"You need to shut that grill off. Right now."
I kept my eyes on the steaks. A line of heat shimmered above the black grates, and the smell of pepper, smoke, and rendered fat drifted across the narrow stretch of grass beside our condominium complex.
The two-burner propane grill was level, its cylinder secured, its lid open just far enough for me to check the meat. Beside my boots sat a blue binder, a cooler full of food, and a small wooden stake that looked remarkably unimportant for something about to ruin a woman's morning.
"Mark Dalton, are you listening to me?" Linda Carver demanded.
"Every word," I said, turning a steak.
"Then turn it off."
"No."
I didn't raise my voice. I didn't smile when I said it, either. I simply placed the tongs on the grill's side shelf and checked the temperature, as though the HOA board member standing three feet away was asking whether I wanted more salt. That seemed to bother her more than an argument would have. Linda was accustomed to people getting upset, explaining themselves, apologizing, or backing away. She wasn't accustomed to someone refusing a command without even treating the command as a serious possibility.
Her cream-colored walking shoes stopped just short of the reference stake. She glanced at it, then at the blue binder on my cooler. "You've already been warned about grilling on association property."
"I remember."
"Then why are you doing it again?"
"I'm not."
She narrowed her eyes. "I'm standing here looking at a grill."
"So am I."
"Don't be clever with me."
"I'm trying to be accurate."
Linda moved closer, her finger coming up before she had decided what she wanted to point at. Behind her, Richard Hale, president of the homeowners association, crossed his arms and tried to look like a man called upon to settle an unfortunate misunderstanding. I had seen that expression before. Richard liked to present himself as the reasonable one, the adult in the room who regretted having to make decisions other people forced upon him. The trouble was that his decisions tended to be the same ones Linda had already announced at twice the volume.
"Mark," he said, "we've been through this. You cannot have an open flame on HOA property."
"I agree."
He blinked. "You agree?"
"Completely."
"Then turn it off," Linda snapped.
"No."
Richard's polite expression tightened. "Would you like to explain yourself?"
I pointed downward. "This ground isn't HOA property. My boots are three feet and eight inches past the recorded association boundary. The grill is beside me, on the same side."
Linda laughed, a quick, contemptuous sound. "This entire landscaped area belongs to the association. I have served on the board for nine years. I think I know what land we own."
"I thought so too, until I checked."
"Are you calling me a liar?"
"I'm saying the recorded plat disagrees with you. Those are different things."
Richard looked toward the driveway that led into the complex. "Enough. We called the police."
"Okay," I said.