For almost two weeks, nothing happened. I found that suspicious in the way I find a garage suddenly too quiet after a machine has been rattling for months. I worked on the Chevrolet, took long walks after dinner, and drove to the cemetery one Sunday with fresh flowers for Sarah. On the way home I bought a carton of peach ice cream, even though eating it alone still felt strange.
Then, on a Tuesday morning, an unfamiliar sedan pulled into my driveway. A young man in a city planning polo shirt climbed out holding a tablet, followed by another employee carrying a measuring wheel. They identified themselves before moving any farther and explained that an anonymous report alleged an unlicensed commercial fuel business at the address.
The primary inspector was Dave Morrison. He looked tired despite being scarcely thirty, and I suspected he had spent the morning driving between complaints of the kind that arise whenever property lines and personal grudges intersect. His report listed alleged sales to residents, unusual traffic, environmental discharge, and possible tax violations. I recognized Brenda's preferred vocabulary immediately.
"I understand you have a complaint to investigate," I told him. "I'll cooperate with any inspection you're authorized to perform. I'd like a copy of the complaint number and a record of your findings when you're done."
Dave nodded with visible appreciation. I showed him the enclosed controls, containment features, warning signs, and relevant permits, and he compared them with the city records. We discussed what activities were authorized and what would require separate approval. He looked at the fuel log, which showed private use and emergency assistance rather than a stream of paying customers. He asked questions, and I answered them without assuming that my previous inspections settled every possible issue forever.
Near the end, Brenda appeared at the curb in her Range Rover. She climbed out with a folder pressed against her chest and walked toward us as though she had been waiting for her cue. I saw Dave notice her approach and brace himself with the subtle weariness of a man who already knew he was about to receive unsolicited instructions.
"Inspector Morrison," Brenda announced, "I'm the president of this association. I hope you're taking the safety complaints seriously."
"We are," he said. "I've reviewed the relevant records and inspected what was necessary. At present I haven't identified the violations alleged in the report."
"Then you haven't looked closely enough."
Dave kept his voice professional. "Ma'am, if you have additional specific evidence, the city will review it. We don't make findings based on repetition alone."
She showed him several photographs taken from public viewpoints, none revealing anything he had not already examined. One depicted the pickup I was restoring and was apparently meant to establish the existence of suspicious vehicle traffic. Dave handed the folder back with a polite explanation that the city's task was to evaluate applicable ordinances, not personal preferences about a neighbor's hobbies.
"There are penalties for making knowingly false statements in certain official complaints," he added. "I'm not making that finding here. But I would encourage anyone submitting allegations to make sure the details are accurate."