Later that day, I walked down my street again. The note was gone. Thank goodness it was gone; otherwise, I don’t think I would have been able to resist the temptation to read it. That would have been bad. I’m pretty sure that would have been like emotional trespassing. I’m pretty sure that’s against the honor code.
But I didn’t need to read the note to know what happened. A stroke of genius hit me as I kicked through the leaves on the sidewalk, pretending to be playful, but really double-checking that the note was gone.
I knew who lived in this house.
I knew who had received the note.
I knew the whole story.
That woman who yelled at us for momentarily blocking the alley when we were moving in was the recipient of this note. She is a blond, skinny woman. I don’t think she’s a natural blond; she’s probably not naturally skinny either. She drives a black SUV and will definitely need Botox soon if she doesn’t stop scowling. She’s forty-three years old.
I hated her when I first met her. I was frazzled and she was rude.
I hated her. I didn’t want to make any excuses for her bad attitude. But then, the day after our first encounter, I saw her again, and the wise woman who birthed me said, “Clarkie, don’t worry about her. She’s obviously unhappy in her marriage. She’s always having a bad day.”
I didn’t care at the time. I was too worried wondering if maybe I shouldn’t have moved here after all. Now, though, I know my mom was right. Thank goodness for that conversation, otherwise, I probably never would have been able to solve this mystery.
I can’t talk about what happened yet; I’m still compiling the facts. Maybe I’ll be Harriet the Spy for Halloween. It will be so natural.