I nodded politely. "Make sure to laminate the warrant. Keeps it from smudging."
She stormed off toward the HOA gate, muttering something about lawyers and environmental hazards.
As the trucks pulled away, Derek exhaled a long breath. "Well," he said, "that's the most entertainment I've had since my divorce."
I laughed. "And cheaper, too."
But even as the laughter faded, a thought nagged at me. Clare wasn't the kind to lick her wounds quietly. She'd come back louder, more determined, armed with paperwork and poison charm. I knew I needed to be ready.
By that evening, my suspicion proved right. When I checked the mailbox, there it was: a glossy, full-color HOA envelope sealed with a gold emblem. I opened it carefully, half-expecting glitter or venom to spill out. Inside was a letter titled Notice of Environmental Violation:
Dear Mr. Rogers,
The Whispering Pines Homeowners Association has received multiple complaints regarding hazardous environmental conditions created by unauthorized excavation activities adjacent to community boundaries. Your so-called erosion trench poses a risk to neighborhood safety and violates Section 4.2 of regional landscaping ordinances. You are hereby fined $100 per day until the trench is filled and restored. Additionally, the HOA board has voted to demand immediate easement access through your road for community safety purposes. Failure to comply may result in legal action.
It was signed, of course: Clare Phillips, HOA President, with her trademark smiley face below it.
Derek read over my shoulder, snorted, and said, "She really thinks she's the county now."
"Oh, it gets better," I said, flipping to the second page. "She's quoting ordinances that don't even exist. Section 4.2 refers to recycling bins."
We both laughed so hard Boomer, my old hound dog, started barking from the porch. Still, the letter was a warning shot. Clare was escalating, trying to bury me under paperwork where her SUV had failed.
The next morning, things got weirder. A sleek gray Prius pulled up outside my gate, kicking up dust. A short, round man in a cheap suit stepped out, clutching a leather briefcase like it was a life preserver.
"Good morning," he said nervously. "I'm Douglas Phillips, legal counsel for the Whispering Pines HOA."
I raised an eyebrow. "Phillips? Any relation?"
He adjusted his crooked tie. "Cousin."