heads of the downstairs tenants. The landlady had resorted to the obvious solution and rented a rug shampooer. But apparently even repeated shampooing proved futile, for it seemed to John Sharp that Dorothea must have shampooed that carpet at least a dozen times. Finally, she had workers tear the carpet out.
Then she called Patty Casey, the cab driver, and went shopping. On the way, Dorothea explained that she had to get new carpeting for one room in the house that "had a curse."
By late May Puente's next-door neighbor, Will Mclntyre, was also grumbling loudly about the stench permeating the neighborhood. The tenants in his three apartments were complaining, he said. It got so bad that he couldn't even use his air conditioner because "it would suck the smell in, and you would have to go outside to get away from it."
When Mclntyre confronted Mrs. Puente about the stink, she just clucked and agreed, "It sure is bad. I think it's coming from that duplex out behind my house." Seemed like it must be the sewer, she said.
By then Mclntyre had called public health officials to complain about the foul smell, and on June 1 they sent out an inspector, who couldn't find the source of the dreadful odor.
Weeks passed, the smell diminished, and Dorothea Puente continued to work early every morning in her garden. The plants and flowers flourished under the encouragement of her green thumb, and she was rightfully proud of the results. She even walked Ricardo Ordorica around the grounds as if she were the owner and he the guest, pointing out this or that improvement—the gazebo, the new flower bed, the rosebushes, the walkway—telling him how much she'd increased the value of his property.
Ben Fink wasn't the sort of man that many people would miss or come looking for, but Peggy Nickerson, the street counselor who had placed him at Puente's, later stopped by asking about him. Dorothea told her that he'd left. And Nickerson, who was used to dealing with transients who come and go without notice, didn't find this too peculiar.
Sometime later, John Sharp thought he saw a man on the street who looked like Ben, and he mentioned this to Dorothea.
"No, that can't be," she told him. "Ben has gone up north."
CHAPTER 6
As soon as Mary Ellen Howard came into view, Judy could sense tension. Her friend usually greeted everyone with a refreshing openness, but this time she wore gravity stamped across her brow. Polly Spring, who Judy knew less well, also seemed somber.
Judy and Beth had worked peripherally with the veteran social workers, Polly Spring at Adult Protective Services and Mary Ellen at the welfare department. Usually clients brought them together; this request for a meeting seemed unusual. Judy's worried colleagues had called shortly after Will Mclntyre started complaining about the stench wafting past his residence. They said they wanted to meet with the two VOA partners, and rather than discuss it on the phone, they wanted to talk in person.
With few preliminaries, Mary Ellen launched into an explanation of what had brought them here, and Judy and Beth listened, dumbfounded, to her confusing tale: A client, who wasn't really her client, had been temporarily placed at Dorothea Puente's boardinghouse. Dorothea had kicked him out—for no reason, he'd said; for good reason, she'd said—and now he was living someplace else. Anyway (though it wasn't technically her responsibility), Mary Ellen Howard had called the proprietor—Dorothea, she'd said her name was—to try to work things out. But Dorothea had unleashed an abusive tirade, then hung up.
The incident had set her thinking, Mary Ellen said, about another landlady by the name of Dorothea whom she'd known of years before. Her memory wasn't clear, but she was so disturbed by the idea that this might be the same person that she'd done some checking. She'd called Polly Spring, then Mildred Ballenger, another former co-worker from Adult Protective Services. Ballenger was
Then she called Patty Casey, the cab driver, and went shopping. On the way, Dorothea explained that she had to get new carpeting for one room in the house that "had a curse."
By late May Puente's next-door neighbor, Will Mclntyre, was also grumbling loudly about the stench permeating the neighborhood. The tenants in his three apartments were complaining, he said. It got so bad that he couldn't even use his air conditioner because "it would suck the smell in, and you would have to go outside to get away from it."
When Mclntyre confronted Mrs. Puente about the stink, she just clucked and agreed, "It sure is bad. I think it's coming from that duplex out behind my house." Seemed like it must be the sewer, she said.
By then Mclntyre had called public health officials to complain about the foul smell, and on June 1 they sent out an inspector, who couldn't find the source of the dreadful odor.
Weeks passed, the smell diminished, and Dorothea Puente continued to work early every morning in her garden. The plants and flowers flourished under the encouragement of her green thumb, and she was rightfully proud of the results. She even walked Ricardo Ordorica around the grounds as if she were the owner and he the guest, pointing out this or that improvement—the gazebo, the new flower bed, the rosebushes, the walkway—telling him how much she'd increased the value of his property.
Ben Fink wasn't the sort of man that many people would miss or come looking for, but Peggy Nickerson, the street counselor who had placed him at Puente's, later stopped by asking about him. Dorothea told her that he'd left. And Nickerson, who was used to dealing with transients who come and go without notice, didn't find this too peculiar.
Sometime later, John Sharp thought he saw a man on the street who looked like Ben, and he mentioned this to Dorothea.
"No, that can't be," she told him. "Ben has gone up north."
CHAPTER 6
As soon as Mary Ellen Howard came into view, Judy could sense tension. Her friend usually greeted everyone with a refreshing openness, but this time she wore gravity stamped across her brow. Polly Spring, who Judy knew less well, also seemed somber.
Judy and Beth had worked peripherally with the veteran social workers, Polly Spring at Adult Protective Services and Mary Ellen at the welfare department. Usually clients brought them together; this request for a meeting seemed unusual. Judy's worried colleagues had called shortly after Will Mclntyre started complaining about the stench wafting past his residence. They said they wanted to meet with the two VOA partners, and rather than discuss it on the phone, they wanted to talk in person.
With few preliminaries, Mary Ellen launched into an explanation of what had brought them here, and Judy and Beth listened, dumbfounded, to her confusing tale: A client, who wasn't really her client, had been temporarily placed at Dorothea Puente's boardinghouse. Dorothea had kicked him out—for no reason, he'd said; for good reason, she'd said—and now he was living someplace else. Anyway (though it wasn't technically her responsibility), Mary Ellen Howard had called the proprietor—Dorothea, she'd said her name was—to try to work things out. But Dorothea had unleashed an abusive tirade, then hung up.
The incident had set her thinking, Mary Ellen said, about another landlady by the name of Dorothea whom she'd known of years before. Her memory wasn't clear, but she was so disturbed by the idea that this might be the same person that she'd done some checking. She'd called Polly Spring, then Mildred Ballenger, another former co-worker from Adult Protective Services. Ballenger was
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