The street was narrow and slightly winding, as befitting a road originally designed for horse traffic. Houses were close together. Windows were thrown open to catch the fresh air. Flowerpots had been crammed onto small front stoops. Paint schemes dated back to colonial days. Some houses were freshly painted and some had paint peeling. This was no Stepford neighborhood. Diesel had driven Glo’s car to the bakery, so he was riding shotgun. I stopped at the entrance to my driveway, and we swiveled our heads toward the two vans parked in front of my house. Six men stood on the sidewalk beside the vans. Two of the men had Handycams. A third guy had a rolling hard-side suitcase. I parked, and we walked over to the men. “What’s going on?” Diesel asked. “Spook Patrol,” one of the guys said. “We’re here to investigate a sighting. Are you the home owner?” “Nope,” Diesel said. “The ticked-off-looking blonde is the home owner.” The guy plastered a smile onto his face and stuck his hand out to me.
