Every Night at Six Thirty, Bob Drove Away, Until His Other Wife Said My Name

“Who sent you out here today?” I asked the locksmith.

He took a folded sheet of yellow paper out of his shirt pocket and held it out to me without a word.

It was a signed work order stamped by the county probate clerk’s office, authorizing an immediate change of locks for sole property management.

Taped next to the door handle was a formal legal notice printed on heavy blue card stock.

“What does that paper on the porch door say, Clara?”