“Yes,” blustered the woman. “They moved in four months ago, and I have to say, they are the worst neighbors we’ve ever seen. It’s bad enough the house ended up a rental, since that damages the neighborhood enough, you know. But then it sat empty for a year, begging for vagrants and whatnot until these people moved in. And since then, it’s been nonstop. People in and out at all hours of the night. Horrid sounds, screeching cars.” She made a sound in the back of her throat that conveyed her clear disgust. “Are you here to do something about it?”
I wanted to ask what she thought I could possibly do by myself, but instead found myself straightening to my full height of five feet, nine inches, plus the added three from my heels, and smiled.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m the owner. And you have my word I’ll take care of the problem myself.”
The lady nodded, but not without looking me up and down, as if to assure herself I was what I said I was. I could feel her eyes catch on my elegant Chopard watch and the demure double-strand of pearls I had put on this morning. She relaxed.
“Good,” she said. “You see you do.”
“Thank you,” I told her. I paused, then reached into my purse for my phone. “Might you have a phone number where I could reach you? Or perhaps you would like mine in case you notice anything else questionable? You seem to have quite the keen eye.”
She was eager to offer her number. Flattery goes a long way, as I’d learned from my grandmother. So did unblinking eye contact and long, unabashed silences. By the time the woman finished entering her number into my phone, she was much less inclined to be snappish.
“I’ll be in touch,” she said, handing it back to me as I fixed her with a direct stare. “I—thank you for your attention.”
She crossed the street and scurried back into her own house without much of another word. I turned back to my house. Well, well. This was a development. With a sudden knot of anxiety in my stomach, I walked up the path to the front door and knocked.
For a moment, I didn’t think anyone would answer. Then footsteps sounded behind the door.
“Who is it?”
I stood awkwardly outside the house, keenly aware that I could be seen through the peephole. “My name is Nina de Vries,” I called out. “I own this house.”
There was a silence. Then the door unlocked and opened, revealing a young woman with mangy, mouse-brown hair and tired-looking pale skin.
“You is who?” she asked in a thick accent I couldn’t quite recognize, but which sounded vaguely Eastern European. Her light blue eyes were glassy and unfocused, and she wore nothing but a dirty nightdress with bare feet.
I frowned. “Nina de Vries.” I offered my maiden name because, as I understood it, that was still on the deed. I had used it before the social security office changed my name for good. “I’m the owner.”
Her glazed eyes drifted up and down, taking in my prim white clothes. “No, no. You is not who comes. Where is Miss Gardner?”
I frowned. “Do you mean Mrs. Gardner? That would be me. De Vries is my maiden name.” I craned my head, trying to look over her shoulder. “Who are you and what are you doing in my house?”
“No, no, you is not Mrs. Gardner. She is shorter. Kate, sometimes, he calls her.”
I took a step back and checked the address nailed to the house, just in case I had lost my mind completely and knocked on the wrong door. No, 2251 E. Chestnut Drive. This was correct.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t know any Kate. I am Nina Gardner, and I’m the actual owner of the house. Here, I can show you the deed.” I pulled out my phone, quickly swiping to a file storage app. “Are you the current tenant, or—”
“No, no, no, you come back later with Kate. We talk to her.”
“Glória! Menj el az ajtótól!”
The girl’s eyes widened, and she immediately scurried away from the door, leaving me with a clear view into the sitting room, where four or five women were congregated on sleeping mats and a few threadbare sofas. Before I could get a better look, the door was filled again, this time by a short, barrel-chested man in a worn blue polo shirt and faded jeans. His gray hair