Never Nag Your Neighbor: Leigh Koslow Mystery Series, #12

By Edie Claire

Twelfth in the USA-Today bestselling Leigh Koslow mystery series!

How many dandelions does it take to spell disaster?

Claudia Hemmings never cared for her next-door neighbor. Theodore Milton, MD neglected his lawn, frightened trick-or-treaters, and flagrantly ignored the Homeowner Association's mailbox specifications. But when she began to suspect that he was engaged in criminal activity, she decided it was time to act.

Then she disappeared. Now, six months later, her house stands empty and Dr. Milton's is up for sale. And while Leigh's house-hunting Aunt Bess may think that the doctor's humble 1940s ranch has potential for greatness, all Leigh can think about is the creepy stuff he left behind.

Something about buying a house from a man who's in a coma gives Leigh the heebie jeebies. But when mysterious third parties start bidding the price up, strangers prowl the empty house at night, and Aunt Bess insists she's moving in anyway, Leigh gets officially worried. What was the eccentric doctor really up to? And what is it that everyone keeps searching for?

Leigh isn't sure she wants to know. But somebody has to look out for her intrepid Aunt Bess. Because in this neighborhood, every dog walk may be your last.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stackhouse Press
• Release date: Jun 11, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393341215

Edie Claire

No matter the genre, USA Today bestselling novelist and playwright Edie Claire strives to infuse all her writing with both warmth and humor. Her family-friendly Leigh Koslow cozy mystery series, a favorite of animal lovers that was originally published in 1999, was reborn in 2012 to become a USA-Today bestseller. Her romantic novels range from women’s fiction with romantic elements to a blend of romance and mystery, beginning with her traditionally published contemporaries, the award-winning Long Time Coming and Meant To Be, and continuing with her exciting new series of interconnected romantic novels, Pacific Horizons, whose characters follow the migration of the humpback whales to some of the most gorgeous locations on earth. In any Edie Claire work, the reader may be assured that intrigue will beckon and tensions will rise – but love will triumph and happy endings will abound! Edie has worked as a veterinarian, a childbirth educator, and a scientific/technical writer. A mother of three, she lives in Pennsylvania and aspires to become a snowbird.  

Book preview

Prologue

Six months ago

Alan Fish poked his beaklike nose behind the edge of the motorized roller shade that covered the picture window in his living room. By craning his neck just so, he could assess the threat posed by his caller without being seen. He knew that it was more socially acceptable to monitor one’s front door with a security camera. But he also knew that any images transmitted over the airwaves were at risk of unauthorized interception. Enough said.

The individual who had just rung the bell was standing so close to his door that he could see only the back of her coat and a few wisps of wiry gray hair. But he knew who she was. He would have known even if she wasn’t connected by a rhinestone-studded lead to the small white mass of fur that was currently urinating on his autumn chrysanthemums.

He stifled a primal scream. He had nothing against small furry creatures per se, as long as they were friendly. He did sometimes wonder what it would feel like to pet one. But… germs. And this particular neighbor never hesitated, when invited into his house herself, to bring her miniature filth factory right along with her. Still, he withdrew from the window and moved to open the door. He could not complain about Claudia, she was too much of an asset to the neighborhood. Not only was she fastidious about keeping up her own property, she also served earnestly as a community monitor. She was here now, no doubt, to report yet another infraction of the Code of Conduct of the Homeowners Association of Snow Creek Ridge. As the faithfully serving president of that body, it was Alan’s sworn duty to investigate any and all such grievances.

He could hose down the flower bed later.

Claudia! he said with pleasure, swinging the door open wide. How nice to see you. And how is little Bobo?

Incensed! she replied. She hustled into his foyer, giving a tug on the lead when her dog did not immediately follow. Alan waited for the little beast to enter, then closed his door. Hopefully, the dog would stay on the tile this time. One whisk of antibacterial with the wet mop could take care of that.

Why, what’s happened now? he inquired politely. Is it the Bennett boy? I saw that his car was still parked on the street when I went to bed last night—

She cut him off with a vigorous shake of her head, making her gray curls fly. Claudia was an unhealthy looking woman. She was only in her sixties, but with a permanent stoop to her back and eyesight so pitiful she squinted even with her glasses on, she could easily pass for eighty. No, no, not him. It’s our doctor friend. And it’s serious. She cast a glance into Alan’s living room. I need to sit down. Come on, Bobo.

