“Well, as I predicted last month,” Sid began, his voice a bit nasal, “the landscaper has asked for an eight percent raise. I had only one brief conversation with Pirnos, but I think he’ll settle for five percent. Our water bill for the commons is expected to rise along with the raise in rates. Someone backed over a floodlight off the north gate entrance. I had it replaced at a cost of fifty-four dollars and thirty-seven cents.”
“Didn’t that happen once before?” Nikki asked quickly. As soon as she asked the
question, she looked at Philip Slater to see if he would appreciate her recollection.
“Yes, two years ago,” Sid said flipping pages back, “in March.”
“Just about the same time,” Nikki added and nodded.
“Sid?” Philip Slater said, raising his eyebrows.
“None of the homeowners saw anything,” Sid replied defensively. “Or at least, no one’s made a complaint to me.”
“Don’t we have the same man in the security booth there and doesn’t he park his car just to the right of that broken floodlight?” Nikki asked sharply.
“Well, I don’t know if it’s the same man, but whoever mans the gate does park his car near it, yes,” Sid replied.
Nikki looked as satisfied as a trial lawyer who had driven home a major point.
“I’ll speak to Siegler,” Philip Slater said. “If one of his men is responsible, they’ll pay for the light. Go on, Sid.”
“We have a working balance of twelve thousand two hundred dollars and fifty-four
cents. Our bonds are presently earning eight and a quarter and I’m just about to move the money we received in fines from Barry and Susan Lester into our working capital
account,” he concluded.
“Okay,” Philip Slater said. “A motion to approve the treasurer’s report?”
“So moved,” Vincent snapped.
“Any objections?” No one even breathed loud. “Good. Let’s move on. Neighborhood
Watch. Nikki?”
Nikki Stanley tucked a loose section of her skirt under her legs and opened a pad that looked like the ticket pads meter maids used.
“Saragossa Drive, number 2341, the Kimbles. They’ve had their garage door open
during the daylight hours for upwards of four hours at a time,” she said in a venomous voice.
“Yeah, I’ve seen it that way almost every time I’ve driven by,” Vincent McShane said.
“Then why haven’t you ever called me on it?” Nikki demanded instantly. She spun
around on him. He looked quickly at Philip Slater, who stared without expression.
“I . . . just assumed you would see it and put it down,” he sputtered.
There was a deep moment of silence.
“As trustees of the homeowners board, we’re all officers of the Neighborhood Watch,”
Philip Slater said slowly, patiently. “Even though Nikki is the chairman, it’s not fair to load her down with the full burden.”
“No. Of course not,” Vincent agreed. “I’m sorry, Nikki. I should have told you sooner,”
he said. She smirked to suggest that his apology, no matter how sincere it sounded, did nothing to compensate for his failure. He pulled his lips in and sat back quickly.
“Go on, Nikki. Please,” Philip Slater said.
“I have cited them and advised them of article eight, section one. They apologized and promised to be more diligent.”
“Fine,” Philip Slater said. “Go on.”
“Maracabo Circle, 5467, the Mateos. Twice this month they put out garbage bags that were so full, they couldn’t close their bin. On March twenty-first,” she said, referring to her notes, “one of those bags came unraveled and some debris was seen around the bin. It took two phone calls to get them to clean it up.”
“Gentlemen? And Mrs. Stanley?” Philip Slater asked.
“Ten dollars, first offense,” Sid replied. “I think that’s fair.”
“It’s not a first offense,” Nikki snapped.
“But it is the first time they’ve been so cited,” Sid insisted.
“Sid’s right, Nikki. Send them a ten-dollar fine. Continue.”
“Courtney Street, 5768, the Dimases.”
“What could they have done?” Vincent asked.
“They,” Nikki said curtly, “didn’t do anything. They complained about the Del Marcos’
children tying a garbage can on a rope and dropping it from their house roof to use as a makeshift basketball hoop. The bottom of the can had been beaten out.”
“Rather ingenious,” Sid Levine said.
“Yes,” Philip Slater said. “But quite unsightly, I imagine.”
“As well as noisy,” Nikki added.
“What happened?”
“They claim they phoned Mrs. Del Marco twice about it, but she did nothing. She said the boys have a right to play around their own home.”
