The second time, I realized she was doing it deliberately.
By the seventh morning, I knew she wasn't interested in the peaches at all.
And by the time she took one enormous bite from a peach coated with the food-safe hot pepper mixture I'd been experimenting with in my garden, screamed loud enough to wake half the neighborhood, and threw the fruit across my lawn, I had already uncovered something far more serious than petty theft.
But she didn't know that.
Not yet.
She was standing outside my stone boundary wall in an expensive pink blouse, tailored white pants, oversized sunglasses, and a small designer handbag dangling from her wrist.
Her short blonde bob was perfectly styled. Her nails were freshly manicured. A gold bracelet flashed in the early morning sunlight as she reached across my property line and twisted another peach from the branch.
She looked like a wealthy woman enjoying a peaceful morning in an exclusive Southern neighborhood.
She was actually stealing from a tree my grandfather had planted nearly sixty years earlier.
And she was about to discover that the man she'd spent eight months calling an uneducated troublemaker had spent those same eight months documenting every questionable thing her homeowners association had done.
I stepped out from behind the leaves.
"Enjoying my peaches?"
She froze.
Her fingers were still wrapped around the fruit.
For half a second, she looked surprised.
Then the familiar arrogance returned.
"Oh. It's you."
I folded my arms.
"Yes, ma'am. The homeowner."
She glanced toward the stone wall.
"These branches extend toward the community walkway."
"That doesn't give you permission to reach into my yard and pick fruit."
She laughed.
"Don't be ridiculous."