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“I beg your pardon?” The tone could stop a political canvasser in full spate. It had no effect on Mrs. Abrams.

“I said you’re too young to be the owner, dear. Where’s Augustus Smythe?” She leaned forward, peering around like she suspected he were hiding just out of sight. The Doberman mirrored her move—twitching as though anxious to get down and check it out personally.

Claire fought an instinctive urge to back up and held her ground.“Mr. Smythe’s whereabouts are none of your con…”

“None of my concern?” A flick of her hand and a broad smile took care of that possibility. “Of course I’m concerned, you silly thing; I live next door. He’s avoiding me, isn’t he?”

“No, he’s gone, but…”

“Gone? Gone where, dear?”

“I don’t know.” When Mrs. Abrams’ expression indicated profound disbelief, Claire found herself adding, “Really, I don’t.”

“Well.” The single word bespoke satisfaction that years of suspicions had finally been justified. “They took him away, did they? Or did he run before they arrived? If truth be told, I can’t say as I’m surprised.” She fondled one of the dog’s ears. The twitching grew more pronounced. “You would never, not ever, hear me say anything against anyone—live and let live is my motto, I’m very active in my church’s Women’s Auxiliary you know, they couldn’t get along without me—but Augustus Smythe was a nasty little man with an unnatural dislike of my poor Baby.”

Showing more teeth than should’ve been possible in such a narrow head, Baby’s growl deepened.

“Would you believe that he actually had the nerve to accuse my Baby of doing his business in your driveway?” Her voice dropped into caressing tones. “As if he didn’t have his own little toilet area in his own little yard. He didn’t repeat those vile and completely unfounded accusations toyou, did he, dear?”

It took Claire a moment to straighten out the pronouns.“He did mention…”

“And you didn’t believe him, did you, dear? I’m afraid to say that he told a lot of, well, lies—-there’s no use sugar coating it. I don’t know what else he told you, Caroline…”

Claire opened her mouth to protest that her name was not actually Caroline but couldn’t manage to break into the flow of accusation.

“…but you mustn’t believe any of it.” A plump hand pressed against a polyester-covered, matronly bosom. “Now, me, I’m not like some people in this neighborhood, I mind my own business, but that Augustus Smythe…” Her voice lowered to a conspiratorial tone Claire had to strain to hear. “He not only lied, but he kept secrets. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had unnatural habits.”

Neither would Claire, but she was beginning to feel more sympathetic. No wonder Baby twitched.

“I’d love to stay and chat longer, dear, but it’s time for Baby’s vitamin. He’s not a puppy any more, are you, sweetums? He’s a lot older than he looks, you know.”

“How old is he, Mrs. Abrams?”

“To be perfectly honest, Christina—and I assure you I am always perfectly honest—I don’t actually know. The little sugar cube showed up on my doorstep one day—he knew I’d take him in, you see, dogs always know—and we’ve been together ever since. Mummy couldn’t do without her Baby.Ta, ta for now!” She yanked the dog around and, with a cheery wave and a bark that promised further confrontation, they disappeared inside the house.

Stepping to the edge of the driveway, Claire peered toward the back of the property. Too far away to make a positive identification, a large brown pile had been deposited, nicely centered in the lane.

“Unfounded accusations,” Claire muttered, carefully climbing the stairs and going back inside.

Stretched out in a patch of sunshine on the counter, Austin yawned.“Where have you been?”

“Out meeting the obligatory irritating neighbor. How do you tell if a pile of dog shit came out of a Doberman?”

The cat looked disgusted.“How doI tell?I don’t.”

“All right, how would I tell?”

“Check it for fingers. Why are we talking about this?”

“I’m beginning to think Hell wasn’t the only thing Augustus Smythe wanted to get away from.”

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“Are you staying in the official residence, then?” Dean asked as Claire came down the stairs with her belongings. Sliding his hammer into the loop on his carpenter’s apron, he leaped down off the ladder and held out his hands. “Can I help?”

“Yes.” Pride not only went before a fall, it also went before dropping everything she owned. She shoved her suitcase at him, caught her backpack as it slid off her shoulder, and barely managed to hang onto the armload of clothes that she hadn’t bothered to repack. “What were you doing?”

“Attaching that bit of molding over the door. It’d gone some squish. Out of plumb,” he added as her brows dipped down.

“I see.” Glancing at the repair, Claire wondered what, as his employer, she was supposed to say. Her mother wanted her to be nice to him…“Good work. You matched the ends up evenly.”

“Thank you.” He beamed as he held up the folding section of the counter and waited for her to go through.