“And?” Philip Slater asked.
“I paid her a visit and read her article thirteen, sub-section two, concerning decorations on the outside walls. She was quite cantankerous and refused to consider the hanging garbage can a decoration. I then referred her to article twelve, section one concerning noise. She pointed out the boys don’t play after eightP .M.”
“Mrs. Del Marco has a point there,” Vincent said.
“What’s the situation as of today?” Philip Slater asked.
“Charles Dimas seeks relief and has asked us to render a finding,” Nikki said.
Philip Slater leaned forward slowly into the light revealing his finely chiseled strong features.
“The question before the committee is does a hanging garbage can used as a makeshift basketball hoop constitute an outside decoration? If so, it will fall under the regulations as set forth in article thirteen. What’s your pleasure?”
“It’s certainly not intended to be a decorative piece,” Vincent said. “The kids are just amusing themselves. It could be worse; they could be throwing things into my garbage can,” he quipped, but no one laughed.
“I would agree, but it is unsightly,” Sid commented. “Anything that adds or detracts from the overall appearance of one of our homes must fall under article thirteen, whether the homeowner considers it formally as a decoration or not. It’s the effect it has.”
“Very good point, Sid,” Philip said.
“I move the Del Marcos be cited,” Nikki said quickly. She glared at Vincent.
“Second,” Sid added.
“Vincent?”
“If it’s the majority feeling . . .”
“Don’t you have a mind of your own?” Phil Slater snapped.
“Sure. I just thought . . . right. I agree.”
“Nikki, send the Del Marcos our finding and give them the usual twenty-four hours,”
Slater said.
She nodded with satisfaction.
“We have a request,” she continued. “From Paul and Kay Meltzer. Seems that a nearby satellite television company has come up with a new product—a dish that is well
camouflaged by serving as a table umbrella as well. They would like us to reconsider article nine, section three, concerning antennas and other metal objects outside the home.”
“I read about that,” Vincent said. “It doesn’t look bad.”
“Have you seen one firsthand?” Philip Slater demanded quickly. He turned his gaze on him with a fury that made the investment banker shrink in his seat.
“No, but—”
“Then let’s form a committee of two to gather information about it before we make any decision we might later regret,” Philip Slater said. “Sid, would you accompany Nikki at your first opportunity?”
“Of course,” Sid Levine said.
“Fine. Nikki?”
“That’s all I have,” she said closing her notepad. “Except to report that the Feinberg home is up for sale. It was advertised yesterday.”
“Horrible,” Vincent muttered. Philip spun around to face him.
“It’s horrible, but we’re lucky to be rid of such a negative resident.” Philip smiled, his lips stretching so quickly they looked as if they cut new space in his cheeks. “Emerald Lakes has a way of weeding out the rotten apples or,” he said, relaxing, “encouraging them to weed themselves out.” There was a heavy silence. “Anyone have anything else?”
No one spoke. “Well then, I invite a motion to adjourn,” he said.
“So moved,” Vincent said quickly. He was always the most eager to end the meetings, a fact not lost on Nikki who shook her head with her usual expression of disapproval.
In the living room, Marilyn Slater rose from her seat and went out to the corridor just as the directors began to emerge from Philip Slater’s office.
“Can I make coffee?” she offered. She was an attractive brunette with hazel green eyes and a svelte figure. Always nicely dressed, not a strand of her styled hair out of place, she personified elegance to the rest of the women at Emerald Lakes. Her makeup and jewelry, while striking, was a bit understated, subtle.
Everyone looked at Philip whose face registered disapproval.
“Not for me,” Nikki said.
“I’ve got to get home,” Vincent said mournfully.
“Me too,” Sid replied.
“Next time, maybe. Good night,” Marilyn said. She watched them leave and then turned to Philip. “Productive meeting?”
Philip nodded.
“Yeah, but it’s a battle,” he said. “Why is it we have to convince people, punish people, so they will do what’s only good for themselves?”
“I don’t know, Philip,” Marilyn said. “But if there’s anyone who can get them to do the right things, it’s you.”
He gazed at her askance for a moment, not quite sure she had meant it as a compliment.
Then he shook off the doubts and went to have some coffee.
