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Authors: Victoria Abbott
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there.
Next stop: 22 Lilac Lane, where C. Delgado had been in residence back in nineteen sixty-five. Lilac Lane was at the far end of Harrison Falls, but no end of Harrison Falls is far from any other end, so I tootled over. Number 22 had been something but was now nothing. Well, not exactly nothing, but a vacant lot with the remains of a crumbling old foundation and a sign that said, “FOR SALE—ZONED FOR MULTIPLE DWELLINGS.”
Not so good for my purposes. Lilac Lane had seen better days and there was no sign of the upgrading I had found on Maple Street. There were other older homes on the street, but no sign of anyone around. Never give up. That’s my motto. I tried the house on one side. A woman peered out the grimy window in the front door and refused to open up. She turned her back and walked away from the door. Maybe it was my red hair? Pretty eerie. Fine. I tried the house on the other side of the vacant lot.
No one answered. I considered that it might have been unoccupied, because the front window was boarded up and graffiti tags covered the worn paint of the clapboard siding. But I thought I detected movement on the side of the house. Stepping quickly, I zipped down the front steps and around the side. An elderly man was dozing on an ancient sofa parked by the side of the house. Over the top was a roof of sorts made from a sheet of yellowed corrugated vinyl. At the end of the enclosure stood the garbage can. The roof was good because it was now starting to drizzle. The rain pattered on the vinyl, but the man kept snoring softly in his little getaway.
“Excuse me,” I said.
He awoke with a start and stared at me—well, at my hair, actually, which was what I was counting on. He kept on scratching and staring.
I said with my fake smile, “Hello, I am trying to find a C. Delgado who used to live at number 22.”
“What? Speak up!”
I raised my voice and repeated it.
He cupped his ear and I tried a near shout.
“No need to yell. They’re gone now,” he said, still staring. “Been gone for years. The house has been torn down.”
“I can see that. But do you know where they went?” He’d said “they.” So more than one of them. That was good.
“Can’t remember. Must be more than fifty years since they left.”
“I’m from Lawson and Loblaw. The law firm,” I said importantly. “I may have good news for that family. Especially”—and here I took a chance—“Muriel.”
“Humph. Muriel? She was just a little kid then. She’d be all grown up now.”
I felt goose bumps on my arms when he said Muriel’s name. I tried not to show my reaction.
He said, “Funny girl. Not like other girls around here if you ask me. Bit strange.”
I hadn’t asked him about Muriel’s personality, but I was glad he’d volunteered that information. She was still strange, but also forceful and, in my opinion, dangerous.
“Strange how?” I said.
“What kind of news?” he said, a bit more awake now. “That sounds like it means money.”
“It might mean money. If it’s the right Delgados and it sounds like it is. It would help if you could give me C. Delgado’s first name.
“C. Delgado. I guess you mean Carmen.”
Carmen is not my favorite name. Maybe because of those issues that Uncle Kev had with Big Carm Spitelli, a guy with way more throwing knives than anyone needs. Or maybe because of the unhappy resolution that Uncle Mick and Uncle Lucky had with Carmen “Dead Meat” Lobocoff on the jewelry experiment. Whatever. I guess I made a face.
I hadn’t noticed her arrival, but we’d been joined by a woman. She could have been a twin to the old man, only without the white chin stubble. She was dressed in a faded and drooping (possibly blue at one time) housedress that made Vera look like a fashion model.
“Yes,” I said, “Carmen. That’s exactly right. I have some news that will be of great interest to him. Do you know where he’s moved?”
The woman spoke. “I don’t know what
Next stop: 22 Lilac Lane, where C. Delgado had been in residence back in nineteen sixty-five. Lilac Lane was at the far end of Harrison Falls, but no end of Harrison Falls is far from any other end, so I tootled over. Number 22 had been something but was now nothing. Well, not exactly nothing, but a vacant lot with the remains of a crumbling old foundation and a sign that said, “FOR SALE—ZONED FOR MULTIPLE DWELLINGS.”
Not so good for my purposes. Lilac Lane had seen better days and there was no sign of the upgrading I had found on Maple Street. There were other older homes on the street, but no sign of anyone around. Never give up. That’s my motto. I tried the house on one side. A woman peered out the grimy window in the front door and refused to open up. She turned her back and walked away from the door. Maybe it was my red hair? Pretty eerie. Fine. I tried the house on the other side of the vacant lot.
No one answered. I considered that it might have been unoccupied, because the front window was boarded up and graffiti tags covered the worn paint of the clapboard siding. But I thought I detected movement on the side of the house. Stepping quickly, I zipped down the front steps and around the side. An elderly man was dozing on an ancient sofa parked by the side of the house. Over the top was a roof of sorts made from a sheet of yellowed corrugated vinyl. At the end of the enclosure stood the garbage can. The roof was good because it was now starting to drizzle. The rain pattered on the vinyl, but the man kept snoring softly in his little getaway.
“Excuse me,” I said.
He awoke with a start and stared at me—well, at my hair, actually, which was what I was counting on. He kept on scratching and staring.
I said with my fake smile, “Hello, I am trying to find a C. Delgado who used to live at number 22.”
“What? Speak up!”
I raised my voice and repeated it.
He cupped his ear and I tried a near shout.
“No need to yell. They’re gone now,” he said, still staring. “Been gone for years. The house has been torn down.”
“I can see that. But do you know where they went?” He’d said “they.” So more than one of them. That was good.
“Can’t remember. Must be more than fifty years since they left.”
“I’m from Lawson and Loblaw. The law firm,” I said importantly. “I may have good news for that family. Especially”—and here I took a chance—“Muriel.”
“Humph. Muriel? She was just a little kid then. She’d be all grown up now.”
I felt goose bumps on my arms when he said Muriel’s name. I tried not to show my reaction.
He said, “Funny girl. Not like other girls around here if you ask me. Bit strange.”
I hadn’t asked him about Muriel’s personality, but I was glad he’d volunteered that information. She was still strange, but also forceful and, in my opinion, dangerous.
“Strange how?” I said.
“What kind of news?” he said, a bit more awake now. “That sounds like it means money.”
“It might mean money. If it’s the right Delgados and it sounds like it is. It would help if you could give me C. Delgado’s first name.
“C. Delgado. I guess you mean Carmen.”
Carmen is not my favorite name. Maybe because of those issues that Uncle Kev had with Big Carm Spitelli, a guy with way more throwing knives than anyone needs. Or maybe because of the unhappy resolution that Uncle Mick and Uncle Lucky had with Carmen “Dead Meat” Lobocoff on the jewelry experiment. Whatever. I guess I made a face.
I hadn’t noticed her arrival, but we’d been joined by a woman. She could have been a twin to the old man, only without the white chin stubble. She was dressed in a faded and drooping (possibly blue at one time) housedress that made Vera look like a fashion model.
“Yes,” I said, “Carmen. That’s exactly right. I have some news that will be of great interest to him. Do you know where he’s moved?”
The woman spoke. “I don’t know what
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