"Of the moving company."
"Of the house," I said. "Beatrix Quarterman. Most folks call me Bea. We closed Thursday."
There was a pause about the length of a held breath. "I see," she said, in a tone that suggested she didn't, and that she intended to look into it. "Well. I'm Marcella Vasbinder. I'm president of the Bittern Ridge Homeowners Association. I assume you received a copy of the covenants at closing."
"I did. Forty-four pages. I've read about half."
"Then you haven't gotten to Article Seven, Section Three." She pointed her phone at the Diplomat like it was a dog that had gotten into her trash. "Commercial vehicles, trucks exceeding three-quarter-ton capacity, and vehicles in visible disrepair may not be parked in driveways overnight. And moving vehicles must be off the premises by eight p.m. It's nine-fourteen."
Jerome set his end of the recliner down. I gave him a look that meant keep carrying, and he picked it back up.
"Ma'am," I said, "I appreciate you letting me know. We've got maybe forty minutes left. My father's eighty-one and he's staying at a motel out by the interstate tonight because his bed is in this truck. I'd like him to sleep in his own bed tomorrow. The rental's due back at seven a.m. I'll have it gone by then, and I'll find somewhere to keep my pickup by Monday."
"The covenant doesn't say Monday."
"No, ma'am, it doesn't."
"So you'll move it."