'You think someone from the homeowners' association killed our cat?'
Barry asked incredulously.
Ray shrugged. 'I'm not saying anything. I'm just pointing out that, under the bylaws, pets are prohibited in any residence within Bonita Vista.' He was quiet for a moment, tilting his head. 'Hear that? No dogs barking. I don't know if you've noticed, but there are no domestic animals of any kind within Bonita Vista. No dogs or cats, no hamsters, no goldfish.' He met Barry's eyes. 'No pets.'
'But--'
'It's in the C, C, and Rs .'
Barry thought of the dead cat in the mailbox and found that he could not dismiss the idea entirely.
'What about the plants, though? This is vandalism. This isn't enforcement of regulations.'
'You're supposed to get approval from the architectural committee before any landscaping changes are made,' Ray said quietly.
He didn't believe it, not really, but the idea sent a quiet chill down his spine. Was it possible that someone from the homeowners'
association had come to their house in the middle of the night and, while they were sleeping, poisoned their cat and dug up their garden?
He recalled Neil Campbell, the man with the clipboard, and it didn't seem all that farfetched.
'But... people wouldn't put up with this, would they? I mean...' He shook his head. 'Even in someplace like Utah--especially in someplace like Utah--it seems like people would be more ... individualistic, like they wouldn't want to get involved in things like homeowners'
associations.'
Ray snorted. 'For people who are so antigovernment and anti regulation they're pretty well sold on this association crap. I mean, hell, most of them are NRA members who pitch a shit fit every time there's so much as a whisper of trigger-lock legislation. But they have no problem with making a homeowner come before one of their damn committees if he wants to trim a tree or plant a flower. On his own property!'
'NRA members, huh?'
Ray waved his hand. 'Don't let that scare you. I kicked one of 'em off my lot just last month. They're tough when they're sending out memos or holding a meeting, but one on-one, they're pussy-boys. Pardon my French.'
'What happened? Why were they harassing you?'
'I put up a storage shed. It isn't even visible from the street, but apparently someone saw me unloading the materials from my truck and turned me in. It's like the goddamn Third Reich around here.
Everyone's an informant.'
'Ray! Barry!' Barry looked toward the street, where Frank Hodges, one of the men he'd met the other night at Ray's house, was walking toward them, waving.
'I saw the sheriff's car. What happened?'
Barry went through it again, told how he'd been looking for the cat to feed it breakfast and had discovered the animal's dead body along with the uprooted plants.
Frank shook his head sympathetically.
'Ray says there's a prohibition against pets.'
Frank nodded. 'Yeah. The association doesn't want--' He stopped, frowned. 'Wait a minute. Are you--?'
Barry gestured around at the damage. 'We were wondering if this could be ... policy.'
'No.' He shook his head. 'They might be jerks and uptight assholes, but they wouldn't do this. Destruction of property is the last thing they would authorize. The problem with the association is that they're too strict about upkeep of property, about making sure everyone conforms to their standards. There's no way they would deliberately vandalize a lot in Bonita Vista. They might clean it up for you and send you the bill, but they wouldn't damage it.'
He had expected support from Ray, corroboration, but the old man was silent, and the expression on his face was one that Barry found unreadable.
Everyone's an informant.
Now he was just being paranoid.
He looked over at Frank.
Wasn't he?
He'd been planning to confide in the other man, share his thoughts openly, attempt to forge an ally, but instead he nodded absently and said, 'Yeah, you're probably right.' He did not look at Ray again.
He told the others that they were welcome to hang around and watch--or help, if they so desired--but he needed to get to work. There was a lot of cleaning up to do.
'Take pictures first,' Frank suggested. 'This is all probably covered under your homeowners' insurance.'
'Good idea,' Barry said. 'Thanks.'
Ray and Frank walked away, waving, and he watched them for a moment before heading around the side of the house to find a shovel and bury Barney.
The Bonita Vista Homeowners' Association Covenants, Conditions, and Restrictions Article III, Land Use Classifications, Permitted Uses and Restrictions, Section 3, Paragraph C:
No animal, fish, or fowl shall be kept, permitted, or maintained on any Lot. No Owner shall remove, alter, or interfere in any way with any shrubs, trees, grass, or plants without the written consent of the Association having first been obtained. No improvements, alterations, or other work which in any way alters the exterior appearance of any Property shall be made or done without the prior approval of the Architectural Committee.
The adjustment was easier than she'd expected.
Maureen had worried that she'd go stir crazy working at home rather than in an office, dealing with her clients over the phone, through E-mail, and by fax, but in truth it was liberating. Her life had been pared down to its essentials, and she loved it. Now, she could take time off in the middle of the day to watch a movie or read a book. If work became too frustrating or overwhelming, she didn't have to take a sick day, she could just opt out for a few hours, go outside, and dig in her garden. True, it was a little hard to get used to the lack of human contact and interaction, but Barry was always around, and anytime she wanted, she could walk up to the Dysons' and visit with Liz.
It was a good life, and despite the vandalism of their property, her initial reservations about Bonita Vista faded away with the passing of days.
As expected, the sheriff had failed to find whoever had killed Barney and dug up their yard, but luckily it had not happened again. They'd bought new flowers and shrubs, replanted, and for the past two weeks everything had been fine. Barry still seemed half-convinced that it was part of some sinister plot on the part of the homeowners'
association, but she had never put much stock in that theory and as the days and weeks passed, it began to seem more and more ludicrous.
She'd taken to walking each morning, going on a brisk twenty- to forty-minute stroll through the neighborhood, getting to know the area, acclimatizing herself to the altitude and engaging in some much-needed exercise. The more she explored, the more she liked Bonita Vista, and the more sure she was that they had made the right decision by moving here. The houses, spaced far apart on large lots, were uniformly well-kept yet distinctively individual, and the view in every direction was spectacular. Although she enjoyed the scenery to the south, that breathtaking panorama in which forest segued to desert canyon land and the horizon was so far away that you could see the curve of the earth, in truth she preferred the view to the north, and it was when she was walking up the bill, facing the heavily wooded plateau directly behind Bonita Vista, that she felt most at home, that she felt a part of this place.
Maureen strode purposefully down the sloping street that went around the back of their hill. Most of the houses here were vacant vacation homes, but even the residences that were obviously occupied year-round seemed empty, their owners either gone to work or off on errands. From somewhere in the muffled distance came the faint sound of pounding hammers, the noise of construction, and here and there in the brush random bird cries rang out
