The Prince Next Door. Sue Civil-Brown

      Implements in hand, she stepped outside and surveyed her window boxes. No sound came from the condo next door. Pity. But maybe that would change.

      The plants were actually doing quite well. She wondered how long she could legitimately spend out here snipping off three yellowed leaves and six dying flower heads. Fifteen minutes?

      She was just reaching out to trim the first leaf when the elevator door twenty feet away slid open, and her nemesis neighbor stepped out, dressed as always for London rather than Florida. She glanced at him, received the usual cool nod and gave him one in return.

      He did go a little farther this time, though. His gaze raked over her in a way that left her feeling naked, rather than clad in a tank top and shorts. Typical man.

      Feeling her cheeks heat, she looked away…and snipped a perfectly good leaf off her plant. She almost winced, imagining the cry of outrage from the geranium.

      Looking out the corner of her eye, she watched her neighbor walk up to his door and pull his keys out of his pocket. She felt a twinge of nasty pleasure as she realized he was looking a little wilted. So he wasn’t impervious to the climate.

      Then, for reasons she would never know, she blurted, “There’s someone in your unit. I hope you were expecting him.”

      He paused and turned to look at her. “There is?”

      “Yes.”

      A frown creased his handsome face. “How…odd.”

      “You weren’t expecting someone?” She straightened, facing him, thinking that now here was an adventure at last. “Should I call the police?”

      He didn’t even hesitate. “I’ll look into it first. Thank you for the warning.” Then he unlocked the door and disappeared inside.

      So he was a criminal! Anyone else would have wanted the police. No one else would have gone in there alone. Drug dealer? No, too urbane looking. Cat burglar?

      Oooh, she liked that idea. Like David Niven in The Pink Panther, or Cary Grant in It Takes a Thief. Smooth. Cultured. Daring. Dangerous. Yummy.

      She was standing there, debating just what kind of crook she might have next door when a familiar voice caught her attention from behind.

      “Hi, Serena.”

      She whirled around, startled, and saw another neighbor, a young woman, barely grown up, named Ariel. “Shh,” she said, holding her gloved finger to her lips.

      Oops. Making ptooey sounds, she tried to spit dirt from her sunscreen-sticky lips. It didn’t work. She tried to rub the dirt off with her forearm, only to notice—one moment too late—that her forearm had also been sporting a dappling of semiadhered potting soil. Which had now made its way to her face. An attempt with the other forearm had the same effect, with the result that she was sure her appearance now resembled Sylvester Stallone in First Blood.

      Ariel proceeded to tiptoe toward her. “What’s up?” she asked in a stage whisper.

      Ariel had the clearest, greenest eyes Serena had ever seen. They held depths of mystery in them that no woman so young, no girl-woman, ought to have. And yet they could still be as clear as dewdrops. She also had two servings of imp in her personality, which is why they got along so great together.

      “I’ll tell you later. Right now I want to listen.”

      Ariel nodded, as always ready to fall in with the scheme. For the next few minutes, they edged closer to the door, Ariel all the while trying to wipe flecks of soil from Serena’s face. Sidestep. Wipe. Sidestep. Wipe. Marcel Marceau would have wept.

      A few minutes later the door of the neighbor’s unit opened up, and the weaselly man stepped out, bumping Ariel’s elbow in midwipe, causing her hand to skid across Serena’s face like an ice skater after an all-night bender.

      Turning, he said through the open door, “Just remember. We have your mother!”

      Then he stomped away toward the elevator in what Serena could only think was a perfect imitation of high dudgeon.

      Serena stared after him for a moment, then caught Ariel’s glance. Her eyes slid to the still-open door. Of course.

      “You’ve a bit of dirt on your face,” James-David-Cary-Bond-Niven-Grant said, as smoothly as if he were commenting on an expected afternoon thunderstorm.

      Then he stepped back into his unit and closed the door, leaving both Serena and Ariel agape. Ariel paused for a moment, pursed her lips like Spassky pondering a chess move, and finally spoke.

      “Ice cream?”

      THIS REQUIRED A PLAN. And plans required ice cream. Conveniently, there was a quart of Godiva in the freezer, whispering her name. Serena scrubbed off potting soil and sunscreen—how had it gotten there? she wondered—while Ariel ladled out obscenely large bowls of frozen chocolate sweetness and fat. She also added chocolate syrup, in case the ice cream wasn’t sinful enough on its own.

      Serena liked that idea—serious plans called for serious calories—and rooted around for whipped cream and a jar of maraschino cherries. And the shaker of chocolate sprinkles. And the ground cashews. In for a penny, in for ten pounds.

      Five minutes later the two of them were sitting cross-legged on the living room’s plushly carpeted floor, one on each side of the coffee table. The first mouthful of ice cream carried enough chocolate that Serena figured she wouldn’t have PMS for the next year.

      When the mouthful had melted into a frigid memory, Serena spoke. “Okay. Let’s talk about the creep next door.”

      Ariel lifted both of her eyebrows. “About Mr. Maxwell?”

      Serena felt her jaw drop. “You know him?”

      “Well, not exactly.” Ariel scooped some more ice cream into her mouth and closed her eyes as she savored it.

      “What do you mean, not exactly?” Serena could barely wait for the girl to swallow.

      “Well,” said Ariel, fully a minute later, “I introduced myself to him one day. In the elevator.”

      Now Serena was fully agog. It was one thing for a grown woman to take risks, but a girl Ariel’s age? “You spoke to a strange man in the elevator?”

      Ariel shrugged. “Not exactly a stranger when he lives in our building.”

      “Jeffrey Dahmer lived in someone’s building!”

      Ariel looked at her as if to say, you poor frightened person. “He looks rather respectable, don’t you think?”

      “No I don’t think. Nobody dresses like that around here. In London he would look respectable. Maybe even in France. But not here. Here he looks like a man who lives a pretense.”

      Ariel frowned. “Do you really think so? He seemed perfectly nice to me.”

      Ice cream forgotten—if only for a moment—Serena tapped her finger on the marble top of the coffee table. “Don’t you listen to the news, Ariel? What do they always say about the killer or the drug dealer? ‘He was quiet, kept to himself, never caused any trouble.’”

      “Oh.” Ariel shrugged and took some more ice cream. “Well, he didn’t bother me. I said hi, told him my name, he told me his, and I welcomed him to Gull’s Rest. That was it.”

      “You don’t know how lucky you are.”

      “I don’t?”

      Serena had the distinctly uncomfortable feeling that those green eyes were laughing at her, but Ariel’s face merely looked interested.

      She took another tack when she spoke again, hoping this fey young woman wasn’t speaking to every stranger she met in elevators. “Didn’t you hear what that weaselly man said when he left?”

      “That he had Mr. Maxwell’s mother?” Ariel nodded and dabbed the corner of