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

“Did Bob sign the sale as a witness?” I asked.

“He signed page three as the seller’s agent,” Clara said, pointing her silver pen at the inked signature beside the county seal.

“He knew that house got sold four years ago.”

I jotted the Canton address and the ledger volume number in my little black notepad.

“Are you going to bring it up with him before supper?” Clara asked.

“Not till I’ve been to Canton,” I said.

The drive south on Route 14 took forty minutes stuck behind a gravel truck.