I figured I’d better stop at the Thistle place on my way back to the office. It was a two-story, once-white frame house with a gable roof, a peelin’ green door an’ shutters, an’ a screen porch across the front. All the windows had dingy curtains, all shut. The screen door sagged open, an’ the front steps was broke. The condition of the house kinda reminded me of the Jackson place, but at least Ash kept his yard decent. Thistles’ drive was a collection of potholes hangin’ together outta habit, an’ the yard was overgrowed with weeds an’ overflowed with junk, from empty food cans to dead white goods. The whole place looked just like what’d happened—the man run off an’ left the wife with a run-down house an’ too many kids to handle. Mavis Thistle had give up on livin’ an’ was drinkin’ herself to death—along with all that come with drinkin’.
I kept a eye on the front as I shut off the car an’ got out. If I hadn’t been watchin’ for it, I would’a missed the little movement from the curtain in one of the windows near the door. Mavis didn’t have a dog—even with the checks from Child Welfare she could hardly feed her kids. An’ nobody with two bits to his name’d board with her an’ those outta-control kids. So unless it was Mavis herself behind that curtain, Penny was likely right about Dotty bein’ home baby-sittin’.
I rang the bell but didn’t hear it ring inside, so I knocked. Nothin’ happened. I knocked again, louder. After a third knock, a muffled voice—sounded female—said, “Who’s there?”
“Deputy Sheriff Deters.”
“Whatcha want?”
“I wanna talk to you.”
“You got a warrant?”
“Nope.”
“Go away.”
“Be easier on you if you don’t make me get a warrant.”
This time she didn’t answer. I knocked again, but didn’t get nothin’ more. After a few more minutes of starin’ at the ratty door, I went back to my car an’ drove off.