“What exactly did you ask me to come verify?” Elaine said.
Gloria told her that families with pools were required to maintain clean water for public safety.
Elaine reminded her that private pools were not open to the public and that their committee only coordinated voluntary neighborhood events.
Gloria dismissed the distinction with a flick of her hand.
“The children can smell it from the sidewalk,” she said.
Our fence was solid wood, and the sidewalk was thirty yards away.
Elaine asked how long the trash had been in the water.
“Long enough,” Gloria replied.
I pointed toward the camera above the kitchen eave.
“We can establish the time,” I said.
Gloria stared at the camera and then at me.
“You can’t film people without telling them,” she snapped.
“The camera records my own enclosed yard,” I said.
I deliberately avoided arguing about legal conclusions because the recording itself would speak more clearly than I could.
Elaine opened her portfolio and removed a printed complaint form.
I saw that the first line was already filled in with my name.
Gloria had prepared the accusation before the trash reached the water.
“Who wrote that?” I asked.
Elaine looked embarrassed.
“Gloria brought me a draft yesterday,” she said.
Gloria moved toward her and attempted to take the paper.
Elaine folded it and put it back in the portfolio.
“The account you gave me is not matching what I’m seeing,” Elaine said.
Gloria glanced toward the driveway, apparently waiting for someone who had not arrived.
I noticed that her phone screen displayed a call in progress.
The name on it was turned toward her body.
She began talking louder, announcing that I was threatening her and preventing her from documenting dangerous conditions.
I remained beside my door with my hands visible.
Paige quietly filmed from inside the kitchen without crossing the threshold.
“I haven’t touched you,” I said.
“You don’t have to touch somebody to intimidate her,” Gloria answered.
A gate latch clicked behind Elaine.
A heavyset man wearing a green polo entered the yard.
I knew him as Victor Sloane, owner of the landscaping company that serviced several houses on our street.
He looked at the pool and muttered something beneath his breath.
Gloria straightened immediately.
“There he is,” she said.
“Now we can get this handled.”
CHAPTER 4: THE MAN WITH THE GREEN SHIRT
Victor had trimmed our hedges once, before I changed companies because he kept billing for services nobody requested.
He was friendly in the way some salesmen are friendly when they believe the conversation already belongs to them.
