"Glenda," I said. "Before you go. What's in the pump house?"
She stopped at the top of the steps.
"I'm sorry?"
"The building behind the pool. Where the filters are. In April I told you it sounded like something was running in there that shouldn't be. I walked by again last week. It's still running. Louder. That vent is blowing air like a jet engine at eleven o'clock at night. The pool pump's on a timer. It shuts off at ten. What's running at eleven?"
She didn't answer right away. When she did, her voice was very calm, and very precise.
"The pool equipment is maintained by a licensed contractor," she said. "The pump house is a restricted area for liability reasons. It contains chlorine and acid. Residents aren't permitted inside, and the Board isn't going to make exceptions for someone who's currently in violation." She went down one step, then turned back. "Thursday. Seven o'clock. Bring whatever you want."
I watched her get into the golf cart and roll away at eleven miles an hour. She didn't look back. But I noticed she didn't turn right toward her own house on Bluestem Court. She went left. Toward the amenity center.
VI.
Lamont Thibodeaux knocked on my door that afternoon, which surprised me, because Lamont Thibodeaux was the treasurer of the Bluebonnet Trace Property Owners Association, and as far as I knew, he'd voted for every one of those fines.
He was a tall, stooped man of about seventy with a white mustache and a voice that still carried the bayous outside Lake Charles. He'd been a CPA for forty years and had retired to Calder Springs to be near his grandchildren. He stood on my porch holding his hat in both hands and looked as uncomfortable as a man can look.
"Ms. Sundquist," he said. "I hope I'm not intruding. I wondered if I might have a word. Unofficially."
"Come in out of the heat, Mr. Thibodeaux."