“I’m Kristin Lindqvist,” I said. “Arne’s daughter. From next door.”
Something flickered across his face. Just for a second. Then it was gone.
“Okay,” he said.
“You called the county on my father’s garden.”
He didn’t deny it. He took a sip of his wine.
“I filed a complaint,” he said. “Yes. Through the proper channels.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s an eyesore.” He said it simply. Like it was obvious. “It’s half an acre of dirt and corn and rotting vegetables right outside my back windows. I paid a lot of money for this lot. I paid a lot of money for this house. I did not pay a lot of money to look at a farm.”
“It’s not rotting. It’s the cleanest garden in the county.”
“It’s a farm,” he said. “In a residential neighborhood. There’s a reason the county has zoning laws.”
