Snooping

The loud pounding on my front door startles me, interrupting my review of some security-cam footage from the camera mounted under the eaves at the back of my house. I’ve recently come to the conclusion that I have no choice but to file a report with the police. I’ve been watching my new neighbor for three weeks now, and I believe he might be what the TV programs call a sleeper-agent. His name is Vronsky, a Rooskie-sounding name, so that’s suspicious right there.

He moved into the three-level townhome right behind mine, the middle unit in a block of three, our backyard fences abutting each other. The Rutherfords who used to live there were a lovely old couple, never closed their blinds, nothing to hide. In the late afternoon, with the sun streaming in their windows, I could see everything—not that there was much to see. Boring, actually, with a capital B.

But a few days after he moved in, I noticed Vronsky was keeping his blinds closed all the time, even when the sun wasn’t an issue. I’ve long believed surveillance is the secret to a safe neighborhood, and I’ve been doing my modest part for several years to guarantee that. My security-cam scans our adjacent yards night and day, recording everything, and there’d never been a problem until Vronsky arrived.

Lately, I’ve begun to notice a narrow slit being cracked in his blinds several times a day, with what looks like binoculars peeping through, or maybe a camera. My neighbor to the south is Ms. Harper, an attractive, mid-thirtyish woman who frequently entertains gentlemen callers—not that it’s any of my business, even if probably illegal. But I imagine Vronsky is watching her like a hawk, especially when she gardens in her string-bikini during the afternoons. One of them is almost flesh-tone, so I can only imagine the frenzy that might be causing him. When she’s out there now, I’ve taken to rotating my camera’s view back and forth, from fixing on her to focusing on the window where his blinds are cracked open, just so I’ll have proof of his snooping.

On my north side is old Mrs. Clapper, a bona fide cat-lady. She must have a dozen or more scrawny felines wandering in and out her patio door, and I can’t even imagine the smell inside her house. I’m sure she’s in violation of the community bylaws, but our neighborhood is rat-free, so I’ve never complained. Vronsky, on the other hand, may also be surveilling her, gathering photos that will doom her if he reports her. I’ve always thought her a kind old soul, so that would be a shame—although if he’s going to report anyone, I hope it’s her and not Ms. Harper.

A young fellow named Portnoy lives in the unit to Vronsky’s north, and two gay guys own the one to the south. I think Portnoy is a writer because I frequently see him on his patio in front of a laptop, pounding the keys furiously. Several months back, he situated himself so he’s partially screened from my camera by a rose-bush, but that places him in full-view from Vronsky’s window. I’m sure he must feel like he’s under a microscope since the Rutherfords moved away. If anyone is likely to file a complaint about Vronsky’s snooping before I do, my money would be on Portnoy.

The gay guys, so I’ve heard, work as fitness instructors at the local Y in the village. When they moved in a couple of years ago, I had no idea about their sexual orientation, and I was afraid they’d be all over Ms. Harper. But my fears proved groundless when my security-cam recorded them after dark one night, kissing each other in the hot tub on their patio. I’m no prude, but it’s not something I’ve enjoyed watching, to be honest. Still, live and let live, I always say.

Anyway, I am surprised by the pounding on my door, and even more surprised to be confronted by two uniformed officers. The bigger of the two, referring to a paper in his beefy hand, says, “Good afternoon, sir. Are you the owner of this residence, Mr. J. Alfred Prudefrock?”

“I…I am,” I stammer. “Is there a problem?”

“Sir, we’ve had a complaint about snooping on the neighbors.”

“Yes!” I exclaim, punching the air in triumph. “Exactly! But…but I haven’t filed my complaint yet. How did you know?”

“Sir, the complaint is about a surveillance camera that is mounted on the rear of your house.”

“My house?” I repeat, astonished to hear such nonsense. “”That’s crazy! I do have a camera there, but it’s part of my neighborhood watch. Who would complain about that?” After a pause, I say, “It’s Vronsky, isn’t it? My neighbor over the back fence? He’s been snooping on everybody from the time he moved in! I was just on the verge of calling the police to report him!”

“Sir, the complaint has five signatures, but Vronsky isn’t one of them.”

He hands me the paper, and I am astonished to see the names, three of which I recognize: Harper, Clapper, and Portnoy. The other two, I assume, are the fitness instructors.

At that moment, two of Mrs. Clapper’s scraggly cats dart between my legs and into my house. “There!” I exclaim in disgust. “Did you see those cats? There are dozens of them living in the house right next door. That’s against the law isn’t it?” Deflection is always a good defense.

And even as I speak, as if on cue, a man comes out the front door of Ms. Harper’s house, a man I’d never seen before. Ms. Harper herself, rather scantily-clad, leans in the doorway, blowing him a kiss. Scurrying to his car, casting a guilty glance at the policemen, the man guns away from the curb.

“And did you see that guy?” I say, pointing at the fleeing vehicle, tearing my gaze away from Ms. Harper. “That’s just one of the men that woman entertains almost every night! That’s also against the law, right?” I’m still trying to distract the officers from the complaint, but Ms. Harper has looked after that quite nicely.

As she closes her door with a flirty finger-wave at the officers, the big one looks at me deadpan. “Sir, we’re just here to deal with the camera complaint. I’m afraid you’ll have to accompany us to the police station.”

“What? Wait, I’m the victim here! My security-cam is only there to protect the very people who’ve made this complaint. It’s Vronsky, the guy who lives behind me. He’s the one snooping on everybody! I’ll bet he’s even got pictures!”

“Mr. Vronsky is a private investigator, sir. Your neighbors hired him a few weeks ago to take pictures of your prying. It’s his pictures that will form the evidence in the charges against you.”

As they lead me to their squad car, I hear Mrs. Clapper call to me from her doorway. “Yoo-hoo, Mr. Prudefrock! Have you seen any of my cats? Two of them are missing.”