Chapter 7

Ivy and Punkin walked past the Main Street storefronts, where shopkeepers were just opening their doors for the day. All the streets around the downtown area were named for trees: Oak, Maple, Magnolia, Cedar …

She checked her phone for a map of Tarburton and discovered that Spruce Street was only three blocks east of where she was currently standing.

Ten minutes later, she was standing in front of 702 Spruce. The little white cottage with green-and-white-striped awnings must have been a showplace at one time. But now pickets were missing from the white fence that surrounded the lot. The overgrown foundation plantings towered over the roofline. And the awnings themselves were so ragged and sagging it looked like the house was frowning.

The house directly across the street, 705, was a tidy redbrick ranch. White-painted rocks interspersed with miniature American flags surrounded neatly trimmed beds of shrubbery. An aging Chevy was parked in the driveway and there was a wreath with a jaunty red, white, and blue–striped bow hanging on the front door.

Punkin sat obediently on the front stoop while Ivy rang the doorbell. Nothing. She waited a full minute and then rang again. Punkin looked up expectantly.

“One more time?” she asked.

The dog’s tail wagged agreement. “If you insist,” Ivy said. Her finger was poised over the bell when a man’s voice called out from inside, “Hold your horses! I’m coming!”

Finally, the door opened a few inches. The security chain was engaged, and a pair of pale blue eyes glared at her from behind thick-lensed wire-rimmed glasses.

“Whatever you’re selling, we don’t want any,” the man said.

“I’m not selling anything,” Ivy said. “I’m sorry for disturbing you but—”

“Name?” the man demanded.

“Huh?” Ivy was taken aback. “Uh, I’m Ivy Perkins, and this is my dog, Punkin.”

“Punkin Perkins?” The old man’s thin lips cracked a smile. “That’s a good one. I love a good alliteration. What do you want with me, Ivy Perkins?”

“Just some information.” Ivy hadn’t really planned her line of questioning because she hadn’t really expected anyone to answer the door.

“Is this a poll? Because I don’t discuss my politics or my religion. Not with anybody.” He started to close the door.

“No, sir,” Ivy said quickly. “I’m looking for information about a family that lived here a really long time ago. I think it would have been during the late nineteen-sixties or early seventies.”

The old man’s expression softened. He slid the chain aside and opened the door. “Maybe you’d better come inside and explain yourself, Miss Perkins.”

Her host leaned on his walker and lowered himself into a leather recliner. He motioned to the sofa. “Sit there. Is Punkin house-trained? I don’t want my carpet ruined.”

“Yes, sir,” Ivy said, seating herself on the sofa with Punkin crouched at her feet. “He’s very well trained.” The house was neat as a pin and as hot as an oven. Any oven except for the one at Ivy’s house. A small ceramic Christmas tree stood on a table in the corner of the room.