Alan watched with various body parts clenched as Claudia strode into his cream-colored refuge and plopped herself down onto his $2300 Neiman Marcus sofa. He did not relax until she had gathered the little dog to her feet. If she had attempted to pull the hairy creature into her lap, he really would have had to say something. Running the carpet shampooer was bad enough, but his preferred upholstery cleaner was terribly expensive.

He folded himself into the chair opposite her and pretended a smile. The dog, which was supposedly a Maltese, had copious stains under its eyes and a pronounced underbite. The first time Alan had seen it he feared that the toothy grimace spelled malice, but in reality the canine was quite placid. Even now, as its owner practically vibrated with rage, the dog laid its head on its paws and yawned.

And what has Dr. Milton done now? Alan asked, his interest piqued.

Drugs, Claudia announced.

Drugs? Alan’s left eyebrow arched. He was no fan of the doctor, whose vulgar monstrosity of a house both offended Alan’s aesthetic senses and endangered the property values of the entire neighborhood. The squatty brick ranch had been built by the doctor’s parents in the late forties when the surrounding area was still farmland, and it should have been razed in the nineties along with all the other chicken coops and barns and sheds that had so rudely stood in the way of urban progress in the North Hills of Pittsburgh. But the senior Milton had flatly refused to sell, leaving the developer no choice but to carve out that plot and create the current subdivision around it. Driving past the eyesore every day was vexing enough, but what really annoyed Alan was that the junior Milton, still in residence, was grandfathered out of the homeowners association.

Given the doctor’s blatant disregard for the standards of their community, Alan would love to find a valid reason for reporting him to any authority whose jurisdiction he did fall under. But while Claudia’s claim was promising, she did have a rather fertile imagination where her next-door neighbor was concerned. The feud between them had practically grown legendary.

I can’t prove it, Claudia continued more soberly, confirming Alan’s suspicions. But I’m going to.

What exactly did you see? Alan inquired, tensing slightly as he awaited her answer. Claudia had never had a particularly firm grasp on the role of the HOA versus the police, nor did she understand Theodore Milton’s unusual relationship to the former. She was as likely to ring Alan’s doorbell over spreading dandelions as she was to insist that he personally arrest the doctor for sunbathing in a swim brief — a debacle over which Alan had suffered significant mental trauma.

Not much, Claudia admitted. "You know I can’t see all that well in the dark. But I know I saw something. That man comes in and out at all hours — everybody knows that. But who is it that keeps driving up to see him? Hmm? What business do they have with him that can’t be done during the daylight?"

Alan gave his thin mustache a twitch. He had noticed occasional night visitors across the street himself, but had seen nothing actionable in it. Many doctors kept erratic hours. It made sense that his visitors, be they paramours, friends, or co-workers, could be equally nocturnal. Besides which, Dr. Milton had daytime visitors too, and there seemed nothing furtive about them. Short of making the neighborhood a gated community — a pet proposal of Alan’s which, sadly, kept getting shot down by the board — there was no way to restrict visiting traffic. So what did these night visitors do?

I couldn’t see, Claudia said with frustration. But they didn’t stay long enough for a ‘friendly’ visit, so I figure it had to be a handoff.

Alan’s optimism fizzled. I’m afraid that’s not much to go on. Have you asked him about it?

She let out a loud harrumph. Oh, like that ever helps anything! I was over there just yesterday complaining about that blasted leaf blower of his — really, does he have to run the thing at nine o’clock at night? It would be different if he was actually accomplishing something, but you and I both know he doesn’t give a hoot about that yard! He never mows it himself anymore and he’s too damn cheap to get it done more than twice a year. Why, my Bobo wouldn’t set a paw over there the entire month of June for fear of snakes and bees and who knows what all else was living in that mess. And it’s his favorite place to poo!

Alan clenched the arms of his chair. He preferred not to think about the word poo in any context.

