The Nosy Neighbor
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About this ebook
Lucy Baker decided it was time to walk away from her high-flying legal career after she successfully defended yet another heinous criminal. Now, almost a year after her life-changing decision, Lucy has never been happier. Leaving New York City for the suburbs, tending to her garden and her dog, Lucy is making future plans with her fiancé and getting acquainted with her neighbors, including the handsome, exasperating one next door, Wylie Wilson.
But one day, everything changes. When FBI special agents confront Lucy with shocking revelations about her fiancé's secret double life, everything about her husband-to-be is cast in suspicion. Recovering from a freak accident that has left her with a heightened sense of intuition, and getting closer than she ever dreamed to Wylie, Lucy must determine who to trust—and fast, before someone breaks down her defenses and targets her...
Fern Michaels
FERN MICHAELS is the USA Today and New York Times bestselling author of the Sisterhood, Men of the Sisterhood, and Godmothers series, as well as dozens of other novels and novellas. There are over one-hundred ten million copies of her books in print. Fern Michaels has built and funded several large day-care centers in her hometown, and is a passionate animal lover who has outfitted police dogs across the country with special bulletproof vests. She shares her home in South Carolina with her four dogs and a resident ghost named Mary Margaret. Visit her website at www.fernmichaels.com.
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Reviews for The Nosy Neighbor
34 ratings2 reviews
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5First off this was a advertised as a novel of a woman caught between two men and it wasn't that at all. Lucy Baker is an attorney that is no longer practicing law and soon to be married to Jonathan St Clair who travels 95% of the time and who Lucy knows very little about. Enter a next door neighbor, Wylie Wilson, whose dog keeps sneaking over to Lucy's house. All three dogs in this story are precious. The writing was strange to me as it was very rushed like Lucy & Wylie were talking so fast you wanted them to take a breath. Other characters were fine, the neighbors, the FBI agents, Wylie's friends but the romance was rushed and somehow this book just didn't work. Still, I finished it quickly but wasn't big on it.
1 person found this helpful
- Rating: 2 out of 5 stars2/5My first two thoughts regarding this book. Jeepers, I took forever to read that book. And, thank god for the dogs.This book was so terribly written. The dialogue wasn’t all that great. It seemed simple and juvenile. There was no surprise twists and turns. The plot was rushed. There was a few paragraphs of ‘cute humor’.Not one of Michaels’s better books. I did manage to finish it, so I suppose it wasn’t so bad.
1 person found this helpful
Book preview
The Nosy Neighbor - Fern Michaels
Prologue
Lucy Baker stared across the room at the twelve empty jury seats. She wanted to scream with frustration. What was taking them so long? The judge said the jury had signaled they had a verdict, but that was forty-five minutes ago. She dropped her hand to her side and crossed her fingers. Please, God, let the verdict be guilty. Please, please, please.
She tugged at the hem of her skirt. Lucy’s brother Steven—sitting second chair on this case—leaned over and smiled confidently. His expression clearly said, don’t sweat it, our client is going to walk out of this courtroom a free man. We did our job, and our bank account is now five hundred thousand dollars more robust.
Her brother was right—Justin Riley was going to walk because she had put up a superb defense. Unparalleled and unequaled, according to the press. That same press had followed her career and dubbed her Lucky Lucy along the way. What it all meant was she’d never lost a case. Yet. A guilty verdict was wishful thinking on her part. Nonetheless, she started to pray, saying the words she’d learned so long ago in catechism class and now had all but forgotten. Today, for some reason, she feared that God wasn’t listening to her heartfelt plea. Why was that?
She felt rather than saw her client jerk to attention. Her brother followed suit. The judge was about to enter the courtroom.
The bailiff walked to the front of the judge’s high desk and said, All rise. The Honorable Sidney Blake presiding.
A hush fell over the courtroom but not before someone coughed. Papers rattled, feet shuffled on the hard wooden floor. Someone else cleared their throat as the jury filed in and took the same seats they’d sat in for the past three weeks.
The judge banged his gavel. Lucy sat up straighter in her chair. This was the moment when her blood always ran cold.
The moment.
