There was a pretty pot of flowers at my doorstep. And a note.
"Hi my name is Mary. My uncle Ricky lived here. He passed away. I wanted to leave him these. This is the place I remember him most. Thank you. I loved him very much."
I googled the man who used to live here. Uncle Ricky. The man who died. He wasn't that old.
I didn't find him, but what I did find was an obituary for the man who was his father. They had the same name. Uncle Ricky was a "junior." A lot to live up to especially when your namesake’s resume is as impressive in the one detailed in the obit in the San Francisco Chronicle.
That must have been hard for Uncle Ricky, who didn't appear to have a job or much going on when I met him when he was living here before we bought the place.
But Mary loved him very much. I have the flowers to prove it. I hope he knew that. I hope he died of natural causes.
I can imagine a mystery novel starting this way. In real life I don't have the heart to follow it. But I will do my best to make sure Mary's flowers survive and grow.