Free Guilty of Love by Pat Simmons Page A

So far, I haven’t
seen anything that has caught my eye.”
    He moved to the other bare bay window
and began prepping it. “You might want to stop by Ferguson Sofa
Store on South Florissant. My wife finds something unique there
every time she remodels, which seems like practically every
year.”
    “ I’ll do that. I’m having a
housewarming Saturday, and I need furniture fast.”
    “ Housewarming?” Nodding, he
asked, “You’re new to the neighborhood?”
    “ Yes, I am. I’ve lived here
almost three months.”
    “ Well, I’ll take ten
percent off my job as a welcome to the neighborhood
gift.”
    Just as Cheney was about to thank him,
a large spotlight crossed her yard. Its aim was a brown Envoy
parked not far from her house.
    “ Did you see that?” Mr.
Harrison’s panicked expression looked as if he was about to take
cover.
    By accident or intentional, the bright
light found its mark, then the driver sped off. For the next few
minutes, the spotlight did formations against houses like a circus
act. Then the block returned to a semi-dark state.
    “ What was that all
about?”
    “ Who knows?” Cheney
shrugged. “I’m sure Mrs. Beacon is up to something.”
    “ Grandma BB?”
    “ You know her?”
    Mr. Harrison grinned. “Her reputation
is legendary.”
     
    ***
     
    It was almost midnight on Wednesday
when Cheney came home from work, tuckered out. She grabbed her mail
out the box and went inside. She briefly thought about a light
snack before bed, but she was too tired to fantasize about
food.
    She had tackled one building problem
after another at work. Menopausal women complained their offices
were too hot, iron-deficient workers griped about freezing to
death. They threatened to plug in space heaters in every available
outlet.
    Plus, Cheney had scheduled the annual
fire detection system testing, a job that couldn’t start until
after the last shift. The three-day process checked alarm horns,
emergency lights, and the smoke detectors.
    She was not only responsible for the
employees’ safety, but for protecting expensive telephone
equipment. A small fire could reap more damage than a severe storm
and disrupt phone service to thousands of customers in North St.
Louis County.
    Enough about work, she thought
as she stared wearily at her bare living and dining rooms and noted
that time was running out. Although her brain was falling asleep,
Cheney took a minute to sort through her mail. As she separated
bills from junk, she found two pocket-size comic books in the mix.
After opening one, Cheney blinked at the number of times God was
mentioned, then she realized it was a gospel tract. She immediately
pitched them in the trash, along with the other solicitations and
went to bed.
    On Thursday morning, Cheney hurried
home from work. She whipped off her business suit so fast she
almost tripped over her slip as it shimmied down her legs. She
landed on her hands like she was a participant in a game of
twister.
    She laughed at her own clumsiness, and
finally dressed in comfortable clothes and tennis shoes. Cramming
her wallet into her back pocket, Cheney grabbed her house keys,
then decided to walk the one mile to downtown Old Ferguson.
Shielding her eyes from the evening sun with dark glasses, she
donned a white baseball cap and was on her way.
    When she reached Chambers Road’s steep
hill, her walk increased to a jog. She admired the dignified
vintage three-story houses. Large address tags identified them as
historic. Their unusual colors, sloped roofs, and huge wrap-around
porches seemed out of place with the smaller bungalows in the
neighborhood. As she passed Walgreens, a horn sounded. Cheney
glanced over her right shoulder at the offending driver.
    “ Parke? How ghetto,” she
said, twisting her mouth in disgust.
    “ Hey,” he yelled from a
shiny brown SUV, stopping in busy traffic. “Need a
lift?”
    Shaking her head, Cheney increased her
speed. Ghetto.
    He blew his horn again. “You
sure?”
    Nodding