The judge turned to face the jury. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?
We have, Your Honor.
The foreman of the jury, a retired schoolteacher named Abner Scribner, stood and handed a folded sheet of paper to the bailiff, who in turn handed it to the judge. Lucy watched as the judge unfolded the sheet of paper, read the contents, and folded the paper to return it to the bailiff, who then passed it back to Abner Scribner.
Will the defendant please rise.
Justin Riley rose to his full six-foot-four-inch height. He was trembling. The thought pleased Lucy. Lucy stood, then moved to the side to take her place alongside her client, with Steven on his opposite side. Please, God, let this scumbag be found guilty. Please, please, please.
Abner Scribner cleared his throat and focused his attention on Justin Riley. We find the defendant, Justin Riley…not guilty.
The courtroom erupted in joyous outcries. Justin’s courtroom fan club, his parents, the media, his brothers and sisters, all shouted with glee. Lucy felt herself being squeezed, then pummeled on her arms by Justin’s fists. Thank God it was Steven who was hugging her. I have to get out of here!
she hissed into her brother’s ear. Now!
But—
You deal with the press,
she interrupted, not wanting to hear anything he had to say. I’m going to the office, then I’m going home. I never want to see Justin Riley again as long as I live, and no, I am not going to any celebratory gathering, so don’t even ask.
Lucy motioned to the bailiff, and whispered, Can you get me out of here and to my car before they attack me?
The bailiff, an older, kindly gentleman, smiled and nodded. Lucy tugged at the jacket of her charcoal gray Armani suit, knowing hundreds of eyes were following her exit.
Lucy faltered once when she heard Lorraine Sumpter, the victim’s grandmother, shout, I hope you rot in hell, Lucy Baker!
Lucy didn’t look back. There was no need. She could see Annie Sumpter’s grandmother behind closed eyes. She even dreamed about the little old lady. Now, she would probably have nightmares about Annie’s grandmother.
It was six-thirty when Lucy rode the elevator to her suite of offices on the eighteenth floor. The lighting in the hallway was dim. Like she cared. She fit the key into the lock, opened the door, and walked inside. One long arm reached out to shove the dead bolt home. She dropped her briefcase on the floor. Angrily, she kicked it across the reception area before she slid out of her shoes. Her shoulders slumped as she walked down the long hallway to her private office. There, with the door closed, she could cry. She could scream and yell and vent to her heart’s content. If she wanted to. To what end? she asked herself.
Lucy sat down in her ergonomic chair, which was surprisingly comfortable, and looked around at the luxurious office. Everything was tony, high-end, and shrieked of billable hours. That was what the law was all about—billable hours.
Lucy was off the chair a moment later, padding through the meadow of sea-green carpeting that hugged her ankles, to the minifridge, where she withdrew a bottle of wine. She carried it and a Baccarat wineglass reserved for clients back to her desk. It took her a full five minutes to work the corkscrew. She poured till the wine sloshed over onto her desk. Two gulps, and it was gone. She poured again. Two more gulps. Her eyes teared up when she poured the third glass. Big mistake. She hadn’t eaten today because she’d been a basket case, knowing the verdict was coming in.
I can’t do this anymore.
"I don’t want to do this anymore."
Tears rolled down her cheeks as the telephone console on her desk lit up, every line, including her private line, blinking. They can blink from now till the end of time, for all I care.
Lucy brought the wineglass to her lips and sipped. Tears kept running down her cheeks. Bitter tears of victory. She blinked away her tears to see her brother standing in the doorway, a look of something she couldn’t define in his expression. Wariness, fear, anger? Whatever it was, she didn’t care about that either.
Steven’s voice sounded jittery when he asked, Are you all right?
Lucy eyed her handsome brother and was reminded of Justin Riley. They were both tall, preppy, handsome, the type of man women drooled over. Both of them knew how to take advantage of that particular characteristic. She continued to watch as Steven shuffled his feet. He didn’t, however, cross the threshold. No one ever entered Lucy’s private office unless invited.
Do I look like I’m all right, Steven?
Even she was surprised at how slurred her words sounded.
You look…drunk.
