Apparently, watching an old man fish while taking creepy surveillance photos wasn't the exciting career opportunity he'd imagined.
But Margaret wasn't done. She hired an actual attorney. Some shark from the county seat who specialized in HOA enforcement.
The cease and desist letter arrived while I was fixing Betty's porch step. Because that's what neighbors do for each other around here.
The legal language was impressive. Full of words like forthwith and pursuant to. Demanding $500 in administrative fees plus immediate compliance with fishing restrictions.
Betty read over my shoulder, her face growing paler with each paragraph. What's so funny? she asked when I started chuckling.
I folded the letter and slipped it into my shirt pocket. Margaret just picked a fight with the wrong fisherman.
See, while she was busy playing lawyer and hiring security guards, I'd been doing my homework. That morning's courthouse visit had turned up something interesting on the 1960s county survey maps.
A discrepancy suggesting the lake extended way beyond Margaret's claimed HOA territory. More importantly, I'd found a reference to subsurface mineral rights in my grandfather's deed.
Time to find out exactly what Grandpa Blackstone had left me because something told me it was a lot more than Margaret bargained for.
Margaret's attorney letter triggered what she called an emergency enforcement meeting at her pristine lakefront palace. Her living room looked like a corporate boardroom had a baby with a country club, all beige leather and motivational artwork about success and excellence.
The air reeked of expensive vanilla candles and desperation. She assembled her nervous coalition of eight HOA members, each clutching violation notices like talismans against common sense.
Property values are at stake, Margaret announced, clicking through her PowerPoint presentation like she was launching a hostile takeover instead of harassing retirees.
Her enforcement plan included liens, small claims court, and police reports. When Dale suggested maybe they should verify their legal authority first, Margaret steamrolled him faster than a freight train through a paper bag.
We can't show weakness to non-compliant residents, she declared, her voice sharp enough to cut diamond. Give them an inch, they'll take a mile.
Two days later, I woke up to the aggressive buzz of power tools at 7:00 a.m., a sound more jarring than nails on a chalkboard.
Margaret was installing a decorative fence across the traditional fishing path to the lake, the same dirt trail that elderly residents like Betty and Frank had used for decades.
The fence was white vinyl with little flourishes that screamed, I spent more on this eyesore than most people make in a month.
Margaret stood supervising in a lavender pantsuit sipping coffee from China that probably cost more than my truck payment.
When Frank Martinez showed up for his doctor-ordered morning walk, she pointed to a shiny new sign. Private HOA property, authorized members only.
Ma'am, Frank said in his polite old-school way, I've been walking this path since 1987.
Margaret's smile could have frozen hell itself. Times change, Mr. Martinez.