Arturo stopped what he was doing. "Ma'am, if there's a valid lease, I need to see it."
She held out the sheet. It was one page, typed beneath a title reading PRIVATE PARKING AGREEMENT. It granted Patricia Voss permission to park one recreational vehicle on the driveway at 14 Larks Lane for five years in exchange for property maintenance and oversight. The agreement was dated two and a half years earlier. At the bottom, beneath a line marked OWNER, was a signature purporting to be Linda Marsh's.
I felt my heart change pace.
Not because I believed the lease. Because I finally understood how far Patricia was willing to go to turn a false arrangement into an apparently official one. For three years she had relied on letters with laurel wreaths and fines with section numbers. Now she had a purported private contract, complete with a former owner's name. It was a more serious claim, and for a moment the driver was right to stop.
He read the document twice. "Mr. Hale," he said, "I've got somebody showing me an agreement. This may need to be sorted out before I can take the vehicle."
I nodded. "I understand. The person named as owner is available by telephone. May I ask her whether she signed it?"
Patricia turned to face me. "You don't have to call anybody. It's right there."
"If it's genuine," I said, "she'll confirm it."
The street had gone quiet. I took out my phone and dialed Linda. She answered after three rings. I asked whether she was comfortable having the conversation on speakerphone, with other people present. She said she was, then asked what was happening. I explained that we were standing on the driveway and that Patricia had produced an agreement said to bear Linda's signature.
"Did you ever sign a parking lease allowing Patricia Voss to keep a motor home at fourteen Larks Lane?" I asked.
"No," Linda said, clearly and without hesitation. "I never signed a lease with her. I never gave her permission to use my driveway, and I asked her repeatedly to remove the camper."
Patricia's expression did not change at first. Linda continued, her voice strong enough to carry through the small phone speaker. "Whatever paper she has, it is not a document I signed. I wouldn't sign a birthday card for that woman, much less a five-year parking agreement. You can tell everyone there I said so."
Nobody laughed.
Arturo looked from the paper in his hand to Patricia. Dale set his coffee mug on the low brick wall beside him. Bev, the woman from Meadow Court, shifted her weight and glanced toward the motor home. Patricia stood with the keys in her hand and the paper extended toward the driver, although the offer no longer seemed to have a destination.
"Do you want to say anything?" Arturo asked her.
She folded the sheet in half once, slowly and precisely. "This is ridiculous," she said. "I have rights."
"You may," I answered. "If you believe this agreement is valid, you can present it in the proper place. Linda says she never signed it. I have the deed, and I never gave you permission to park here."