"That’s because I am drunk. If I’m drunk, I have to look like I’m drunk." To prove her point, she reached for the bottle and upended it.
I think you’ve had enough, Lucy. Come on, I’ll drive you home.
Lucy looked around the office again. She had to squint to bring the room into focus. The rich mahogany paneling, the custom-made cherrywood desk, the wine-colored Naugahyde furniture, the custom bookshelves with the leather-bound law books, the thick carpeting, the lavish drapes, all courtesy of billable hours. I don’t want to do this anymore, Steven.
You always say that after a verdict, Lucy. Go home and sleep it off. Things will look different tomorrow.
His voice was pleading—he was worried. Yes, his sister always said she wanted to quit practicing law after a verdict, but she had never gotten drunk after a verdict. Even he knew that this time was different. He wished he had the guts to step into her office.
It wasn’t till closing arguments that I knew that bastard was guilty. Afterward I accused him of being guilty, and do you know what he said, Steven?
No. What did he say, Lucy?
Steven asked, knowing he wasn’t going to like the answer.
He didn’t answer. He laughed at me instead. His eyes said it all. The State’s case was circumstantial. Justin Riley is a pedophile and a murderer. I don’t care how good-looking, or how preppy he and his rich, influential family are. He is what he is. And I got him off. Me and you. Do you hear me, Steven? We sold ourselves to the Rileys for five hundred thousand dollars. And you know what else? The Rileys paid us in full—their account is current.
The jury said he was innocent,
Steven reminded her. We did our jobs. We gave him the best defense possible, and we got lucky. That’s what defense lawyers do. The law says justice was served. Mr. Riley Senior said he’s giving us a bonus of a hundred thousand. That’s not shabby, Lucy. We followed the letter of the law. We did what we were hired to do.
Steven, read my lips. The guy killed that little girl. I know it, and you know it. He is now walking free to do it again because we did such a damn good job. I haven’t been able to sleep since he laughed at me. I can barely eat. I wasn’t absolutely sure until that precise moment. I saw it in his eyes. Do you want to know something else? His sister and his mother believe he did it, too. His sister Sally told me the things he used to do to her when she was little. And to her little friends. Don’t take that bonus. That’s an order, Steven.
All right, Lucy, I won’t take the bonus. But it’s a mistake not to take it because we earned every damn dime of it.
Lucy brushed at her hair to get the spiky bangs off her forehead. Fashionable hairdo or not, it was annoying her. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been so tired, so drunk. She slugged from the bottle, and, when nothing came out, she said, Ooops, gotta get another bottle. Don’t even think about telling me I can’t, Steven. Go home. I’m going to sleep here on the sofa tonight. I have a lot of thinking to do.
You can’t possibly think with your snoot in a bottle. Come on, Lucy, let me take you home. We can get some coffee and talk all night if you like.
Home was a brownstone on East Forty-ninth Street that he and Lucy had inherited from their parents. The bottom floor was rented out to two doctors for enough money to pay the taxes and utility bills. Lucy lived on the second floor, Steven on the third. It worked for all concerned.
I’m talked out, little brother. Didn’t you hear what I said? I don’t want to do this anymore. I’ve had it with the criminal justice system. I need to get a life. I’m sick and tired of working ninety hours a week so some jerk can go out there and mutilate a little girl because of some sick—Go home, Steven, and leave me alone.
They’re just about ready to announce your appointment to the bench. Are you giving that up, too?
Steven asked uneasily.
Lucy yanked at the cork, and both cork and corkscrew flew across the room. "Wow, did you see that? The answer is yes. I told you to go home."
All right, I’m going.
’Night, Steven!
she bellowed.
When she finally managed to weave her way back to the ergonomic desk chair, Lucy could see that the telephone console was still lit up. The blinking red light indicated there was voice mail on her private line. Only four people had her private number. Steven, the mayor, her housekeeper, and Jonathan St. Clair. She pressed the button to hear the message.
Lucy, it’s Jon. I just flew in this afternoon and heard about the verdict on the news. I was calling to invite you to dinner, but I guess you’re out with your colleagues celebrating. Congratulations. They said you were the best of the best, honey.
