The Cuckoo clock cooed for the ninth time as I turned the sign to 'CLOSED' and flicked the street sign off at Café Book. I continued tidying up after a long, long day with the street fair running. I lifted the next to last book to replace it on the top shelf when an index card fell out. I set the book down and picked up the card. People sometimes forgot items and I might want to return this. The small, blue-lined white card had five names written in black ink. The first three names were crossed out with a heavy black line, and written next to them was a date and a comment. The first comment was hit-and-run, the second was mugging-stabbed, and the third was overdose.
The next name was mine. The date was today. The comment was robbery-homicide.
I stared at the words looking for more words. An explanation. A "Ha-ha, joke's on you." Or other words instead of the ones there. I told myself to read again and pay attention.
Nothing had changed and nothing was the same. The same five names, three with causes of death, mine next and not crossed off. The fifth was Lucien Dirk.
I knew the names. The first five all owned buildings on this street or near this intersection, known as Morgan Corner, and operated businesses in them. A lawyer, an accountant, a clothing shop, and a liquor store. We, my sister, Nancy, and I, owned the three-story building where Café Book occupied the street level business.
We had bought the building nine years ago with our brother, Anthony, who ran Café Book after his retirement. The rents from the apartments on the second and third floors added to our profits. When Anthony died last year, I took over the café, but I was exhausted from seven-day weeks after our manager quit. Nancy and I, now the owners, want to sell, but the City of Morganville is planning to add our little neighborhood to the City Historic District over developer's opposition and sales are at a standstill until Morganville votes on the matter.
The decision will impact real estate prices, as well as what businesses can be put here. We had received a generous offer from Ultra Management who wants to tear down the old buildings and put in a big business center; bank, fast food place, and other businesses that will profit from the growing industry here. Ultra had bought several of the buildings they needed, but my sister and I, and a few others were holdouts. Ultra naturally opposed making Morgan Corners part of the Historic District.
Ultra had made a generous offer, but we had another offer and Nancy thought we'd do better. Her ability to make a dollar was legendary in our family.
I looked over the names again. The lawyer crossed Center Street when she was hit by a driver who drove away, leaving her to drown in the heavy runoff from a tropical storm. She could have lived if the driver had called 911. Ultra bought her building. Something else nagged at my memory about the accident, but I couldn't recall it. Emmy Lee, the dress shop owner, was stabbed in a robbery. The accountant had been found slumped over her desk, dead of an overdose of painkillers she was taking for a back injury. Both buildings were now owned by Ultra.
And my name was next.
I looked out the front windows. The street was dark and lit by streetlights, for all the businesses had closed. A car drove by, and Jerry Jurgens, the patrolman who covered this area, walked by. He waved and I waved back. I thought about calling him in and showing him the card, but he passed by before I could reach the door. I watched him try the lock on the bakery. Ultra bought the property last week.
Nancy came around the corner in her motorized wheelchair. She preferred the handicapped space there that gave her room for the lift for her wheelchair. I opened the door and she moved smoothly in. She stopped by the register and I followed her. She grinned at me. Her brown eyes sparkled. "How did we do today? The Founders' Day Fair should have put us over $2000."
