The Unsuspecting Sleuth

The aroma of dark roast wafted through the house, seeping into the vents making its way towards the bedroom. Maeve never set the alarm; the smell of coffee was all the prodding she required to wake up.

Rolling over on her back, she kicked off her blue French toile duvet; it was Saturday — fence painting day! An irritated response emanated from the foot of her bed. Rory, her grey and white Norwegian Forest Cat, peeked his head out from the mountain of bed covers, audibly repeating his disdain. Maeve reached down, picking him up, burying her face in his thick fur, murmuring an apology. He purred his forgiveness.

Goosebumps sprung up on Maeve’s arms and legs as her bare feet came in contact with the kitchen’s checkered ceramic tiled floor. Unintentionally, Rory provided a little warmth as he snaked his way between Maeve’s legs. He was hungry. She filled his bowl and turned to retrieve her favourite round belly mug from the shaker cabinet above the coffee maker. Pouring the black gold into the cornflower blue cup, Maeve cradled it between her hands and raised it to her nose to savour its contents before taking the first sip. She would need a few of these today, having stayed up to the wee hours reading the latest Harlan Coben mystery.

Clad in her Leafs T-shirt and cutoff shorts, Maeve took in the bright, serene July morning as she set up the painting equipment in her backyard. Both sets of her neighbours were away. The McLeish’s were out at their summer camp, and The Jackson’s were on holiday in Banff. Maeve set up her speaker and selected a playlist from her iPhone. Humming along, she shook the can of stain in time with T-Swift’s, Shake It Off, then placed it on a large garbage bag laid out on the lawn.

Taking a broom, Maeve began to sweep away the spider webs from the fence lattice. Out of the corner of her eye, she sensed movement from inside the McLeish house. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. What should she do? Should she call the police? Deciding to take matters into her own hands, Maeve pulled herself up on the fence and jumped down, landing in a squat position on her neighbour’s lawn. Staying low, she made her way stealthily towards the picture window that looked out over their backyard. Taking a deep breath, she grabbed onto the window sill with both hands and slowly straightened up peering into their dining room. Directly in front of her was a set of jean-clad legs. Maeve jumped back from the window and shrieked. She looked up to discover a bewildered Seth McLeish looking down at her.

Seth came out of the back door laughing. He found Maeve lying supine on the grass, willing her heart rate and face colour to return to normal. “Are you alright?” he asked. Maeve sat up, sighed and sheepishly answered, “That damn, Harlan Coben!”