His carefully modulated voice turned intimate, and Lucy had to strain to hear the words. I could have told them how really wonderful you are, but they didn’t ask me. I’ll call you in the morning. Sweet dreams, my darling.
Lucy eyed the newly opened wine bottle with a jaundiced eye. Did she really want to drink more wine? Of course she did. She tilted the bottle and watched the wine splash into the glass and over her desk. She sat down and propped her feet on the desk.
Jonathan. Jonathan with the infectious smile and crinkly eyes. Jonathan with the wicked sense of humor. Jonathan the consummate lover. She’d known Jonathan for a year, having met him on the tennis court at the City Raquet Club. One thing had led to another, and they’d ended up a couple. She thought she loved him. He said he loved her. Sometimes she found that hard to believe. She flipped the pages of her day planner to confirm what she already knew. In the year she’d known him, she’d been with Jonathan a total of twenty-two times. Either she was tied up in a court case or he was traveling on business. There had been one, wild, delicious four-day weekend where they’d both professed their love. Then she hadn’t seen him for a solid month. Phone calls and e-mails were not the most satisfying kind of interpersonal communication for a woman going on thirty-eight whose biological clock was ticking. And yet their relationship worked for both of them.
Lucy slurped from the wineglass. She felt like crying all over again because she knew she was drunk and had just missed out on spending an evening with the man she adored. Talk about stupid, bad luck. Hers was running at an all-time high. As she made her way to the couch, wineglass in hand, she couldn’t help but wonder if her parents were spinning in their graves over her decision to abandon the practice of law.
Both her parents had been attorneys. Her mother had been in family law, her father in corporate law. They’d built the firm. Then, nine years after her mother died, her father had retired to roam the world and she and Steven had taken over. At the height of his retirement while he was exploring the Amazon, he’d contracted a jungle disease she couldn’t even pronounce and died within two weeks. Baker, Baker, Wong, and Lickenstein was one of the most prestigious firms in the city. There never had been a Wong or a Lickenstein. Her father had thought it was more impressive to have four names on their letterhead when he started the firm. Lucy couldn’t ever remember a client asking for Wong or Lickenstein. What she did know for sure was that with her and Steven at the helm, the firm had one of the best criminal practices going.
Lucy moved over to the couch and plopped down. In the morning she was going to have the Queen Mother of all hangovers. She reached for the pillow one of her first clients had crocheted for her. It was tacky, with its gaudy colors and equally tacky fringe hanging from the corners, but she loved it. A moment later she was sound asleep.
1
Six Months Later
Lucy Baker shoved her tennis racquet into its case, waved to her tennis partner, and proceeded to jog across the high school field to the track where she would run her daily five miles. A roll of thunder caused her to pick up her feet and sprint. When she reached the track, she tossed her canvas bag onto the bleachers and took off running.
Tennis, and a five-mile run every day regardless of the weather, had became a routine for her in the six months since she’d stopped practicing law.
Lucy kept one eye on the threatening thunderclouds overhead and the other on the track. She picked up her speed, not wanting to get caught in a thunderstorm. Off in the distance she could hear hard, rolling thunder, which seemed to be getting closer. One more lap to go. If she pushed it into high gear, she could pass the other runners, who looked like they were dragging. It was always this way on the last lap, she thought smugly.
She loved passing the muscle boys, shouting out words of encouragement. They were slugs compared to her. In all fairness, not that they needed to know, she’d run track in high school as well as college. She’d hurdled, too. Best on her team. She had the medals to prove it. Of course, they were locked away in one of her trunks. One didn’t show off medals. At least she didn’t. It was enough for her that she’d earned them, had them, and could look at them anytime she wanted to. Sometimes she needed to remind herself that at one time she’d been the best of the best.
Her coaches had said she was good enough to go to the Olympics. She had thought so, too. But life got in the way, and she’d had to bow out. She didn’t have any regrets. Taking care of her mother during the last two years of her life had been more important than bringing home the gold.
