Close Neighbors

“Yes, I do.”

“I like them. My aunt buys them for me.”

“Well, that’s good to hear. But how did you know who I was?”

“’Cuz my aunt asked Mrs. Kitchner who our new neighbor was gonna be. That’s who lived here before. Mr. and Mrs. Kitchner.”

Anne nodded. “I met them the first time I came to look at the house.”

“Well, Mrs. Kitchner told Rachel—that’s my aunt—what your name was, and said you wrote books for kids. And Rachel knew right away who you were. But when I saw you…you kind of look like the picture on the books, but different.”

“I know. I always freeze when there’s a camera pointed at me.”

“Rachel says lots of people do. She’s a photographer. That’s what I’m going to be when I grow up.”

“You are, eh?”

Julie nodded. “Rachel gave me one of her old cameras and taught me how to do all the settings and everything.”

“It sounds as if you and Rachel are pretty close.”

“Uh-huh. She lives with me and my dad. ’Cuz my mom and dad are divorced.”

Anne hesitated, not sure if she should say that was too bad.

Before she could decide, Julie added, “My mom’s a singer. And she lives in Los Angeles now, ’cuz it’s where the best jobs are.”

“Ah.” She left it at that, although she couldn’t help wondering what kind of woman would move thousands of miles away from her child.

“Under your picture on the books?” Julie said. “It says you used to be a private eye.”

“Uh-huh. That’s what my father is, and I used to work for him—until I discovered that writing books was more fun.”

“But it’s ’cuz you were a detective that you know how to solve mysteries, right? I mean, you pretend it’s Penelope who figures everything out, but it’s really you.”

“Exactly. That’s the way writing books works.”

“So…you could probably figure out just about anything.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go as far as anything, but…is there something you thought I could help you figure out?”

Julie hesitated, then nodded. “I know someone who has a big problem.”

“Oh.” The infamous “friend with a problem.” Anne resisted the temptation to smile. Whatever was troubling Julie, she obviously believed it was serious.

“So, if I tell you about it, will you figure out what she should do?”

“I’ll certainly try.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

The girl gave her a wan smile, then said, “What happened is—”

“Julie?” a man called.

“That’s my dad!” she whispered fiercely. “Don’t tell him what I was saying, okay?”

“Okay,” Anne said, glancing over at Julie’s father.

He was tall, his head and shoulders visible above the fence, and she quickly appraised what she could see of him.

In his mid-thirties, he wasn’t handsome in a conventional way. His nose was a bit too large, his dark hair longish and decidedly unruly, his eyebrows on the thick side. Still, he was the kind of man who seemed comfortable in his own skin, and there was something more than a little attractive about him.

“Hi,” he said, reaching the fence. “I’m Chase Nicholson.”

“Anne Barrett,” she told him—thinking he seemed distracted. But he’d probably been wondering where his daughter was.

“Welcome to the neighborhood.” He smiled, and when he did she had a feeling she was going to like him.

“It looks as if you were trying to get some work done,” he added, glancing first at her laptop, then at Julie.

“Oh, I hadn’t really gotten started, so a little company was fine.”

“Good. But I need her to help me with something.”

“Right now?” Julie asked.

“Uh-huh. We’ve got a deadline looming, remember?”

“My dad designs stuff, and I sometimes help,” she explained.

Anne glanced at Chase again. “What kind of stuff?”

“Office buildings, mostly. I’m an industrial architect.”

“And he has to make models of the buildings,” Julie said. “That’s what I help with, ’cuz he’s got big fingers and for parts of them you need little fingers.”

She pushed her chair away from the table, then whispered, “Can I come over again? After I finish helping my dad?”

“Sure you can,” Anne whispered back. She could hardly say no, although she suspected it would have been the wiser answer.

Things didn’t always occur to her right off the bat, which was one reason she hadn’t been a first-rate P.I. And it hadn’t struck her, until after she’d promised to try to help, that the adults in Julie’s life might not like her turning to a stranger for advice.

Chase opened the gate, and while he waited for Julie to make her way across the yard he did his best to keep his gaze from wandering back to Anne Barrett.

A month or so ago, when Rachel had learned who’d bought the Kitchner house—and that she’d be moving in alone—she’d shown him Anne’s photo on the back of one of Julie’s books. To say it didn’t do her justice was an understatement.