But I decided to dig deeper.
The county clerk's office had become my second home by this point, so Betty knew exactly what I was looking for when I asked about HOA financial records.
She pulled up the public filings and spread them across the counter like she was dealing cards.
"Here's the thing, Marcus," she said, adjusting her reading glasses. "Homeowner associations have to file annual reports just like any other organization. Let me show you what I found."
The numbers didn't add up.
Not even close.
Over the past two years, the HOA had collected $280,000 in emergency assessments for lake-dock repairs that were never completed.
Another $150,000 had supposedly gone to professional landscaping services provided by Cromwell Grounds and Maintenance, which, according to state business records, was owned by Karen's brother-in-law.
But here's the kicker.
The landscaping company had been incorporated exactly three weeks after Karen became HOA president.
I remembered Pop's advice about following the money trail.
When someone creates a business right after getting power, they're usually creating it to funnel money to themselves.
The insurance claims were even more blatant.
The HOA had filed for storm-damage reimbursement three times in the past 18 months.
Problem was, I'd lived through every storm on this lake, and none of them had caused the kind of damage that would justify $95,000 in insurance payouts.
Betty helped me cross-reference the insurance claims with actual weather reports from the National Weather Service.
The dates didn't match up.
The HOA was claiming storm damage on days when the weather had been perfectly clear.
"Marcus," Betty whispered, even though we were alone in the records room, "this looks like fraud. Plain and simple fraud."
My hands were actually shaking as I photocopied everything.
The smooth feel of those document pages felt like holding evidence that could change everything.
This wasn't just harassment anymore.
This was organized theft from the entire lake community.
The property-management fees were the final piece of the puzzle.
The HOA was paying $5,000 monthly to something called Clearwater Property Solutions for administrative services.
But when I looked up the business registration, the listed address was a P.O. box in the same postal district where Karen lived.
Everything clicked into place like tumblers in a lock.
Karen's harassment campaign wasn't just about power or personal spite.
She was systematically driving down property values to enable a development scheme while simultaneously embezzling from the community fund.
The elderly couples who'd sold their cabins hadn't just been harassed into leaving.
They'd been forced to sell at below-market prices because Karen's artificial property-value concerns had scared off legitimate buyers.
Those mysterious cash buyers were probably connected to the same development group that was benefiting from the embezzled funds.
I thought about the Hendersons, probably counting their pennies in some cramped apartment, never knowing they'd been robbed twice.
Once when they sold their dream home for peanuts, and again through the fees they'd paid into Karen's slush fund.
The taste of black coffee had never been so bitter.