Chapter 12 - The Ghost of Elm Street
Word travels fast in a suburban cul-de-sac. Within a week, the neighborhood grapevine had completely digested the spectacle of Arthur’s dramatic departure and the subsequent police involvement.
Mrs. Gable, the next-door neighbor who had lived across the street since 1984, caught me pulling into the driveway on a Tuesday afternoon. She crossed the manicured lawn with a casserole dish wrapped in aluminum foil, her face a mask of simulated concern and thinly veiled gossip.
“Daniel, dear,” Mrs. Gable whispered, leaning over my car window. “We were all so shocked. Arthur always seemed like such a pillar of the community, you know? With the Rotary Club and all. Is Eleanor holding up okay after... well, you know, the nursing home incident?”
I killed the engine, stepping out of the car and offering a polite, neutral smile.
“She’s doing great, Mrs. Gable. In fact, she just put in a brand-new security system and changed all the locks.”
“Oh! Well, that’s... wise, I suppose,” she stammered, her eyes darting toward the front porch where Grandma was watering her winter ferns. “It’s just so tragic. I heard he tried to sell the property right out from under her?”
“Rumors tend to expand in the wind,” I replied smoothly, taking the casserole dish from her hands. “Tell Mr. Gable thanks for the food. Grandma’s inside if you want to stop by and catch up directly.”
Mrs. Gable paled slightly, suddenly remembering a pressing obligation with her oven. “Oh, goodness, my roast! I have to run, Daniel. Tell Eleanor I said hello!”
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As she scurried back across the lawn, Grandma walked down the porch steps with a dry, knowing smirk.
“Nosy old bat,” Grandma muttered. “She wanted the juicy details for her bridge club. Too bad we don't leak gossip to amateurs.”
