Close Neighbors

Daddy’d said they just did things like that so people would watch their news instead of somebody else’s. But when they made it sound like your aunt was a murderer, you felt awful.

“Hon?” Rachel glanced at her, then dropped a handful of spaghetti into the boiling water. “Would you go tell your dad that dinner’s in ten minutes?”

“Sure.”

She headed out of the kitchen and started up the backstairs. Her friends thought it was funny that their house had an extra set of stairs. But after her mom left, Daddy built a big addition across the back—so they’d have a family room downstairs and his office upstairs—and he’d put in the second staircase.

That was way before she’d started school, and he’d wanted the office so he could work at home more. Then, after her aunt moved in, one of them was almost always home. Rachel only worked when she had an assignment taking pictures to go with a magazine article or something.

Just as Julie reached the upstairs hall, the office phone began ringing. That meant she’d have to make one of those throat-cutting signs to her dad, ’cuz Rachel hated when the spaghetti got cooked too long, and—

“You’re insane!”

Daddy’s words froze her before she reached the doorway. He sounded angry, but kind of afraid, too, and he was never afraid.

Listening in on someone else’s conversation was against the rules, but she stayed right where she was, barely breathing.

“Of course I know they haven’t found it.”

Her heart had begun thumping, and she half wanted to run back down the stairs, half wanted to stay and hear more.

“You’re out of your mind! She didn’t kill him, so her fingerprints can’t be on it.”

The words kill and fingerprints started a hot, prickly feeling in her chest. She wished she’d decided to run back downstairs, because she was getting so scared that she felt like hiding in her closet, the way she used to when she was real little.

“You bastard! We’ll see what the cops think about that!”

Her eyes began to sting with tears. Daddy never swore. Maybe hell or dammit, sometimes, but never anything worse.

“Oh? And if I do call them? Are you going to walk into police headquarters with that gun? Don’t you think they’d have the brains to—”

One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, she silently counted. How many seconds would it take for Daddy to hear what would happen if he called the cops?

She kept counting and counting but never found out.

The next thing she heard was the little beep his cordless made when you clicked it off.

CHAPTER ONE

“SWANSEA, SWANSEA, how I love ya, how I love ya…”

Her song dissolving into laughter, Anne stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel. She was such a dreadful singer that anyone hearing her would take off running. This morning, though, she felt so good she doubted it would bother her.

Rather than having to sleep through the rumble of streetcars and honking horns in downtown last night, she’d been treated to silence. And she’d awakened to the twitter of birds.

Thus far, she thought, searching through a carton labeled Shorts & Stuff, not a single one of her brand-new-home-owner fears had become a reality. And even though she’d barely moved in, she was already starting to think her real estate agent had told her the truth. That she’d never regret buying in the peaceful west-end neighborhood of Swansea.

Of course, only yesterday morning, some dog walker had discovered a body in nearby High Park—the body of a police detective, no less. She’d heard about it on the news last night, while she’d been making sure her clock radio had survived the move. But murders were uncommon in Toronto, especially in tony areas like the High Park district.

After finally finding a T-shirt that wasn’t too wrinkled, she pulled it on and headed downstairs. There, the mountains of boxes seemed to have multiplied overnight. But even that wasn’t enough to dampen her mood.

She started the coffee brewing, spent a few minutes searching for her laptop, then carried it and a mug of coffee out to the patio table.

Some of the friends who’d helped her move had offered to come back today. And her father had downright insisted. But she’d convinced even him that she wanted to spend the first day in her new home alone.

And now that it had turned out to be so gorgeous…well, there was just no way she could waste a July-perfect morning unpacking. Not when she had such a terrific idea for her next book that she was positively itching to get started.

While the computer ran its warm-up checks, she sat happily contemplating her new little corner of the world—bright sky above, light breeze rustling the leaves of her twin aspens, the pool’s water sparkling with diamonds, and…someone spying on her.

A vaguely uneasy feeling stole up her spine. She’d never had much in the way of woman’s intuition, but she did have a sixth sense that warned her when she was being watched.

Hoping someone was merely curious about the new neighbor, she slowly scanned the length of the cedar privacy fence—seeing no one, yet certain someone was there. A couple of seconds later she heard a quiet creak, and the gate to the yard backing onto hers opened a few inches.

A girl of eight or nine peered tentatively over at her, a skinny little thing with long, pale hair.

“Hi.” Anne shot her a smile. “Are you my neighbor?”

The child nodded solemnly.

“Well, I’m Anne. And you’re…?”

“Julie.”

“That’s a pretty name.”

“Thanks. It’s really Juliette, but nobody ever calls me that.”

“Ah. Do you wish people would?”

When the girl simply shrugged, then stood looking uncertain, Anne nodded toward her mug. “I guess you’re a little young for coffee?”

“I tried it once, but I didn’t like it.”

“Well, I’ve got orange juice in the fridge. How about some of that?”

“Umm…my dad said I shouldn’t bother you.”

“You’re not. So why don’t you come and sit down while I get some juice.”

“No, that’s okay. I already had my juice. But do you think I could talk to you for a minute?”

“Sure.”

Julie closed the gate, then skirted the end of the pool and silently sat down.

“Did you want to talk about anything in particular?” Anne finally prompted.

“Do you really write the Penelope Snow mysteries?”