far from the library and not all that far from me, for that matter. I couldn’t help but observe that it also wasn’t all that far from Long March Road and Amsterdam, where the first hit-and-run had happened.
“This is a great start, Ramona,” I said as I headed out.
“Let me know if you don’t find her. I’ll be glad to try to help.”
“I hope you won’t have to.”
Most streets in Woodbridge are either on their way down or on their way up, depending on how the economic troubles hit the residents and how attractive the new entrepreneurs and artistic types found the area. Spruce Street had been on a steep slide, but seemed to have hit bottom and started climbing up again. Once, substantial homes had been carved into multiple rental units, but the buildings were in good repair, and today I noticed snow shoveled neatly up most walkways.
The Pringle family was listed at 18 Spruce, a white clapboard house, now subdivided. The walkway to what looked like the main floor unit, number 18, was shoveled with clean lines. I figured you got to 18A via the long exterior staircase leading upstairs. There was a crisp path cleared to the staircase. I approved.
But 18B, on the other hand, seemed to be a basement unit with an entrance on the opposite side of the house. A sign with an arrow read PRINGLE. Although there were dim remnants of footprints in the snow that was continuing to fall lightly, no one had shoveled the short path leading to it.
I was hoping that Mona hadn’t taken off already. It didn’t seem like her not to clear her walkway. Had she departed in a panic? Where would she go if she did?
A cheerful light shone out of the front window of number 18. The walls appeared to be a warm shade of toast. I knocked firmly and heard someone call out, “Coming,” a minute before the door was thrust open. A very pregnant woman smiled at me.
I smiled back. “I’m looking for my friend Mona Pringle. She used to live here when we were growing up and I’m hoping she still does. I’ve been trying to reach her by phone.”
A wonderful aroma of something spicy wafted out the door and tickled my nose, which twitched in response. The pregnant woman wrinkled her own nose.
She said, “Mona?”
“That’s right.”
“She does and she doesn’t, I suppose.”
“I’m sorry; I don’t—”
She waved her hand apologetically. “Don’t mind me. I seem to have the fuzziest brain lately. This used to be the Pringle home, but now it’s three units. I’m Caroline Menti. My husband and I bought it and converted it. It’s a way to make the mortgage doable.”
“Oh. Do you have any idea how I could get in touch with Mona?”
“Sure. We bought it from the Pringles so of course we’re in touch.” She uttered a merry little trill, as if the notion of not keeping in touch with the previous owners was quite laughable. “Mona lives in the basement unit. She rents if from us now and she has access to the backyard. That seemed to mean a lot to her because you see she grew up here and . . . I’m babbling, aren’t I? Well, you could just go and knock on her door. Oh my, she hasn’t shoveled. That’s not like Mona. She’s an up-and-at-’em kind of woman. Maybe she’s away.” Her forehead wrinkled. “But usually she tells us if she’s going away. We take care of Mooch and Pooch. I wonder . . . Oh, I’m so sorry. Do you want to come in? It’s so cold out here.”
I stepped through the door feeling grateful. The entrance was warm and hospitable and done in a deeper color, burnt toast perhaps.
“Wait here,” Caroline said. “I’ll check with my husband. Tony! Tony! Tony!”
An answering boom came from upstairs and a large bald man in jeans, a sweater, and bedroom slippers thundered down, also smiling. This was the smiliest house.
“This lady—”
“Charlotte,” I interjected, smiling. Why not? It was catching.
“—is looking for Mona and I just realized that Mona hasn’t shoveled. Did she go
“This is a great start, Ramona,” I said as I headed out.
“Let me know if you don’t find her. I’ll be glad to try to help.”
“I hope you won’t have to.”
Most streets in Woodbridge are either on their way down or on their way up, depending on how the economic troubles hit the residents and how attractive the new entrepreneurs and artistic types found the area. Spruce Street had been on a steep slide, but seemed to have hit bottom and started climbing up again. Once, substantial homes had been carved into multiple rental units, but the buildings were in good repair, and today I noticed snow shoveled neatly up most walkways.
The Pringle family was listed at 18 Spruce, a white clapboard house, now subdivided. The walkway to what looked like the main floor unit, number 18, was shoveled with clean lines. I figured you got to 18A via the long exterior staircase leading upstairs. There was a crisp path cleared to the staircase. I approved.
But 18B, on the other hand, seemed to be a basement unit with an entrance on the opposite side of the house. A sign with an arrow read PRINGLE. Although there were dim remnants of footprints in the snow that was continuing to fall lightly, no one had shoveled the short path leading to it.
I was hoping that Mona hadn’t taken off already. It didn’t seem like her not to clear her walkway. Had she departed in a panic? Where would she go if she did?
A cheerful light shone out of the front window of number 18. The walls appeared to be a warm shade of toast. I knocked firmly and heard someone call out, “Coming,” a minute before the door was thrust open. A very pregnant woman smiled at me.
I smiled back. “I’m looking for my friend Mona Pringle. She used to live here when we were growing up and I’m hoping she still does. I’ve been trying to reach her by phone.”
A wonderful aroma of something spicy wafted out the door and tickled my nose, which twitched in response. The pregnant woman wrinkled her own nose.
She said, “Mona?”
“That’s right.”
“She does and she doesn’t, I suppose.”
“I’m sorry; I don’t—”
She waved her hand apologetically. “Don’t mind me. I seem to have the fuzziest brain lately. This used to be the Pringle home, but now it’s three units. I’m Caroline Menti. My husband and I bought it and converted it. It’s a way to make the mortgage doable.”
“Oh. Do you have any idea how I could get in touch with Mona?”
“Sure. We bought it from the Pringles so of course we’re in touch.” She uttered a merry little trill, as if the notion of not keeping in touch with the previous owners was quite laughable. “Mona lives in the basement unit. She rents if from us now and she has access to the backyard. That seemed to mean a lot to her because you see she grew up here and . . . I’m babbling, aren’t I? Well, you could just go and knock on her door. Oh my, she hasn’t shoveled. That’s not like Mona. She’s an up-and-at-’em kind of woman. Maybe she’s away.” Her forehead wrinkled. “But usually she tells us if she’s going away. We take care of Mooch and Pooch. I wonder . . . Oh, I’m so sorry. Do you want to come in? It’s so cold out here.”
I stepped through the door feeling grateful. The entrance was warm and hospitable and done in a deeper color, burnt toast perhaps.
“Wait here,” Caroline said. “I’ll check with my husband. Tony! Tony! Tony!”
An answering boom came from upstairs and a large bald man in jeans, a sweater, and bedroom slippers thundered down, also smiling. This was the smiliest house.
“This lady—”
“Charlotte,” I interjected, smiling. Why not? It was catching.
“—is looking for Mona and I just realized that Mona hasn’t shoveled. Did she go
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