1
“OH, THIS IS WONDERFUL!” Kristin Morris exclaimed the moment she, Teddy, and
their five-year-old daughter, Jennifer, stepped through the front door onto the travertine marble entryway. From there, there were three steps down to the enormous sunken living room. The room was practically as big as their entire apartment in Commack. There was a white marble fireplace against the far wall, not to mention all of the upscale furniture and expensive wall hangings. Teddy tugged on his daughter’s hand, and he and she
stepped back as if they had inadvertently entered the wrong house.
“This is . . . er . . . this has got to be beyond our budget,” he said. Michele Lancaster, their forty-two-year-old real estate agent, smiled, revealing thousands of dollars of orthodontic work. Being fifteen or so pounds overweight, she attempted to hide her
midriff bulge by wearing a very loose fitting one-piece with a billowing skirt. She wore a soft white leather jacket and dangling pearl shell earrings. Not a strand of her dark brown hair was out of place. Teddy thought it resembled a helmet.
“It isn’t,” she said. She leaned toward him to deliver a secret. “In fact, I’m sure we can get it for a price that will keep the mortgage payments in your budget.”
“How can that be?” Teddy asked, looking around again as if his first glimpse had fooled him.
Michele didn’t respond. She simply held her smile. Looking over the elaborate artificial flower display in the flower box in front of him, Teddy could see a woman, presumably the present owner’s wife, sitting at a breakfast table with her back to them. She was gazing out of the French doors, her attention so concentrated on something amid the gardens and fountains that she didn’t hear them enter or even hear their conversation now.
Teddy shifted his blue flecked green eyes toward Kristin. His twenty-nine-year-old wife widened her brown eyes and shrugged. She brushed her light brown hair over her right shoulder in a swift, graceful motion. Although it was a rather warm late-April day, she wore a white cable knit sweater over her dark brown slacks because she felt she looked like she was in her eighth month, instead of her fourth. It did no good for Teddy to swear that no one could tell she was pregnant simply by looking at her.
“I wouldn’t have any problem finding a place for my piano in here,” Kristin commented.
“No kidding,” Teddy said. “You could fit an orchestra in here.”
“What’s an orchestra, Daddy?” Jennifer asked.
“A whole group of people playing different musical instruments,” he explained patiently.
He smiled at Michele. “She’s up to two hundred and fifty questions an hour.”
“Adorable,” Michele said smiling and nodding at Jennifer. “And a wonderful place to bring up children,” she added widening her eyes.
Kristin looked at Teddy with an I-told-you-so expression. He closed his eyes with a silly grin.
“Right this way,” Michele said, and led them down the steps and into the living room.
Still reluctant, Teddy closed the dark oak door behind them and shook his head. They had driven nearly three hours from Long Island to this housing development in the Mid-Hudson Valley, and they had to drive the three hours back. There really wasn’t all that much time to waste.
“That is a working wood-burning fireplace with a gas starter,” Michele explained as she took them over the thick beige Berber carpet. The carpet was so plush, the real estate woman’s two-inch heels sank with every step, making her appear to wobble. Teddy
thought the ceilings were rather high for a home in the Northeast, where people were more concerned about the cost of heating, but he had to admit he loved the sense of space and openness in this house.
“It’s beautiful,” Kristin said. “Isn’t it, Jennifer?”
“Uh-huh,” the five-year-old said and gaped with interest at everything around her.
“Looks like it’s never been used,” Teddy added. Michele winked and tilted her head
toward Elaine Feinberg. She had still not turned their way.
“Elaine, dear,” Michele finally said. “The Morrises are here to see the house.”
Teddy and Kristin watched curiously as the thirty-year-old brunette turned slowly toward them. Jennifer instinctively drew closer to her father. From this angle they could see that Elaine Feinberg was easily in her last trimester of pregnancy and she was the sort who carried well. There was no puffiness in her face. She wasn’t an unattractive woman, but she looked like someone who had been up for days: her eyelids drooped, her lower lip hung listlessly, and the very flesh in her cheeks seemed to sag. She didn’t smile. She simply nodded and reached for the cigarette burning in the ashtray. Teddy noted how her hand trembled. Was this a case of someone being terminally ill? Was that the reason for the possible low buying price?
“Would it be all right for me to take them through?” Michele asked softly.