“She’s going to hate these,” I said, handing Mike a screwdriver.
“She won’t know they’re cameras. They look like fancy sconces. By the time she figures it out, we’ll have everything we need.”
By noon we were done. The trap was set. Now we just needed the bait.
“We need to test the system,” Mike said, wiping sweat from his forehead. “And we need to see if the privacy screen works. I say we have a little party.”
“A party? I don’t want to get hit with a noise violation.”
“Not a loud party. A visual party. We sit on the porch. We drink iced tea. We laugh. We point at things. We make it look like we’re having the time of our lives. If she can’t see what we’re doing but she can hear us having fun…”
“It’ll drive her insane.”
“Psychological warfare,” I said. “I like it.”
I went inside and made a pitcher of iced tea, put it on a tray with two glasses, even cut lemon wedges to make it look fancy. We sat on the new deck, hidden behind the slats. From the street we were just shadows and voices.
“So,” Mike said, leaning back in the new patio furniture, “you talked to the PI?”
“Yeah. He’s on it. He thinks you’re right about the skeletons.”
“Good.” Mike took a sip. “This is good tea, by the way.”
“Thanks. Earl Grey.”
“Fancy.”
We sat for ten minutes chatting about baseball and the cost of lumber. Then, inevitably, the curtain twitched across the street.
“Target acquired,” Mike murmured, not moving his lips. “She’s at the window.”
“I see her.” Through the slats I could see the blinds separate.
“Laugh,” Mike whispered. “Laugh like I just told you the funniest joke in the world.”
I threw my head back. “Haha—oh Mike, that’s hilarious!”
Mike joined in, his booming baritone echoing off the pergola. “And then the guy says, ‘That’s not a hammer!’”
We were improvising nonsense, but the effect was immediate. The front door across the street opened. Brenda stepped out in her patrol outfit again—visor, sunglasses, clipboard. She walked to the edge of her driveway and stared at my house. She craned her neck. She took a step left. She took a step right. She was trying to see through the slats.
“She can’t see us,” Mike whispered, grinning. “It’s killing her.”
“She’s getting closer.”
Brenda walked to the edge of the street, squinting. She pulled out her phone and tried to take a picture. All she would get was a nice wooden wall.
“Time for phase two,” Mike said. “The toast.” He raised his glass of iced tea so it was visible above the privacy screen for just a second. “To the new deck!”
“To the deck!” I shouted back.
Brenda flinched. She looked furious. She couldn’t verify if we were drinking alcohol. She couldn’t verify if we were loitering or working. She had no data. She stood there for a solid five minutes just staring. Then she marched up to the edge of my lawn.
“Hey!” she shouted. “Hey!”
I stayed silent. Mike put a finger to his lips.
“I know you’re in there,” Brenda yelled. “I can hear you. You need a permit for a gathering of more than ten people.”
“There’s two of us,” I whispered to Mike.
“Ignore her,” he whispered back.
“I’m calling the code enforcer!” she screamed. “That wall is too high! It exceeds the visual variance!”
Mike leaned over. “It’s exactly six feet. Standard fence height. Totally legal.”
We didn’t answer. We just clinked our glasses. Clink. The sound drove her over the edge. She took a step onto my grass, then another. She was now fully on my property, marching toward the deck, phone raised like a weapon.
“Smile,” Mike whispered. “You’re on camera.”
The little black lantern on the post blinked once, imperceptibly. Brenda marched right up to the privacy screen and tried to peer through the crack.
“What are you doing in there?” she hissed.
“Drinking tea, Brenda,” I said calmly, not standing up. “Would you like some?”
She jumped back, startled by how close my voice was. “You… you are provoking me. This structure is an eyesore. It’s aggressive.”
“It’s wood. It’s inanimate. Please get off my lawn.”
“I have a right to inspect potential code violations,” she claimed—which was absolutely not true.
“You are trespassing,” I said. “And you are being recorded.”
“Recorded?” She looked around wildly at the lanterns. She didn’t clock them as cameras. “You’re bluffing. You’re a menace.”
She kicked—actually kicked—one of the new planters at the base of the stairs. It tipped over, spilling dirt onto the walkway.
“That,” Mike said, his voice low and hard, “was property damage.”