Normal things.
Then Claire decided my greenhouse was an eyesore.
It began after she had her front yard professionally redesigned.
New stone walkway.
White hydrangeas.
Perfect shrubs.
Decorative lighting.
Her house suddenly looked like a magazine photograph.
One Saturday, she crossed the street while I was cleaning greenhouse glass.
“Michael.”
“Morning.”
“Have you ever considered replacing that thing?”
I looked at the greenhouse.
“With what?”
“Something more modern.”
“It works fine.”
“The frame looks old.”
“It is old.”
She smiled tightly.
“I’m just saying the whole street is improving.”
I looked up.
“Is someone complaining?”
“No.”
“Then we’re good.”
Claire stood there another second.
“You know, property values affect everyone.”
“So does unsolicited advice.”
She didn’t appreciate that.
A month later, she called code enforcement.
They inspected the greenhouse.
Legal.
Two weeks after that, someone complained about my rain barrel.
Legal.
Then about the compost bin.
Legal.
Then about an alleged chemical smell.
That one irritated me because I didn’t use strong pesticides.
I grew herbs and edible plants.
The inspector found nothing.
Every complaint was anonymous.
But I knew.
Claire knew I knew.
Still, it remained petty.
Until the fence dispute.
My backyard fence ran along the side boundary between my property and the house next door, not Claire’s.
But because of the angle of our lots, one corner of my greenhouse was visible from her upstairs window.
One afternoon, Claire came over holding printed photographs.
She had taken them from inside her house.
“This reflection is unbearable.”
The photographs showed sunlight hitting one upper greenhouse panel.
“It lasts maybe twenty minutes.”
“It shines directly into my guest room.”
“I can put shade cloth on that section.”
“I want the panel removed.”
“No.”
She stared at me.
“Excuse me?”
“I’ll solve the reflection. I’m not removing part of the greenhouse.”
Her mouth tightened.
“It’s just a structure.”
“No.”
“It’s not like your father is still using it.”
That ended the conversation.
She knew my father had helped build it.
Most of the neighborhood did.
I took the photos from her hand and placed them on my porch rail.
“Go home, Claire.”
Her expression changed.
“Don’t speak to me like that.”
“Then don’t speak about my father like that.”
For the first time, she seemed embarrassed.
But instead of apologizing, she said, “You’re too emotional about that thing.”
Then she walked away.
After that, the complaints became constant.
So I installed cameras.
The police confirmed my alibi within an hour.
My badge records showed me entering the plant at 6:53 a.m.
Security footage showed me working on the floor at 10:30.
My supervisor, Tom Keller, confirmed he had spoken to me at 10:35.
Three coworkers were standing beside me during a machine inspection at 10:41.
There was no reasonable way I could have been at home.
That should have ended any suspicion.
Instead, it created a larger question.
Who had spent enough time studying me to dress like me?
Officer Brooks asked whether anything was missing from my house.
I checked.
No forced entry.
No missing television.
No missing laptop.
Then I opened the mudroom closet.
Empty hook.
My brown work jacket was gone.
So was my navy baseball cap.
I checked the garage.
My old backup work boots were missing.
The pair I wore to the plant was on my feet.
Someone had entered the house before the greenhouse attack.
Brooks examined the doors.
The back door lock showed no damage.
“Who has a key?”
“My son.”
“Anyone else?”
“My sister used to.”