Tom stopped moving boxes.
I looked at Brenda.
“Was that a threat?”
“Of course not.”
The smile returned.
“Welcome to Meadowlark Road.”
She got into the Lexus and drove away.
Tom waited until she was gone.
“You made a friend.”
“Who was Mrs. Mila?”
“The lady who lived here.”
“I know that.”
Tom set down a box.
“She and Brenda didn’t exactly exchange Christmas cards.”
That evening, I found Evelyn Mila’s obituary online.
Her daughter Margaret lived in Portland, Oregon.
Calling a stranger at night to ask whether an HOA president had harassed her dead mother felt intrusive.
I did it anyway.
Margaret answered on the fourth ring.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Mila? My name’s Dalton Martinez. I bought your mother’s house.”
Silence.
Then:
“Oh God.”
Not the reaction I expected.
“What?”
“You bought Meadowlark?”
“Yes.”
“Has Brenda Kowalski come over yet?”
That answered my first question.
“Moving day.”
Margaret exhaled.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“What she’s going to do.”
We spoke for forty minutes.
Evelyn Mila had owned the property for thirty-seven years.
Willowbrook was built beside her in the early 2000s.
At first there had been no conflict.
Then Brenda joined the board.
Then became president.
Evelyn started receiving “courtesy notices” about lawn height, shed paint, driveway gravel and an old pickup her brother sometimes parked beside the garage.
Evelyn ignored them.
The notices became more official-looking.
Then came “community inspections.”
Complaints to code enforcement.
Noise reports.
A false drainage complaint.
At one point, according to Margaret, Brenda tried convincing Evelyn that because Willowbrook maintained a landscaped strip near the eastern road, the HOA had gained some sort of implied authority over neighboring parcels.
“My mother was seventy-eight,” Margaret said. “She started getting scared every time a car slowed down outside.”
“Did she ever agree to join?”
“No.”
“Sign anything?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Brenda says she followed HOA rules voluntarily.”
“Mom stopped planting sunflowers because Brenda kept photographing them.”
That sentence bothered me more than the fake rules.
“What did Brenda want?”
Margaret became quiet.
“More houses.”
“What?”
“Mom used to say Brenda was obsessed with expanding Willowbrook.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. She talked about revenue.”
There it was.
Revenue.
Not aesthetics.
Not harmony.
Money.
“Do you still have the notices?”
“I kept everything.”
“Can you send copies?”
“I can send all of it.”
Before hanging up, Margaret said:
“Dalton?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t assume she’ll stop because you’re younger than Mom.”
“I don’t.”
“Good.”
I ordered security cameras that night.
Six.
By the time Brenda drove past the next morning, they were already on the way.
For the first two weeks, her harassment was almost funny.
Almost.
She drove slowly past my house every morning.
Sometimes at 7:15.
Sometimes noon.
Sometimes after dinner.
She photographed my driveway.
My garage.
My fence.
Once, she photographed a ladder leaning against the house while I cleaned gutters.