Lucy whizzed past the bleachers at the south end of the track. She couldn’t help but notice two men in dark suits, their arms crossed over their chests. She wondered which one of the guys on the track they were waiting for.
Sweat dripped down Lucy’s face, soaking the tank top she was wearing. Her muscular arms glistened. She was hurting. She’d pushed too hard, too fast on her last lap. No pain, no gain,
she muttered over and over as she flew down the track. She saw the bleachers beckoning her. For one wild moment she thought she was at the wrong end of the track when she saw the two men approaching the north side bleachers. They must have run at her own speed to get there at the exact moment she came to a stop, bent over, with the palms of her sweaty hands on her knees as she took deep breaths. They looked as if they were in great physical shape under their dark suits. She wondered again who they were waiting for.
When her breathing was almost normal, she walked over to the end of the bleachers away from the men and did leg stretches. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see them approaching her. Lucy looked around to see if anyone was paying attention. Her heart kicked up a beat. This was suburbia, nothing happened in suburbia.
Lucy was about to reach up to the second row of seats for her gym bag when one of the men handed it to her. Lucy Baker?
Yes. I’m Lucy Baker.
She waited. They could have passed for twins. Frick and Frack. Yin and Yang.
Special Agent Harry Conover. This is my partner, Larry Smith.
What does that mean? Special agents of what?
She could feel an itch settle between her shoulder blades.
We’re from the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
Two badges were suddenly shoved under her nose. Lucy backed up a half step and reached for the men’s credentials. She read them carefully before she handed them back. She waited, her heart thumping inside her chest.
We’d like to talk to you for a minute.
Lucy looked up at the darkening sky. She could still hear the thunder, now directly overhead. It sounded more ominous for some reason. Why? I haven’t done anything wrong. I pay my taxes on time and never cheat. I never even got a parking ticket. It’s going to pour in another minute. Like I said, why?
We could sit in our car and talk.
Lucy snorted. I-don’t-think-so!
No sooner were the words out of her mouth than the sky opened up. Within seconds she was soaked to the skin. As you can see, I’m already drenched. If you want to get those nice suits all wet, oh, well,
she said with false bravado. Why did the FBI want to talk to her?
The agent named Harry said, We’d like to talk to you about your fiancé.
Lucy gaped at the two men. Jonathan? Why? Oh, God, did something happen to him?
Not yet,
Larry said. We’d like you to tell us about your relationship with Mr. St. Clair.
Lucy relaxed. The rain was coming down harder. Before long it would be like a waterfall. I’m going to marry him. We’re engaged.
She waved her ring finger to show off her three-carat diamond.
We already know you’re getting married next year, on Valentine’s Day. You have your gown. Let’s see, you purchased it at Bethany’s Bridal Shoppe. They’re doing the alterations as we speak. The invitations have been ordered. You’re holding the reception at the Ritz-Carlton. I believe there are 250 guests expected. Dinner is a choice of lobster or filet mignon. The salad is an arugula medley. Vegetables are baby carrots, peas from the Emerald Isle, potato-apple fritters, and flaky croissants. Dessert is wedding cake. Cristal champagne will flow endlessly,
Agent Smith said, his expression as flat as his tone.
Lucy didn’t like what she was hearing. There was nothing like an FBI check to put the fear of God into a person. There was shock as well as fear in her eyes as she backed up one step, then another. They followed her.
A pretty pricey wedding for a girl who graduated at the top of her law school class, quit a thriving criminal law practice, and now makes popcorn balls and sells them through a catalog.
Well, they had one thing wrong. She wasn’t the one who made or sold the popcorn balls. Lucy eyeballed the two agents. I make an honest living, and I pay my taxes. Listen, I have to go home. It was nice talking with you gentlemen. If you want to talk to Jonathan, call him or go to his apartment. He doesn’t leave for work till around nine-thirty when he’s in town.
She knew for a fact that Jonathan wasn’t in town. Let them spin their wheels.
The agent named Larry wiped the rain from his forehead. If we wanted to talk to Mr. St. Clair, we would have gone to see him. We know his habits as well as we know yours. Agent Conover and I would like to talk to you.
