CHAPTER FOUR A — THE WRONG HOUSE
A delivery driver knocked on my door with a large carton marked for number eighteen.
He apologized when I pointed out the mistake and asked whether the numbers on Bellwether Lane had recently changed.
“No,” I said.
“Why?”
“The directions I got put number eighteen on this side of the street.”
He showed me the delivery note on his handheld device.
The street name was correct, but the house description mentioned a white fence and a green garage that belonged to Patricia.
I told him where number eighteen stood and watched him carry the carton back to his van.
Before leaving, he said he had delivered another package to the wrong address earlier that week.
“A woman in a visor told me the new house didn’t receive deliveries yet,
” he explained.
“She said she’d hold it.”
I asked whether he had a delivery record.
“The company will,” he said.
“You’ll need to contact them.”
That afternoon, I called the shipping company about a box of replacement cabinet hardware that had not arrived.
The representative confirmed that it had been marked delivered and opened a trace request.
I did not accuse Patricia of taking it.
Two days later, the box appeared on my porch with the original label torn and a strip of unfamiliar tape around the seam.
The screws were inside, but the invoice was missing.
I called the shipping company again and updated the claim.
Mina examined the carton while I stood beside her.
“Do you think she wanted you to believe the delivery company was incompetent?” she asked.
“I don’t know what she wanted.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I don’t know.”
Mina turned the box over.
“If somebody is making a series of small problems, it can look like bad luck.”
“It can,” I said.
“But a series of problems isn’t proof that one person caused them.”
Mina sighed and set the box down.
“You really are impossible to gossip with.”
“I can gossip about your cinnamon rolls.”
“There’s nothing to gossip about.”
“You put orange zest in them.”
She looked scandalized.
“That’s a trade secret.”
For five minutes, the missing package stopped being the most important thing in the world.
Then the doorbell rang again.
A young woman stood outside holding a clipboard and wearing a badge from a local maintenance company.
“Mrs. Hollen said you needed a home inspection,” she told me.
“I didn’t request one.”
“She said your property was part of the neighborhood maintenance schedule.”
I explained that no such schedule applied to my privately owned house.
The woman apologized and crossed the street to ask Patricia for clarification.
Patricia watched her approach with a face like a locked drawer.
