Dawn Stewardson - Close Neighbors

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, 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.