“My pool is maintained by professionals, Mr. Harden.”
“Then tell your professionals to stay off my property.”
She sipped her wine.
“If a contractor made a mistake, I’m sure it can be corrected.”
“This isn’t a mistake.”
“Then perhaps you should take it up with the contractor.”
“I’m taking it up with the homeowner whose pool the hose feeds.”
A small smile appeared.
There it was.
Not enough to call a smirk.
Denise was too polished for that.
But close.
“You do realize groundwater in this region is a shared natural resource.”
I looked at her.
“You connected to my pump.”
“I said no such thing.”
“My pump. My electricity. My plumbing. My land.”
She leaned against the doorway.
“You seem very emotional about this.”
“No. I’m being clear.”
“Your well draws from beneath the same ground beneath everyone else.”
“My truck drives on public roads too. That doesn’t mean you can take the keys.”
Her smile disappeared for half a second.
Then returned.
“I’m sure we can work something out like neighbors.”
“I already worked it out. Stop taking my water.”
Her gaze moved toward my truck parked at the curb.
Ten-year-old F-250.
Scratches on the tailgate.
Small dent near the rear bumper.
A working truck.
Her Porsche sat twenty feet away so clean it looked staged.
“I’m telling you,” she said, “I know nothing about your hose.”
“My hose?”
She realized the mistake.
I let the silence sit there.
Then I said, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Caldwell.”
She closed the door.
Three days later, the green hose disappeared.
For a moment, I thought perhaps she had reconsidered.
Then I found the black one.
It was harder to see.
It had been routed lower.
A quick-connect fitting made it faster to attach.
I actually laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because the arrogance had become almost impressive.
She had not stopped.
She had improved the system.
The next morning I installed cameras.
Three days later, I had my first useful recording.
At 6:15 a.m., a man in a gray polo and khaki work pants stepped through the gap near my fence.
I knew him by sight.
Miguel, one of the landscaping workers who serviced several Silver Creek properties.
He walked straight to the spigot.
No hesitation.
No searching.
Attached the hose.
Opened the valve.
Left.
Hours later, he returned and disconnected it.
His movements told me everything.
This was routine.
The next time I saw Miguel on the roadside, I stopped my truck.
He was loading hedge trimmers into a trailer.
“Morning.”
He looked up.
“Morning, Mr. Harden.”
“You work for Mrs. Caldwell?”
His expression changed slightly.
“I do landscaping.”
“I know.”
He closed the trailer gate.