of Ghostridden
Speaking of which…
As I passed a neatly trimmed hydrangea bush, its purple flowers a nice contrast to my house’s—my house!—dove-gray paint, I caught a glimpse of a pale face and the glint of glasses behind the window of the bungalow next door. I raised my hand in greeting, but the curtains twitched and the face disappeared.
I sighed, wondering when the police would show up and assume, like Carson had, that someone who looked like me couldn’t possibly be up to any good.
On the other hand, the homes here along Iris Lane weren’t jammed together like they were in Portland or its suburbs. Maybe I’d imagined the face.
I chuckled. “Heck, Gil, maybe it was a ghost.”
I whistled when I stepped past the corner of the house into the backyard. The place wasvast. Okay, so vast by my city-boy terms. Maybe it wasn’t the size of a football field, but it was close, and had nothing to separate it from the lawns on either side, which made it look even bigger. The grass was smooth and green across all three, the trees neatly pruned, and the flower beds tidy and colorful. The house on the other side—the yellow one—had a lush, fenced-in vegetable garden with a jaunty scarecrow on guard in its center.
I peered at the scarecrow more closely. Its outfit bore a striking resemblance to Carson’s, and instead of the traditional floppy straw hat, it sported a headful of golden brown yarn smoothed over its burlap scalp.
I grinned. You had to love someone who wasn’t afraid to add a little social snark to their pest control. Not everyone could have a Gilgamesh to handle that for them. The snark or the pests.
Unlike the front, the back porch wasn’t the full width of thehouse—the basement bulkhead doors prevented it—but it was still deep and pleasant. It would be a great place to sit in the evening, watching the crows get intimidated by Carson’s effigy.
I checked the steps as I mounted them. No splinters in the rails, no rot in the wood. Yeah, somebody had taken excellent care of the outside of this house, despite it standing empty for so long.
Before I tried the lock, I closed my eyes and offered up a brief plea to the universe.Please don’t be jammed. Please don’t be jammed.I squatted down and squinted at the keyhole in the shadow of the porch roof.
Crap. Apparently the universe was bent on having a laugh at my expense. I leaned my head against the door, shoulders sagging. “I don’t believe it.”
“Hola!”
I glanced up at the cheerful greeting. The call had come from the yellow house. A tiny woman with a crown of silver braids and a smile adding to the creases in her round face waved at me from her own back porch.
I waved back. “Hi. I’m your new neighbor.” I jerked my thumb at the door. “Or will be once I can get inside. Do you happen to know if there’s a locksmith in town?”
She spread her hands, palms up. “Not in this place. Not anymore. Nearest one is in Richdale. Those college students are always locking themselves out of their rooms.”
I sighed and trudged down the steps. “Great. I guess I’d better give them a call.”
She chuckled. “You don’t need them. My godson will help you.”
“Your godson? Is he a locksmith?”
“No. But he will help you, anyway.” She pulled a cell phone out of her apron pocket and made a call, speaking in rapid Spanish. Then she smiled at me. “He’s on his way.”
“I don’t want to be a bother—”
“It is no bother. He’s a good boy.” She gestured to her garden, the sweep of her arm encompassing my yard as well. “He takes good care of everything here.”
“Wow.” If her godson was responsible for the pristine state of my house—my house!—and yard, the guy must be a magician. Or maybe a time traveler, if he could keep all this in order as well as come whenever his godmother called him. “He does an amazing job.”
She beamed. “He does. Of course, my grandson would help too, but he’s away at school. Harvard!” Her smile grew even wider, obvious pride lifting her shoulders. “He graduates next month. And then he’s going to law school!”
“That’s great.” Maybe my tone wasn’t as upbeat as it could have been, but since the closest I’d ever come to an Ivy League school was ghostwriting an admissions essay for a kid who wanted to go to Dartmouth because he’d heard it was a great party school, I couldn’t muster up a lot of enthusiasm.
“The first in my family to go to college. He’s sointeligente.”
“Guess he’d have to be, going to Harvard and law school and all.”
She descended from her porch and walked toward me. She was probably about a foot shorter than my six-two, with the comfortably padded frame that, along with her smile, made you want to give her a hug.
“He works so hard, studying. He’s made the dean’s list every semester.” She sighed contentedly. “I wish I could go to his graduation, but”—she spread her hands—“tuition was expensive.”
I blinked at her. “You paid for him to go to Harvard?”
