Loretta rarely challenged residents likely to fight.
She chose widows.
Busy young families.
Renters whose landlords lived elsewhere.
People who worked long hours.
People who did not attend board meetings.
A garbage can visible from the street for six hours too long.
A patio umbrella described as “inconsistent with approved exterior color harmony.”
A work van parked overnight despite previous management allowing it.
A wheelchair ramp that received a violation notice before anyone bothered asking whether it was medically necessary.
Every issue came wrapped in official language.
NOTICE OF NONCOMPLIANCE.
FINAL OPPORTUNITY TO CURE.
POTENTIAL FINE ASSESSMENT.
LIEN RIGHTS RESERVED.
Most residents paid.
Or changed whatever Loretta wanted.
Not because she was always legally correct.
Because fighting cost time.
Nathan barely noticed.
Until Miriam Bancroft started having Saturday coffee with him.
Miriam lived next door at 9216.
Sixty-three.
Retired middle-school English teacher.
Widowed nine years.
She had lived in Meadow Glen almost since construction.
Their Saturday coffee tradition started after Nathan helped replace the battery in her car.
Miriam returned the favor with banana bread.
Then another Saturday she brought coffee.
Eventually 8:30 a.m. became routine.
Miriam knew everyone.
More importantly, she remembered documents.
Teachers do that.
One Saturday, nearly a year before the pool issue, Miriam mentioned Loretta casually.
“You know she tried to fine me for my hummingbird feeders?”
Nathan looked toward the two bright-red feeders hanging beneath Miriam’s patio.
“Why?”
“Visual clutter.”
“Seriously?”
“She said exterior decorative objects visible above the wall required approval.”
“What did you do?”
“I asked her to show me the section.”
Nathan smiled.
“And?”
“She sent me one about satellite dishes.”
“That seems unrelated.”
“It was extremely unrelated.”
“What happened?”
“She stopped responding.”
Miriam sipped coffee.
“That woman does not like questions.”
Nathan remembered the sentence.
Months later, he would understand how much it explained.
The first strange thing happened October 24.
Nathan returned from a two-day trip to Henderson, Nevada.
He carried his suitcase through the house.
Opened the sliding door.
Walked toward the pool.
One lounge chair sat angled toward the west wall.
Nathan stopped.
Normally both chairs faced the pool.
He liked symmetry.
He knew that about himself.
He looked around.
Nothing else seemed wrong.
Gate closed.
No trash.
No footprints visible on the patio.
He moved the chair back.
Thought:
Wind.
Except the chair was heavy aluminum.
Wind could move it.
Maybe.
Three days later Nathan forgot about it.
Then came the second sign.
November 2.
Another trip.
One night in Tucson.
He returned Saturday afternoon.
Changed clothes.
Went outside.
The pool water level looked slightly high against the tile.
Not enough to mean anything.
Then he emptied the skimmer basket.
A long blonde hair clung around the edge.
Nathan stood perfectly still.
His hair was dark brown.
Short.
Nobody had permission to use the pool.
Laurel had not visited.
Miriam had gray hair and bad knees and strongly preferred heated water above ninety degrees.
Nathan held the strand between two fingers.
He looked toward the gate.
Still latched.
At least it appeared latched.
He checked the latch more carefully.
An old iron lever could be manipulated from outside through a narrow gap if somebody knew where to reach.
Nathan did not immediately assume trespass.
Pool technician?