“No,” he insisted, “I saw nothing.”

Obviously, the gentle treatment was getting me nowhere. I decided to go for the jugular.

“Look,” I said. “I lied. I’m not a private eye. Not officially, anyway. I’m a writer. Last week I was working with SueEllen Kingsley, ghostwriting a book.”

“So that was you!” he blurted out. “The one on the toilet bowl. I thought you looked familiar.”

Then, realizing he’d said way too much, he clamped his mouth shut.

“I saw you watching SueEllen through your telescope, Mr. Zeller. She told me you watched her all the time. So I’m asking you again. Are you sure you didn’t see anyone that day?”

“No,” he said, his voice shrill with fear. “I told the police, and I’m telling you. I didn’t see anyone.”

I knew he was lying through his dentures.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to leave now,” he said, hoisting himself up from his chair.

Then I spotted one of the photos on the coffee table. Of a teenage girl, with braces and bangs and freckles across her nose.

“This your granddaughter?” I asked, holding it up.

He nodded.

“What if the cops suspected her of murder? Would you sit by silently then?”

He looked at the picture, then at me. Then back at the picture.

“Okay,” he said finally, crumpling back down into his chair. “I saw somebody.”

“A blonde?”

He nodded. “She came into the bathroom while SueEllen was taking her bath.”

“Did you get a good look at her?”

He shook his head. “No. Her back was to me; I couldn’t see her face at all.”

Damn.

“Then the phone rang, and I went to get it. It was one of those irritating telemarketers. By the time I came back, the blonde was gone, and SueEllen was dead.”

He sat there, still stunned at the enormity of what he’d just missed seeing.

“You’ve got to tell the police,” I said.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t you see? I’m in a most awkward position. If I tell the police what I saw, they’ll know that I was watching SueEllen. It’ll be in all the papers. They’ll call me a Peeping Tom, a voyeur. My reputation will be ruined.”

“I’m sure the cops will keep it out of the papers if you want them to.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Of course.”

“But what about my wife? When Emily finds out what I’ve been doing, it’ll break her heart.”

“Oh, Henry. Don’t be a silly old poop.”

I looked up and saw a pink butterball of a woman standing in the doorway, wearing gardening gloves and a big floppy hat. So that’s who was responsible for those gorgeous roses out front.

Mr. Zeller’s face turned ashen.

“How long have you been listening to us, Emily?”

“Long enough.”

She whipped off her gardening gloves and strode briskly into the room.

“You think I don’t know you’ve been peeking at that tart all these years?”

“You knew?”

“Of course,” she said, pulling off her hat, and shaking out a halo of soft white curls. “What’s the big deal? You watched SueEllen, and I rented Tom Cruise movies. Now get on the phone this instant and call the police. You’ve got to help poor Heidi.”