I believe he just likes playing with that blower, like a little boy! Claudia continued. It’s loud and it makes thing fly around in the air. Woohoo! Well, some people have to sleep, I tell him! Have a little consideration! But do you know what he says? Same thing as always. He just gives me that big smirky smile of his and says, ‘Thank you, Claudia. Come again!’ Do you believe that? ‘Thank you, Claudia. Come again.’ And then he goes right back to doing whatever he was doing!

Alan frowned. He was well aware of the doctor’s droll flippancy regarding such matters. He’d had no more success than Claudia in getting Milton to hew to the neighborhood code voluntarily, even with an issue as practical as the replacement of his pitifully substandard mailbox. And that was before the sunbathing incident.

I wish I could help, he said sincerely. But I’m afraid that having nighttime callers doesn’t break any of our HOA regulations, much less the law. To sic the authorities on Milton, we’d need more specifics. Some evidence suggestive of a crime. Have you ever seen any money changing hands during these rendezvous?

She shook her head. I never see the people at all. They pull into his garage. And don’t you think that’s a little suspicious in itself? I have guests come over — they park in my driveway. Who parks in somebody else’s garage?

That is strange, Alan agreed, growing hopeful again. Maybe the man was dealing drugs! Doctors did do that occasionally, didn’t they? If convicted, Milton would have to sell the house. Then the hated grandfather clause could be revoked. Couldn’t it? Alan would have to dig into the charter…

Claudia stood suddenly, jerking her little dog awake. "If more evidence is what we need, then believe you me, I’m going to get it. I’ve put up with that man for twenty years now… that awful yard of his, not a shrub nor a flower in sight, noise at all hours, grill smoke irritating my sweet little Bobo’s eyes… and those sick-brained Halloween jokes of his… I mean, really! But I draw the line at drug dealing. I won’t live next to a criminal!"

Well said! Alan praised, rising with her.

Thank you, Claudia. Come again! the woman mocked in a singsong as she made her way toward Alan’s door. "I’ll show him who gets the last laugh. You just wait and see!"

I’ll look forward to that, Alan said genuinely, opening the door for her. He was anxious to check on the specifics of the neighborhood charter. You’ll keep me apprised, won’t you?

Claudia nodded. Her movements were brisk as she popped back out the door, dragging the logy Bobo behind her. Alan watched the dog’s movements carefully. The more accurately he could remember its trail, the less surface area he’d have to sanitize.

You’re a good neighbor, Claudia, he assured her departing form. Without people like you, the Snow Creek Ridge Homeowners Association wouldn’t be what it is today.

Claudia turned back to him. Why, thank you, Mr. Fish, she said proudly. Her thin lips parted in a rare, albeit reptilian, smile. Likewise, I’m sure.

Chapter 1

Present day

I’m going with you.

Over my dead body!

Suit yourself. Whose car will we be taking?

Leigh made no move to intercede. Her mother and her aunt had been bickering longer than she had been alive, and she had learned to pick her battles. Since the outcome of this one was a foregone conclusion, she reserved her energy. It was no accident that Frances had happened to drop in at her daughter’s place on a random Thursday afternoon in April — to deliver that recipe you wanted — mere minutes before her sister Bess was scheduled to go on another house-hunting excursion. Frances believed that Bess was dragging her heels on the relocation issue, turning down perfectly good options in a doomed bid to delay the inevitable.

Secretly, Leigh agreed. But unlike her mother, she was in no hurry for Bess to move out of Ethan’s room and into another house of her own. Despite the mild inconvenience to the Harmon household, she was enjoying having her aunt around. In the long winter months before Bess arrived, Leigh had found herself fighting a nagging — and entirely unfamiliar — sense of boredom. Seventeen years ago, having newborn twins had thrown her life into a profound state of chaos which seemed as though it would never end. She’d cut way back on her hours at HOOK, Inc., the advertising agency she’d helped found, with the idea that she would work her way back up to full time as her children grew. But that had never happened. Now she had two high school juniors who were almost never at home and a job someone else was already doing. Who knew that near-perfect peace and quiet could be so grating on the nerves?

Rita is bringing the real estate agency’s van. It has a chairlift, Bess answered sullenly. Ride along if you must. But if you go, Leigh has to come, too. For your own protection.

