“Somehow I think you and Cordelia could handle them.” Robyn chuckled. “But yes, it would be nice to have someone who can take official action if necessary. I’ll see what we can arrange.”
“Thanks.” We hung up, and I continued to watch Brimley and Ernest Haverhill. Now Morris Haverhill had gotten out of his car and was walking in my direction. No, not in my direction. He stayed on the opposite side of the street until he was well past my car. Then he crossed the road and hiked up the driveway of Mr. Dunlop’s left-hand neighbors. I kept expecting the middle car, the one between Morris’s blue sedan and Ernest’s silver one, to open and reveal its third Haverhill, but it remained closed and motionless. Its windshield reflected the sun and prevented me from seeing if there was anyone inside.
I started when Caroline opened the passenger door.
“No sign of rodents,” she said. “Let’s go run these errands of yours so we can get back here and dig in as soon as possible.”
“Good idea,” I said.
But I kept checking the rearview mirror as I drove away, seeing the Haverhills and Mr. Brimley and Mrs. Gudgeon, the lady of the binoculars, all staring at Mr. Dunlop’s house and talking in what their faces suggested were probably conspiratorial whispers.
“He’ll be fine,” Caroline said, reading my expression. “Cordelia will keep an eye on things. Your mother and Robyn will have the place crawling with volunteers in no time. And we’ll be back before too long. Where to next?”
“The lady who wants the manure, I think.”
“Excellent!” She settled comfortably in her seat. “I can’t wait to meet the manure lady.”
“Her name is Ida Diamandis,” I said. “We should probably work on thinking of her as Mrs. Diamandis, not the Manure Lady. Avoid any embarrassing slips of the tongue.”
“I will be the soul of discretion. Are you planning to spend all day on these projects?”
“Pretty much,” I said. “Because we want to finish as much as possible before Christmas Eve. I, for one, am planning to spend Christmas Eve with family and friends—and not sorting through some packrat’s clutter.”
As I drove, I filled her in on some of the events on my—and probably her—schedule. Tonight was the New Life Baptist Choir’s annual Christmas concert for people who, not being Baptists, wouldn’t be able to hear them at the actual holiday services. Tomorrow night was the first night of Michael’s one-man show of A Christmas Carol—demand had been so high that he’d scheduled three more performances between Christmas and New Year’s, but we’d bagged a ticket for her to the gala opening performance.
“And Wednesday night, the twenty-third, Mother will be holding a dinner so elegant that Michael and I aren’t invited.”
“Surely that’s not her real reason?” Caroline said. “Because if it’s that elegant, I don’t think I’d fit in, either.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “We’re actually invited but not going because we’re among the chaperones for a middle-school caroling, cookie-baking, and sleepover party at Trinity.”
“You’re brave souls,” she observed.
We were drawing near Mrs. Diamandis’s house, so I broke off to concentrate on finding the right address. She lived a little closer to the center of town—although, thank goodness, well out of the touristy part. Still, even here we could catch the strains of a brass band playing “Good King Wenceslas” and see the top of the small Ferris wheel—part of the Christmas Carnival now occupying the town square, which also featured a merry-go-round and several other lesser rides. It was one of Randall’s innovations for this year’s Christmas in Caerphilly celebration. Like Mother with her decorating, Randall seemed to feel the need every year to top the previous year’s holiday excesses. Which wouldn’t have bothered me quite so much if they hadn’t also felt the need to get me to help them brainstorm and make decisions. And in Randall’s case, implement them. I had to give Mother credit—once she’d settled on each year’s over-the-top decorating scheme, she went off and found volunteers or hired help to carry it out. All Michael and I had to do was ooh and ah on cue.
I’d already started trying to find a way to convince them that more was not necessarily better. Maybe toward the end of the season, I could say something like “I think this year everything was absolutely perfect! Let’s do it all just the same way next year!”
Would they listen?
Worth trying.
I focused back on finding Mrs. Diamandis’s house. And reminding myself not to call her the Manure Lady.
Mrs. Diamandis’s house and lot were both small but well maintained. A neat picket fence surrounded the yard, and when I saw what was inside the fence I figured I knew why she wanted manure. The entire yard was full of what probably looked to the uninitiated eye like small dead shrubs peeking out of the tops of tiny tussocks. But since Dad was an obsessive gardener and Mother was a member in good standing of the Caerphilly Garden Club, I recognized the unprepossessing objects as dormant rose-bushes, carefully mulched for the winter. There were dozens of them. Except for a narrow path from the front gate to the front door, and a few even narrower paths designed to give access for whoever tended the roses, every square inch of yard was filled with roses. For that matter, so were the side yards, although they were each less than six feet wide, and from what I could see of the backyard it contained more of the same.
In the summer it must have been magical. In fact, I was sure I’d admired it at least once, when I was driving through this part of town. Now, in the dead of winter, all I could think of was how very much work all those roses must take.
“Looks a little OCD to me,” Caroline said.
“I suspect being a little OCD actually helps if you’re trying to grow roses,” I said. “From what I’ve seen, growing them requires so much work that you’ve got to be either OCD or just plain crazy to bother with them.”
“Is that why you’ve got so many in your backyard?” she asked. “Who takes care of them?”
“Dad,” I said. “And you’ll notice they’re not exactly in our backyard—they’re in their own little compound in the middle of the llama pen. The llamas chase off any deer that try to get at the roses—short of an eight-foot fence, that’s the only way Dad’s found so far to protect them. Let’s go see why Mrs. Diamandis needs the Helping Hands project to manure her roses.”
As I headed for Mrs. Diamandis’s front door—decorated with a small and slightly faded artificial Christmas wreath—I couldn’t help thinking that in summer, even if she’d been careful to plant nothing but thornless roses next to the path, the journey would still be difficult. And if she hadn’t—well, it probably discouraged annoying door-to-door solicitors.
I rang the doorbell and we waited. And waited. I was about to try again when I heard rustling noises inside, and the door opened—but only as far as the chain would allow.
“Yes?” came a voice from inside. Mrs. Diamandis’s voice—I recognized it from our phone conversation.
At first I thought she was hiding behind the door. Then I glanced down and saw her. She was tiny. And ancient. I doubted she’d hit the five-foot mark even if she were standing up straight instead of bent almost double over one of those walkers equipped with wheels.