What do you want to talk about? If it’s about Jonathan’s business, I’m afraid I can’t help you. I don’t know anything about it.
It was raining harder now. Since she was already soaked clear through to her skin, what did it matter? Furthermore, I don’t have to talk to you. The last time I checked, this was still a free country. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go home.
Miss Baker.
It was Agent Conover talking now. It’s imperative you not tell Mr. St. Clair about our meeting this morning. By the way, Jonathan St. Clair is not your fiancé’s real name.
Lucy whirled around. What are you talking about? Of course it’s his real name. Jonathan is Jonathan. You must have him mixed up with someone else.
Overhead, thunder boomed, followed by a streak of jagged lightning ripping across the gray sky.
If you talk to your fiancé, it will jeopardize the case we’re working on. We can take you into custody if we want to. In order to avoid that, we’re asking you to cooperate with us.
Take me into custody. Jonathan isn’t Jonathan. I’m having a nightmare, and I’ll wake up any second now. She pinched herself. She felt the pain.
All right, I won’t say anything to Jonathan. Now can I go?
We’ll know if you break your promise, Miss Baker. Do you know what obstructing justice means?
Agent Conover asked. Of course you do; you’re a lawyer.
Of course.
We’ll talk again, Miss Baker.
No, Agent Smith, we will not talk again because there is no need for us to talk. I cannot help you with whatever it is you’re doing or investigating. I told you I would not say anything to Jonathan, and I won’t. That’s the end of it.
Where was your fiancé born, Miss Baker?
Winchester, Virginia, but then you probably already know that.
Both agents threw their hands up in the air. They looked like they were catching rain by the handful. You see, wrong again. Your fiancé was born in Akron, Ohio. Do you want to know his real name?
His real name. They were making Jonathan sound like some kind of criminal. Lucy could feel her shoulders start to slump. Her voice could barely be heard over the rumbling thunder. What is it?
Leo Banks. His friends used to call him Lucky Leo. Does that ring any bells for you, Miss Baker?
Agent Smith asked.
Lucy looked at both agents. She hoped they would freeze in the rain, just the way she was freezing. They’d just invaded her life and turned it upside down. She thought about the thousands of seed pearls that were being sewn on her wedding gown. The FBI agents had made a mistake. Of course, this was all a mistake.
I never heard the name before. I’m telling you, you have the wrong person. Jonathan is not this…this Leo Banks person. I would know. I saw a picture of the house he grew up in. The house is in Winchester, Virginia. I know the street and house number, but I can’t think of it right this minute.
Were you ever there, Miss Baker?
This was all wrong. This shouldn’t be happening. But it was. No, I’ve never been there.
Both agents raised their eyebrows.
She sounded desperate when she said, Jonathan is incredibly busy. We just couldn’t find the time to get down there. Winchester is a bit of a drive.
The house in Winchester belongs to one of Leo’s friends.
It’s all a bunch of lies. It has to be all lies.
Did you ever meet your fiancé’s parents?
How could I meet them? They live in Spain. If we couldn’t find the time to go to Winchester, Virginia, how could we find the time to go to Spain, or Chile, where his sister lives? He has no brothers, just one sister. I’m leaving now.
How convenient. We’ll talk again, Miss Baker,
Agent Conover said.
Lucy ignored both men as she jogged off, her feet squishing inside her sodden sneakers. She needed to go home, where it was warm and toasty, so she could think. Hot, black coffee was a must. What had just transpired was too preposterous for words.
One more thing, Miss Baker,
Agent Smith called out. Be careful, your life could be in danger.
Lucy raised her right hand and gave the agent a single-digit salute. She wondered if he saw it through the pouring rain. She’d heard his words, though. Until that moment, she’d never been colder in her life. Or more frightened.
Twelve minutes later, Lucy bolted up the front steps, body-slammed the front door, barreled through, and headed straight for the downstairs shower, where she stepped in—clothes and all—to let the steaming water wash over her. She shook from head to toe. The stink of her own fear clogged her nostrils until she thought she was going to choke to death.
Lucy reached for the shampoo bottle and poured some over her long, tawny hair. The same hair Jonathan liked to run his fingers through after they