Frances ignored her sister’s last comment. Lovely. We’ll make an afternoon of it.

Bess growled beneath her breath, but said no more. Leigh felt a pang of concern. Her sometimes prickly but always plucky aunt hadn’t been herself lately. Not that she didn’t have good cause to feel a little down. Bess had been recovering from her first knee replacement surgery like a champ, until the joint started getting worse rather than better. After an exceptionally painful interlude, she was diagnosed with osteomyelitis and told that she would need additional surgery to clear it up — in addition to likely re-replacement of the joint down the road. And of course, the first knee would have to heal entirely before she could even think of replacing the second one. Long story short, the highly active and otherwise perfectly healthy Bess was likely to be non-ambulatory for months… possibly even a year or more. And her beloved one and a half story farmhouse in the woods — with its raised entrance and upstairs bedrooms — would simply no longer do.

About this agent you’ve been using… Frances inquired as she fluffed her hair in her compact mirror. Do you really think she has a suitable amount of experience? There’s that nice young man at church who—

I’m using Rita, Bess insisted. This may be a second career for her, but she’s sharp, she’s motivated, and she knows what I like. We’ve worked together in theater for over thirty years, so she certainly should.

Frances sighed and snapped her compact closed. Amateur actresses are known for their legal acumen, of course, she said dryly. Very well, then. She cast a glance around the living room. Leigh, dear—

Leigh tensed. It was spring, both her corgi, Chewie, and her Persian, Mao Tse, had been blowing their coats, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d vacuumed. Never mind the last time anyone had dusted…

Is your dear husband at home, by any chance? Frances finished.

Leigh’s shoulders relaxed. No. He’s at some thing in Harrisburg. He’ll be back tonight.

Harrisburg? Frances purred, her voice oddly suggestive. You don’t say?

Leigh frowned as her mother struck a previously unidentified nerve. Travel had always been a part of Warren’s role as a financial consultant for nonprofits, but lately it seemed as though he’d been on the road more than usual. He had also been uncharacteristically cagey about the details. Or was it just that she’d been so busy with Bess she hadn’t asked the usual questions? However it came about, the truth was that she hadn’t the faintest idea what her husband was doing in the state capital. Deeper inquiry was indicated.

The doorbell, followed as always by the ever-helpful alarm bark of her corgi, spared her from replying. Bess reoriented her wheelchair — accidentally on purpose nearly rolling over Frances’s toes — to let in the caller.

Good afternoon! a heavily accessorized woman in her sixties called out cheerfully as the door swung open. Chewie, who had risen for the occasion, approached the woman hopefully. He received a friendly pat, but after a good sniff showed no evidence of forthcoming food, he withdrew to continue his snooze. Are you ready to go, Bess? Rita asked with enthusiasm once the greetings had been concluded. Leigh and Frances had both met the agent already, but since they knew her primarily as Aunt Eller from Oklahoma, seeing her with high heels, coifed hair, and jangly bracelets was disorienting. I’ve got some exciting new prospects today, and I’m sure you’ll love at least one of them!

Leigh stifled a smile, certain that the real Rita was acting just as much now as when she wore calico and a bonnet. The poor woman had to be a bundle of nerves. For all Bess’s quirky charm, she was not an easy woman to please, particularly with something as personal as a place to live. The two had gone out looking together twice already, and both times Rita had returned appearing in dire need of a stiff drink.

Might I suggest we visit Plantation Manor? Frances asked sweetly. I understand they have a wonderful schedule of activities there, as well as excellent security and onsite medical—

Leigh braced for an explosion. Bess chose to use the wheelchair because she could move faster in it than she could with a walker, but she was capable of getting up — or attacking — if sufficiently motivated. Yet Bess didn’t budge; she merely smiled at her much-younger sister and spoke in a similarly insipid tone. "Francie dear, I’m very glad to hear that you’re considering such a move. Your faculties are declining at a rather frightful rate, after all. But the purpose of today’s adventure is to find a house for me, not for you. Shall we?"

Frances’s lips pursed with indignation. "Need I remind you, sister, that you are eighty-five years old?"

