even years had passed since Alexander Fingerhut, and his bilious wife, Mona, had moved away from 1327 Powel Drive.  Although some would believe the house was abandoned, Penelope Marshlander knew different.   In the evening, the center two windows on the second floor always stayed illuminated until 11:00 PM when the light promptly went out.  During that time, she never saw anyone in the rooms.  Every Tuesday afternoon the grocer delivered three bags to the porch, in front of the door, where they stayed into the night and the next morning were gone.   Sammy Hipps, from Barnett Avenue, delivered the morning edition of the Helena Herald that somehow always vanished by 3:00 PM.  None of this should have bothered her, but what did perplex Penelope was that she never saw anyone enter or leave the old Fingerhut house at 1327 Powel Drive.

In the spring of 1918, a small truck arrived shortly after the Fingerhut’s departure.  Three men, all in white coveralls, all with handlebar mustaches, delivered a meager amount of furniture to the 18 room Victorian house and a bed was not one of the items.  A few days later, being a good neighbor, she carried a plate of sugar almond cookies across the street to welcome the newcomer, but no one answered the door.  She detected the sound of music playing, someone strumming a harp, but the movers had not delivered a harp.  She peeked in windows and poked around corners hoping to find someone, but nothing.

The following year she took up gardening and planted a multitude of flowers in her front yard.  She nursed and tended the plants daily with hopes she would spot someone entering or leaving the house.  Watering, fertilizing and weeding became the norm for the summer.  Never during her gardening did she see anyone come or go at 1327 Powel Drive.

She painted her house the next year.  The ladder gave her an advantage to peek in windows.  From the near top rung of the ladder as it rested against the left spire of her house, she could see well into the second floor windows.  Up and down, left and right, she swung the paintbrush, always glancing across the street for any sign of occupancy.  Although her house gained a beautiful coat of turquoise paint with lavender trim, she never spied anyone through the second floor windows.

After three years, she chose the direct route to discovering her neighbor by being the detective, something that would have made Sir Arthur Conan Doyle proud.  She asked the grocer, Herman Underwood of Underwood Groceries, who purchased the food he delivered, and he said, “Don’t know!”  Every Tuesday he found an envelope with money and a grocery list slipped into the store’s mail slot from the night before.  Always it had the correct amount of money, right down to the coins.  She went to the Commerce Bank and cornered Mr. Dibbledorf, the bank president, about the financial matters of the house.  Who paid the mortgage?  Did they have an account? Who lived at the house across from hers?  Mr. Dibbledorf replied, “None of your business, Miss Marshlander.”  She next looked up the tax records at the City Hall, as these were on public file, and found the house was in a trust that the Commerce Bank held.  By the end of the summer she knew nothing more than when she started, except that her powers of deduction and reasoning had sharpened to the likes of Sherlock Holmes.

She joined the Ladies Theatre Guild the next year and volunteered to distribute handbills of upcoming productions to all the merchants and neighborhoods.  She always made an extra effort to leave one at 1327 Powel Drive rolled up neatly and tied to the doorknob with a piece of red ribbon.  Without fail the next day it would be gone.  As far as she knew the occupant never attended any plays, although she saw no less than seven herself that year.

A year later she took up walking as this was told to her to be an excellent way to build stamina and meet her neighbors.  She walked in the morning.  She walked in the evening.  But no matter what the time she took her constitutional, she never saw anyone at the house.  One thing was true: her endurance was great.  She could walk halfway across town and back without losing her wind.  She also made six new friends that year.

By the next season, she decided that discovering the occupant across the way was not that important.  Rather, she spent most of her time baking for the Orphans of Helena Charity Bake Sales.  She always made sure to take an extra cake or pie across the street and leave it at the doorstep of 1327 Powel Drive.  And always the next day the pan or plate would be waiting, empty and clean.  She would give a wistful glance at the house when she left with her bake ware.

A year later, the same truck appeared again with the three movers.  They unloaded the house of its furniture, and still there was not a harp or a bed.  Rather than being nosey, she stayed on the porch of her house and enjoyed the splendor of her flowers and the dynamic colors of her house while nibbling at a slice of boysenberry pie. 

When the movers had left, she noticed a small piece of paper hung on the door.  Curiosity overwhelmed her a final time and she strolled across the street.  The note fastidiously written in blue ink on yellow paper said:

My dear Miss Marshlander,

I truly enjoyed our years as neighbors.  Your flowers are beautiful, your house is stunning and the pastries, oh my, they were good.  But alas my work calls me elsewhere.  Take care and good luck.

Best wishes,

Your Neighbor at 1327 Powel Drive

Penelope took the note down, folded it neatly and tucked it into a pocket of her apron.  She walked to her own house and sighed,  “I certainly hope the next neighbor is as nice.”