I called Debbie.
She answered immediately, as though she had been sitting beside the phone.
“Tell me what I’m looking at.”“The board that’s there when you’re gone.”
I stood up.
“Are you sure?”
“I’ve seen the other one, Andy. The one with their names side by side and about the same amount of writing.”
Debbie was sixty, retired from the county library, and lived directly across our narrow residential street. She sometimes brought over casseroles when she made too much. Vanessa returned the dishes clean.
That morning Debbie had stopped by for a glass baking dish.
“Vanessa invited me in for coffee,” she said. “She took a call in the laundry room. I was standing near the refrigerator.”
“You photographed it without asking?”
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