And your point is? Bess returned fiercely, her pale green eyes ablaze.

The time for intervention had come. I’m sure we can find a place that will make everyone happy, Leigh lied, taking the handles of Bess’s chair and easing it over the threshold and out the door. Personally, I can’t wait to see what’s on the market these days! It’s been ages since I looked at houses. Can you give us a hint on the way, Rita?

She kept up a suitably inane line of chatter as she wheeled the chair carefully down to the flat part of the driveway. Her curving front walk was steep, but of all Bess’s relatives’ houses, Leigh’s was the only one with anything close to a level entry. She helped Rita load Bess’s chair onto the lift and secure it into the van, then she settled into a back seat while her mother took the front.

Bess didn’t say a word as Frances prattled on to Rita about all the wonderful new options currently available for senior living. Bess responded by grabbing an agency flier that was stowed in the door panel and tearing it into strips. She then balled up the paper pieces, wetted them with spit, and flicked them at the back of her sister’s head.

Under other circumstances, Leigh would have laughed. But as much as she was naturally inclined to take her aunt’s side, her mother’s crusade did have some merit. Even ruling out assisted-living facilities and nursing homes, the area was replete with new luxury independent-living apartments and carriage homes that would be perfect for an otherwise active person confined to a wheelchair. But Bess’s search for the perfect single-family, freestanding house — something with suitably interesting architectural character that she could get around in without needing any help whatsoever — faced long odds. The North Hills weren’t called hills for nothing. Most houses were built on slopes with the garage in the basement and the bedrooms upstairs. Even the few houses with first-floor master bedrooms still tended to have steps from the garage into the living area. Furthermore, the older homes Bess so strongly preferred almost never had open floor plans with wide enough halls and doorways.

When Rita parked in front of their first stop, Leigh was optimistic. The relatively new brick and stone carriage house looked perfectly charming, with grass on three sides and a deck overlooking woods in the back. But Bess refused to even get out of the van. This place has no character whatsoever, she proclaimed with disdain. "Look at it — this ‘unit’ is exactly like every other one here! I didn’t go for tract housing in the fifties and I’m not living in it now. Next!"

Poor Rita complied, but the next offering was even more objectionable. Although technically in a house, and a quaint American-Craftsman style mansion at that, it was a ground floor rental unit attached to a larger family home. If I wanted to live in somebody else’s house, I would have taken Cara and Gill up on their offer of adding onto their place, Bess explained, sounding suddenly tired. I want a place of my own. Despite this accursed wheelchair, I’m still perfectly capable of living by myself. And that’s exactly what I intend to do, for as long as I can possibly do it. Let’s move on.

Leigh felt another pang of worry at her aunt’s dispirited tone, and this time not even Frances argued with her. They rode along in silence until it looked as if Rita were returning them home. Is that all you have to show us? Leigh asked.

No, Rita said uncertainly. There is one other possibility.

Well, let’s see it! Bess insisted, obviously not ready to give up.

We are, Rita explained. It’s, uh… quite close to here.

The agent’s tone was oddly skeptical. What’s wrong with it? Leigh asked.

A beat passed. Well, Rita said carefully, It’s my own listing, you see. I just put it up a few hours ago. But… well, to be honest, I advised the seller against showing it yet. He’s the son of an old friend of mine, and I’m delighted his mother thought of me, but the home simply isn’t ready. I can’t conscience listing any house that hasn’t been properly staged, you know, and this one— She broke off the statement, which Leigh thought was probably wise, given the disparaging tone she had employed on the last two words. But the seller insisted we get the ball rolling, and that’s his prerogative. He did concede to let me personally supervise any showings, which is highly irregular, but I simply couldn’t condone the process otherwise! There are too many, uh… personal effects that should be protected from prying eyes. Oh, dear. I shouldn’t be saying any of this. But he’s a friend and you are too, of course… such an awkward situation!

Is he still living in the house? Bess asked.

Rita looked even more distressed. "Well… The seller isn’t the owner. That is, the owner— Oh, for heaven’s sake, this is impossible! Just don’t tell anyone I told you, all right? The owner is in the hospital, essentially on his deathbed. His nephew has his power