‘That would be the responsibility of the owners, and the documents list them as a corporation based in Delaware, I’m assuming for the tax breaks.’ She searched her keyring, checking the neat color-coded labels. ‘Ugh, I need my glasses. Do either of you . . . ?’
Faith looked at Collier, because he was a hell of a lot closer to needing reading glasses than she was.
He gave one of his squinty smiles. ‘I’m younger than I look.’
‘It’ll hit you soon enough. Both of you.’ Violet laughed, but it wasn’t funny. She kept going through the keys. There were at least fifty of them. Faith didn’t offer to help, because Violet struck her as prone to idle chatter. ‘I’ll unlock this door and y’all can take as long as you want. Just slip the keys back through the slot in my office door when you leave.’
Faith exchanged another look with Collier, because this wasn’t the usual attitude of a property manager. Then again, most of the property managers they dealt with worked behind cages or bulletproof glass.
Faith said, ‘I knocked on some of the neighbors’ doors. Doesn’t seem like anybody is home today.’
‘It’s busier on the weekends.’ Violet tried to push a key into the lock. ‘No one really retires anymore. They’ve all got part-time jobs. Some of the luckier ones volunteer. Come four o’clock, you’ll find most of us down at the club house for cocktail hour.’
Faith would pass out if she had a drink at four in the afternoon. She asked the woman, ‘Did you know Dale Harding?’
‘I knew him well enough.’ Violet didn’t seem happy about it. ‘He was a pain in my posterior, let me tell you.’
Faith rolled her hand, letting the woman know she should do just that.
‘Let’s just say that he wasn’t the cleanest-living person.’
Collier guessed, ‘Women? Booze?’
‘Trash,’ she said, then caught herself. ‘Not like white trash. Like real trash—things that should be thrown away but aren’t. I wouldn’t call him a hoarder. It’s more like he was just too lazy to walk to the trashcan. There were complaints about odors from Barbara. That’s the gal next door. Spoiled food, she said, the stink of it just wafting through the walls to her side of the house. I smelled it myself. Disgusting. I’ve written about ten letters to the company in Delaware, with no luck. We’ve been talking to the HOA lawyers for months about what to do.’
‘That’s horrible,’ Faith said, thinking that it never occurred to normal people that the smell of spoiled food was remarkably similar to the odor from a decaying body. ‘What else?’
‘They were constantly bickering.’ Violet tried another key. ‘Barb and Dale. Well, Dale and everybody, but especially Barb. They just rubbed each other the wrong way.’ She jammed in another key, with no success. ‘I had to step in a few times to help turn down the heat. I hate to speak ill of the dead, but Dale was . . .’ She struggled for the word.
‘An asshole?’ Faith suggested, because that seemed to be the word of consensus.
‘Yes, an asshole,’ Violet agreed. ‘So if this was like Midsomer Murders and you were asking if Dale had any enemies, the answer is that he went out of his way to make enemies.’ She pointed to the windows. ‘Those hideous curtains are a perfect example. The bylaws clearly state everyone should have white window coverings. When I sent him a letter about the pink curtains, he sent back a note on fake stationery from a fake law firm saying that I was discriminating against him because he’s a homosexual.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘As if a gay man of that age would buy polyester curtains.’
Faith watched her try another key. She was going through the entire ring. ‘What about Barb, the next-door neighbor? You said it got heated?’
‘He taunted her. For no reason. Just picked and picked and picked.’
‘For instance?’
Violet waved toward the front yard. ‘These were her gnomes, and her grandson gave her that rabbit. We all knew that. She dressed them all in matching seasonal jackets. Red on Valentine’s Day. Plaid for Armistice Day.’ She shrugged. ‘To each her own. But one day Barb comes to me and says the strangest thing has happened. All the gnomes and the rabbit are gone from her yard. We chalked it up to kids. Some of the grandchildren around here are a bunch of juvenile delinquents. Blood will out, as they say. But then two days later, Dale puts out the gnomes and the rabbit in his front yard and they’re wearing pink jackets. And not even jackets that fit.’ She tried another key. ‘Actually, there were four gnomes, but he’d painted one of them in blackface, which is expressly forbidden in the homeowners’ bylaws.’ She lowered her voice, explaining, ‘If we didn’t have the rule, this whole place would be lit up with lawn jockeys.’
So much for Shangri-La. ‘Did Harding have any regular visitors?’
‘Nary a one that I ever saw.’
Collier asked, ‘Did he keep a schedule?’
‘He was home more often than not, which was extremely annoying, let me tell you. Gave him time to mess with people. As lazy as he was, he’d walk two streets over to yell at a grandkid having too much fun in the pool.’
‘When did he move in?’
Violet tried another key. ‘Six months ago, maybe? I’ve got the paperwork somewhere. Give me your email and I’ll scan it to you. He’s past due on his HOA fees.’ She finally found the correct key. ‘That’s homeowners’—’
Collier stopped her hand on the doorknob.
Faith had her Glock in her hands before she completely processed what was happening.
There was a noise inside the house.
Rustling, like someone was trying to be quiet.
Faith looked at the fake rock. There was no key. Why have a fake rock when you didn’t have a key?
Unless someone had already used the key to get inside.
Collier put his finger to his lips before Violet could ask for an explanation. He indicated for her to move back, then back some more, until she was standing on the other side of his car.
The noise came again. Louder this time.
Collier took out his phone and whispered a call-in for backup, then he motioned for Faith to take the lead.
Which meant that fifty years of feminism would probably end up getting Faith gut-shot.
She tapped her finger on the side of her Glock, just above the trigger, which is where they were trained to keep their finger until they had made the decision to shoot. She thought about her bulletproof vest in the car. The baby seat for her precious daughter. The bottle of water her thoughtful mother had given her this morning. The photo of her beautiful son on her phone.
Then she raised her foot and kicked in the door.
‘Police!’ Faith yelled, letting the word explode from her mouth.
She swiveled around, scanning the room. Kitchen. Table. Couch. Chairs. Clutter. Chaos. All of her senses had turned off but one. Her vision tunneled onto doorways and windows, searching for hands holding weapons. Collier checked the coat closet. Empty. He pressed his back against hers. He tapped her leg. They moved forward in unison, both crouched low, both swiveling their heads like gun turrets.
She remembered the Mesa Arms website. Harding lived in the Tahoe. Open concept. Two bedroom. One bathroom.
Doorway.
A separate powder room for your guests!
Doorway.
A well-appointed laundry room with optional storage cabinets!
Corner.
Faith put herself at an angle, letting the corner serve as a visual block to anyone standing in the hallway with a shotgun. If she couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see her. She had her weapon out in front of her, feet wide apart. Without any conscious thought, her finger slipped from the side of the gun and went to the trigger. She forced herself to put her finger back along the barrel, to buy herself that extra second of hesitation in case it was a kid or an elderly deaf person standing at the end of the hall.
Now or never.
Slowly, a centimeter at a time, she rolled the upper part of her body to the side and peered around the corner.
Empty.
Faith took the lead down the hallway.
Doorway.
A central bathroom with walk-in shower and comfort seat toilet!
Closed doors.
Light-filled main-level bedrooms for you and your guests!