“Bob says the main lines in those old houses are a mix of copper and iron,” I said.

Clara folded her towel into four neat quarters and set it next to the dish without asking for a fork.

“My cousin was working the probate desk at the courthouse today, Penelope.

She said the name on the tax ledger for Maple Street hasn’t changed in fifteen years.”

“Bob pays his bills,” I said.

“I know Bob takes care of things,” Clara said quietly, turning back toward the door.

“I just wonder why a grown man drives five miles every night at six thirty to fix the very same leaky sink.”