She nodded and I started in, using the most-businesslike tone I could muster. I learned that the family had indeed moved to Flossmoor from Chicago in 1912, which squared with what Edna Warburton had told me, and that they had moved three blocks from that first house in the suburb to this one in 1928. I also learned that Thomas Stover was a partner in a Loop accounting firm.
“Do you have offspring?” I asked.
She nodded, expressionless. “A daughter — grown, of course.”
“I see. Does she live here with you and Mr. Stover?”
Still no expression. “Oh, no. She’s in the city, has been for years.”
“Married?”
Eyes glazed over, she shook her head. This was like pulling teeth, and I felt guilty pushing on. But I did.
“Might I ask her occupation?”
“Nicolette works as an assistant manager at one of the Harding’s restaurants downtown,” she answered mechanically.
“Ah, yes, nice places, good value for the price,” I said, scribbling on my clipboard for effect. “Would it be the one on West Van Buren by any chance? I go there often... when I’m working in the district office, of course.”
“No... she’s in one on Wabash, it’s in the block between Madison and Monroe, east side of the street. Under those noisy El tracks.”
“Oh, of course, I know exactly where it is, and I’ve been to that one, too. Is she your only offspring?”
Wilma Stover picked at a cuticle, then looked up slowly, her eyes focusing at a spot somewhere beyond me on the far wall. “We had a son, but we lost him to influenza in 1918.”
“I’m sorry. That was a terrible epidemic.”
“Yes it was, tragic. Chester was a junior in high school at the time. Two of his classmates also died.”
I reacted with what I hoped was a sympathetic nod, trying to think whether I could learn any more about Nicolette Stover from her mother. But I decided further questions that might bring useful answers were too far afield for a census taker to be asking.
“Now, we also have a few questions relating to your dwelling,” I went on, spacing my words as if reading from a script. “Do you own this beautiful home?”
“Oh, yes, yes we do, outright. No mortgage,” she said, the pride coming through in her voice.
“That is always satisfying to hear, especially in these hard times,” I said. “I believe you said this is your second home in this fine community?”
“Yes. As I mentioned earlier, our first house in Flossmoor was just a few blocks from here.”
“Very good. When people find a community they like, they should try to remain there. And that first home of yours in Flossmoor... I assume that when you purchased it, you had a mortgage?”
She shifted in her chair. “Well... no, we didn’t. We were fortunate enough to be able to... buy that house outright, also.”
“You were indeed fortunate, for a couple so young,” I observed, making it clear in both my tone and my expression that I was impressed.
“Yes, well, Tom — my husband — has done very well,” she said, clearly not wanting to prolong the topic of discussion.
I spent the next five minutes posing innocuous queries, then thanked her and rose to leave. “I appreciate your time, Mrs. Stover.”
“You are most welcome,” she replied as she stood, returning to a semblance of the graciousness with which she had welcomed me. “Will you be visiting others along our block?”
“I don’t believe so,” I told her as I made a show of consulting my clipboard. “No, my next call is two streets away.”
In fact, my next stop, selected on the spur of the moment, was only two doors away, just far enough from the Stover house — and on the other side of a high hedge — that I would be blocked from Mrs. Stover’s view if by chance she happened to be watching me from within her hacienda.
A squat, balding man gnawing on a cigar and gripping a section of the Sunday Tribune answered my ring at the English Tudor. “We don’t allow salesmen here,” he snapped, starting to close the door.
“Wait — I’m not selling anything,” I blurted, holding up a calling card. “Credit check on one of your neighbors.”
He took the card and squinted at it, reading aloud: “Rodney Gilchrist, Zephyr Credit Bureau, 410 W. Madison St., Chicago. Huh! And you’re Gilchrist?”
“Yes, sir, I am,” I told him, handing over an ID card encased in plastic that identified me as Rodney Gilchrist, a credit investigator licensed by Cook County.
“Who d’ya wanna know about?”
“The Stovers two doors down. It’s just routine information that I’m after, but it’s necessary.”
“Awright, come on in,” he said grudgingly. “But you’ll hafta talk to the wife. I’m on the road a lot, so I’m not around enough to know any of the neighbors. Hey Lorraine, there’s a guy here who needs to speak with you,” he said in a near bellow as he led the way through an entrance hall and into a living room dominated by American Colonial furnishings. Why didn’t they live in an American Colonial home, I wondered. Surely there were several of them in the area.
A woman at least two inches under five feet scooted into the room wearing a maroon housedress and a worried look. “Yes, what is it?” she asked breathlessly.
“He needs to see you about the Stovers,” her husband gruffed, gesturing toward me with a thick thumb. “I’m going into the den to finish reading my paper.” He lumbered out and Lorraine smiled nervously, bidding me to sit on a davenport as she eased into a chair.
“What do you need to know, Mr. ...?”
“Gilchrist, Rodney Gilchrist,” I said, offering another of the calling cards that Larry’s Quality Printing (“The Best in Job Printing — Fast & Friendly Service”) had done up for me. Courtesy of Larry, over the years I had also been a building inspector, a lawyer, a private detective, and a gas company meter reader. And of course an employee of the Bureau of Census. “And you are?”
“Lorraine Hokinson.” She moved her head up and down several times, as if to underscore to me that she really was Lorraine Hokinson. Her small, triangular face doubtless had been pretty once, but a road map of deeply etched worry lines now detracted from the light gray eyes, well-formed cheekbones, and small, straight nose. And she probably was not over forty-five.
“Well, Mrs. Hokinson, as your husband said, we are making some confidential inquiries about your neighbors, the Stover family. Nothing of a serious nature, you understand; just routine credit checking, very routine. We do this sort of thing all the time, as requested by various companies and vendors.”
She studied my card and started in on the nodding again. “Oh, are they purchasing something big?”
I shrugged and turned my palms upward. “I’m not allowed to be specific, as I am sure you can understand.”
“Of... of course, of course; I didn’t mean to be nosy.” She seemed as jumpy as a kid on a pogo stick, which I suspected was a permanent condition.
“Not at all, Mrs. Hokinson,” I said soothingly. “Have you known the Stovers for a long time?”
“Mmm... as long as they’ve lived on this block, which is, oh... probably about ten years or so.”
“I gather that Mr. Stover is quite successful.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh, my, yes indeed. Orville — that’s my husband — says he must be to afford that house of theirs. It’s the biggest on the block by far, and one of the biggest in the whole of our little Flossmoor.”
“Uh-huh. I understand he’s an accountant.”
“Well, yes. Actually, I do believe that Tom owns the firm, a very large firm,” she said with awe.