Close Neighbors. Dawn Stewardson
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?”
“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,