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two! You’re Scarlett Barrett’s sisters . . .”
    “Half-sister,” I corrected but she didn’t hear.
    “. . . How lucky are you? Imagine being sister to a famous Broadway star. Oh, I just love Scarlett. I’ve followed her career. And now she’s here, living among us.”
    Then she turned back to Melanie. “Oh, Melanie, we’re all so thrilled about Cam’s big contest and the movie he’ll be producing. And he’s announced he’ll be using local talent. How absolutely fab. There are so many of us looking for a break. All we can get are bit parts when something like Iron Man 3 is being filmed here. But a big part in a big show . . . well, I just want to hug that man. But I’ll hug you instead.”
    And she gave Melanie a bracing hug. Melanie peered at me over her shoulder, eyebrows arched, as if to say, “What’s with this girl?”
    Jon joined us. “We’d better go inside.”
    He opened the glass storm door for us just as a young man came bursting out. “You bitch! You stole it! Give it back!”
    His rage was directed at Taylor. I recognized him as the man I’d seen out on the upper rear porch yesterday, singing and playing an unfamiliar tune on his guitar.
    Taylor reared back, eyes wide. “What the hell are you talking about, Simon? I didn’t steal anything.”
    “My guitar! My guitar is missing. And I just know you took it.” He balled up his hands into fists and strode over to the porch railing. “It’s on that truck. In one of those boxes.” With a leap he was down the stairs, racing to the truck. Lithe and limber, he jumped up onto the back of the truck easily and began tearing boxes open. But only the large boxes. The small boxes he kicked aside. Frantically, he tossed Taylor’s belongings down into the driveway.
    Taylor ran to the truck. Her friend, the man who’d been loading the truck, backed up, staring. “Hey, what are you doing, man?”
    “It’s in here somewhere. That guitar is valuable. It belonged to my grandfather. You know what it means to me.” He glared down at Taylor. “But you’ve had your sights set on it ever since you moved in here. I had to keep my door locked at all times or else I’d find you in my room, trying to play it with your pathetic attempts at music.” He gave her a look of utter disgust.
    Taylor climbed up into the back of the truck and grabbed at his hands. But they were flying. “Stop throwing my clothes on the ground, you idiot! I don’t have your guitar. You’ve gone too far this time, Simon.”
    Jon, Melanie, and I watched from the front porch. Dalton had hobbled over to stand with us. Today he was using a walker.
    Swiftly, Simon tore through the boxes. Tearing them apart, ripping the contents out, and tossing them on the ground. Clothing, linens, towels. A hair dryer crashed on the brick pavement where it cracked into pieces.
    “Just see what you’ve done,” Taylor screeched. “I’m calling the cops.” She reached into her pocket for her cell phone.
    Jon strode down the steps and approached them. My hero. The peacemaker.
    “Get down from that truck,” he commanded in a no-nonsense tone of voice.
    Simon stopped in his tracks. But by then, he had combed through all of the boxes large enough to conceal a guitar. He slumped forward, shoulders hunched, palms opened wide, in a posture of defeat. “I was sure you took it. It’s gone. Where else can it be?”
    He jumped down from the truck and seemed to return to sanity. But only for a moment. Looking up at Dalton, he charged up the steps onto the porch. “You’ve got it then. I thought you were my friend. I know I owe you rent but I told you, I’m good for it. I told you I’d pay you next week.”
    Jon rushed up to stairs to step in between Dalton and the out-of-control Simon. “Look, if you don’t calm down, I’m calling the police myself.”
    To our amazement, Simon sank down onto his knees. There were tears in his eyes. “My granddad left me that guitar. It was his. He used to play it