Besides, Temple Nolan, the mayor, had a real obsession about hiring only Hillsboro citizens for municipal jobs, a policy that Daisy approved of. She could hardly ask him to make an exception in her case. She would just have to find some place here in Hillsboro to live.
Hillsboro had only a small weekly newspaper that came out every Friday, but last week’s edition was stillon her desk. She folded it open to the advertisement section—one page—and quickly scanned down the columns. She noticed that someone had found a calico cat over on Vine Street, and Mrs. Washburn was looking for someone to help take care of her father-in-law, who was ninety-eight and liked to take off his clothes at the oddest times, such as when anyone else was around. Rentals, rentals . . . She found the small section and quickly skimmed down it. There were eight listings, more than she had expected.
One address was familiar, and she dismissed that rental immediately, it was an upstairs room in Beulah Wilson’s house, and everyone in town knew Beulah invaded her boarders’ privacy whenever she liked, searching the rooms as if she were a drug dog sniffing out tons of cocaine, then gossiping with her cronies about whatever she found. That was how the whole town knew Miss Mavis Dixon had a box full of early
Playgirl
magazines, but Miss Mavis was so hateful and generally disliked that everyone agreed that the centerfolds were as close as she was ever likely to get to male genitalia.
No way would Daisy ever live in Beulah Wilson’s house.
That left seven possibilities.
“Vine Street,” she muttered, reading the next listing. That would probably be the Simmonses’ small apartment over their detached garage. Hmm, that wouldn’t be a bad choice at all. The rent would be
very
reasonable, it was a good neighborhood, and she would have privacy because Edith Simmons was a widow who had severe arthritis in her knees and could never climb the stairs to snoop. Everyone knew she hired someone to clean her house because she couldn’t cope with all the stooping.
Daisy circled the ad, then quickly read the others. There were two empty condos in Forrest Hills over on the highway, but the rent was high and the condos were ugly. They were possibles, but she’d look at them only if Mrs. Simmons had already rented her garage apartment. There was a house on Lassiter Avenue, but the address wasn’t familiar. She swiveled her chair to locate Lassiter Avenue on her city map, and immediately dropped that ad from consideration, because the address was in the rougher section of town. She didn’t know exactly how rough, but imagined Hillsboro had its share of the criminal element.
The remaining three ads were also undesirable. One side of a duplex was available, but it was available on a regular basis, because the trashy Farris family lived in the other side and no one else could put up with the screaming and cussing for very long. Another house was too far away, almost at Fort Payne. The last ad was for a mobile home, and it, too, was on the bad side of town.
Quickly she dialed Mrs. Simmons’s number, hoping the apartment was still available, since the newspaper was already four days old.
The phone rang and rang, but it took Mrs. Simmons a while to get anywhere, so Daisy was patient. Varney, the son, had given his mother a cordless phone once so she could keep it with her and wouldn’t have to walk anywhere to answer it, but she was set in her ways and considered it a nuisance to carry the phone with her all day, so she accidentally dropped it in the toilet, and that was that. Mrs. Simmons resumed use of her land-line phone, and Varney saw the wisdom of not buying her another cordless to drown.
“Hello?” Mrs. Simmons’s voice was as creaky as her knees.
“Hello, Mrs. Simmons. This is Daisy Minor. How are you today?”
“Just fine, dear. This rain makes my joints hurt, but we need it, so I guess I shouldn’t complain. How’s your mama, and your aunt
Hillsboro had only a small weekly newspaper that came out every Friday, but last week’s edition was stillon her desk. She folded it open to the advertisement section—one page—and quickly scanned down the columns. She noticed that someone had found a calico cat over on Vine Street, and Mrs. Washburn was looking for someone to help take care of her father-in-law, who was ninety-eight and liked to take off his clothes at the oddest times, such as when anyone else was around. Rentals, rentals . . . She found the small section and quickly skimmed down it. There were eight listings, more than she had expected.
One address was familiar, and she dismissed that rental immediately, it was an upstairs room in Beulah Wilson’s house, and everyone in town knew Beulah invaded her boarders’ privacy whenever she liked, searching the rooms as if she were a drug dog sniffing out tons of cocaine, then gossiping with her cronies about whatever she found. That was how the whole town knew Miss Mavis Dixon had a box full of early
Playgirl
magazines, but Miss Mavis was so hateful and generally disliked that everyone agreed that the centerfolds were as close as she was ever likely to get to male genitalia.
No way would Daisy ever live in Beulah Wilson’s house.
That left seven possibilities.
“Vine Street,” she muttered, reading the next listing. That would probably be the Simmonses’ small apartment over their detached garage. Hmm, that wouldn’t be a bad choice at all. The rent would be
very
reasonable, it was a good neighborhood, and she would have privacy because Edith Simmons was a widow who had severe arthritis in her knees and could never climb the stairs to snoop. Everyone knew she hired someone to clean her house because she couldn’t cope with all the stooping.
Daisy circled the ad, then quickly read the others. There were two empty condos in Forrest Hills over on the highway, but the rent was high and the condos were ugly. They were possibles, but she’d look at them only if Mrs. Simmons had already rented her garage apartment. There was a house on Lassiter Avenue, but the address wasn’t familiar. She swiveled her chair to locate Lassiter Avenue on her city map, and immediately dropped that ad from consideration, because the address was in the rougher section of town. She didn’t know exactly how rough, but imagined Hillsboro had its share of the criminal element.
The remaining three ads were also undesirable. One side of a duplex was available, but it was available on a regular basis, because the trashy Farris family lived in the other side and no one else could put up with the screaming and cussing for very long. Another house was too far away, almost at Fort Payne. The last ad was for a mobile home, and it, too, was on the bad side of town.
Quickly she dialed Mrs. Simmons’s number, hoping the apartment was still available, since the newspaper was already four days old.
The phone rang and rang, but it took Mrs. Simmons a while to get anywhere, so Daisy was patient. Varney, the son, had given his mother a cordless phone once so she could keep it with her and wouldn’t have to walk anywhere to answer it, but she was set in her ways and considered it a nuisance to carry the phone with her all day, so she accidentally dropped it in the toilet, and that was that. Mrs. Simmons resumed use of her land-line phone, and Varney saw the wisdom of not buying her another cordless to drown.
“Hello?” Mrs. Simmons’s voice was as creaky as her knees.
“Hello, Mrs. Simmons. This is Daisy Minor. How are you today?”
“Just fine, dear. This rain makes my joints hurt, but we need it, so I guess I shouldn’t complain. How’s your mama, and your aunt
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