Canine toenails click against the tile floor of the entryway as the animals trot off. When the dogs are gone, the woman motions me in. I step into a small entryway jammed with a console table that’s too big for the space. To my left is a living room crowded with plaid furniture, a gurgling aquarium full of iridescent orange fish, and walls painted 1980s blue.

The couple doesn’t invite me to sit, so I go to my first question. “Did either of you notice anything unusual over at Mr. Michaels’s place in the last few days?” I ask. “Did you hear or see anything? Any visitors or strange vehicles in the area?”

“We can’t really see his house from ours.” Kerry Seymour points through the storm door at the row of blue spruce trees that obscures the view of the Michaels house. “I planted them four years ago. For privacy.”

He adds the final word in a way that tells me the trees have more to do with complete separation than simple privacy, and it makes me wonder just how serious the issues between them had been. “I understand there have been some problems between you and Mr. Michaels,” I say.

“We’ve had a few skirmishes over the years.”

“What kind of skirmishes?”

“Our dogs got out a couple of times. He called the law on me.”

“They’re good dogs,” Mary Ellen adds quickly.

“I know about the citation,” I tell them. “Any other problems? Arguments?”

“I called the County on him once for burning trash during a burn ban.” He rubs his thumb and forefinger over his mustache. “That guy never liked me.”

“Any particular reason?” I ask.

He stares at me, and I notice red blotches at the base of his throat.

“I know about your record,” I tell him.

As if unable to bear the tension, Mary Ellen pipes up. “Mr. Michaels threw some trash on our side of the fence once. Pop cans. Kerry went over and asked him about it and he denied it. Said our dogs had gotten into his trash and the wind blew it over.”

“How long ago was that?” I ask.

“Two weeks ago,” she says.

Kerry glowers at his wife and she swallows hard. I raise my brows and wait.

“I had a few words with him a couple of weeks ago,” he admits.

“About what?”

“In addition to his bogus trash complaint, he said our dogs were barking and keeping him awake at night.”

“They sleep inside with us,” Mary Ellen says quickly.

I ignore her. “Did any of these confrontations ever get physical?”

His wife laughs. “Of course not.”

I don’t take my eyes off Kerry.

He tosses me an I-know-where-you’re-going-with-this smile that isn’t friendly. I’ve met plenty of cop-haters in my time. People who, for whatever reason, detest anyone in law enforcement, and Kerry Seymour fits the mold to a T. “You got something to say, just say it,” he says.

“I’d appreciate it if you just answered my question.”