Nine

No one would ever mistake Elmira Baste for a sexy, divorced, nymphomaniac, but the delivery boys at Gus's Groceries fought for her orders with the same grabbing gusto given for glimpses of centerfold pinups hidden inside the men's magazines scrutinized on their breaks. 'Crazy Lady E', shortened to 'Craz-E', made up for her lack of feminine charms through the art of over-tipping. Unlike fussy housewives, there were never calls to Gus that the milk was next day sour, the bread smooshed, or potato chips arrived in crumbs. Craz-E didn't make the guys bring the bags inside demanding instead that they be left on the porch as her boney wrist thrust from a narrowly cracked door and shook some Jacksons in their direction.

It was cause for celebration when Pete Owenby answered the call to take a quart of cream, a case of tuna, two loaves of artisan bread, a twelve pack of dark beer, and a ten-pound bag of kibble up to 13 Archwood. Things had been slow at the store, and he could certainly use the extra coin for a Friday night date with Katelyn even if the old biddy and her eerie mob of mousers gave him the creeps. Rumor had it that another woman lived in the house, a "lipstick lesbo," a grinning Gus perversely called her who was "mowin' Craz-E's grass." The image of those two naked women doing whatever to their wherevers made Pete shudder. Some people claimed she was her sister, but if that were true then they came from different fathers. From the descriptions Pete had heard there wasn't exactly a family resemblance. Pete skidded the old bicycle with the large carry-all basket emblazoned with GUS'S GROCERIES onto Archwood Court.

13 Archwood was a creaking monstrosity, the bane of the Neighborhood Association, which stood dead center in a competitively sculpted cul-de-sac of manicured yards. The shameless show house proudly displayed peeling shutters and vine-crept bricks bleeding into an ashen walkway sporting scruffy tufts of weeds. A grim footpath meandered towards a dungeon-thick door with an imposing brass knocker that dared a rap. It was a realtor's nightmare as was its sole occupant: Elmira Baste.

Strike that: occupant with cats. Not cats plural, like two, but a multitude synonymous with sanctuary. An overpopulated space of twitching tails, fur nudged curtains, and head butted blinds pushed skywards in windows dotted by infinite eyes stacked pyramid-like on top of each other.

"Why don't you offer to mow her lawn? She'd pay you handsomely!" yelled Mrs. Emerson from her porch swing as Pete approached the door.

Pete cringed remembering Gus's lewd comments. Most neighbors didn't care what happened behind Craz-E's door, but they were as outraged as if she were a pedophile by what never happened outside the house. The yard was a season changing disaster of tall summer grass and unraked autumn leaves.

"Gus keeps me pretty busy, Mrs. Emerson," Pete offered as an honest excuse to avoid further conversation.

"She's a strange one," Mrs. Emerson snidely commented ignoring his attempts to avoid conversation. " Sometimes when I look over she's standing there then - Poof! There's the sister instead. And those cats? I didn't know you could train the little beasts, but they follow her orders like a bunch of circus lions react to a tamer's whip."

"Gee, you get all that from your porch? You've got eagle eyes!" exclaimed Pete.

"I'm very observant," declared Mrs. Emerson with jutted jaw and a snort as she slowly worked her binoculars farther behind the seat's cushion. Pete waved her off as he hopped the steps, and rapped the knocker.

"Special delivery Ms. Baste!" he announced cheerily. Pete smiled knowing she couldn't see his pearly pitch. Gus said to smile even when taking orders.

"They can hear your smile. No lie. And always upsell like ground beef to top ground sirloin. Larger order, bigger tip," he'd instruct.

A withered hand waved the green flag of fortune. Pete turned to leave but decided to pocket his share first. His face grew quizzical and he knocked again.