At the Kranks'

At the Kranks', Spike rang the doorbell but got no response. Mr. Krank's Lexus was not there, which was certainly not unusual at 5 P.M. But Mrs. Krank's Audi was in the garage, a sure sign that she was home. The curtains and shades were pulled. No answer at the door though, and the gang moved to the Seekers', where Ned was in the front yard washing his Frosty with his mother-in-law barking instructions from the steps.
"They're leaving now," Nora whispered into the phone in their bedroom.
"Why are you whispering?" Luther asked with agitation.
"Because I don't want them to hear me."
"Who is it?"
"Vic Frohmeyer, Wes Trogdon, looks like that Brixley fellow from the other end of the street, some kids."
"A regular bunch of thugs, huh?"
"More like a street gang. They're at the Beckers' now."
"God help them."
"Where's Frosty?" she asked.
"Same place he's been since January. Why?"
"Oh, I don't know."
"This is comical, Nora. You're whispering into the phone, in a locked house, because our neighbors are going door to door helping our other neighbors put up a ridiculous seven-foot plastic snowman, which, by the way, has absolutely nothing to do with Christmas. Ever think about that, Nora?"
"No."
"We voted for Rudolph, remember?"
"It's comical."
"I'm not laughing."
"Frosty's taking a year off, okay? The answer is no."
Luther hung, up gently and tried to concentrate on his work. After dark, he drove home, slowly, all the way telling himself that it was silly to be worried about such trivial matters as putting a snowman on the roof. And all the way he kept thinking of Walt Scheel.
"Come on, Scheel," he mumbled to himself. "Don't let me down."
Walt Scheel was his rival on Hemlock, a grumpy sort who lived directly across the street. Two kids out of college, a wife battling breast cancer, a mysterious job with a Belgian conglom, an income that appeared to be in the upper range on Hemlock-but regardless of what he earned Scheel and the missus expected their neighbors to think they had a lot more. Luther bought a Lexus, Scheel had to have one. Bellington put in a pool, Scheel suddenly needed to swim in his own backyard, doctor's orders. Sue Kropp on the west end outfitted her kitchen with designer appliances-$8,000 was the rumor-and Bev Scheel spent $9,000 six months later.
A hopeless cook, Bev's cuisine tasted worse after the renovation, according to witnesses.
Their haughtiness had been stopped cold, however, with the breast cancer eighteen months earlier. The Scheels had been humbled mightily. Keeping ahead of the neighbors didn't matter anymore. Things were useless. They had endured the disease with a quiet dignity, and, as usual, Hemlock had supported them like family. A year after the first chemo, the Belgian conglom had reshuffled itself. Whatever Walt's job had been, it was now something less.
The Christmas before the Scheels had been too distracted to decorate. No Frosty for them, not much of a tree, just a few lights strung around the front window, almost an afterthought.
A year earlier, two houses on Hemlock had gone without Frostys-the Scheels' and one on the west end owned by a Pakistani couple who'd lived there three months then moved away. It had been for sale, and Frohmeyer had actually considered ordering another Frosty and conducting a nighttime raid on the premises to erect it.