The Protector

17

"Sorry to bother you," Cavanaugh said to the elderly wispy-haired man who answered the door, "but I couldn't help noticing the sign across the street."

From too much sun, the man's leathery brown face had numerous creases. His stern gaze deepened them.

"My dad's a surgeon in Chicago, wants to retire out here," Cavanaugh said. "He's crazy about golf, so I've been driving around, seeing what places are for sale. The house across the street looks perfect, but this is a newly built area, and I'm wondering if there's something wrong with the place that it's being sold so soon."

"That god-awful sign," the man said.

"Excuse me?"

"I told her to put the house on the market privately. What do we want with a sign like that making the neighborhood look junky and Realtors and people who can't afford to live here coming around, gawking, cluttering up the street? No respect. The minute Sam died, his wife couldn't wait to sell the place."

"Sam?"

"Jamison. He and I moved here the same week two years ago. He dropped dead on the golf course yesterday morning, and that damned sign was sticking up in the yard by afternoon."