“You can appeal after the vehicle is gone.”
“That’s not how an appeal works,” I said.
She stepped closer until the sharp scent of her perfume cut through the damp morning air.
“People like you always think rules are optional.”
I glanced at the neat row of houses behind her.
Several curtains shifted.
Someone across the street had started recording from an upstairs window.
“I follow the rules,” I said.
“Then you’ll understand the consequences.”
She turned and motioned for the driver to lower his equipment.
He did not move.
“Ma’am,” he said quietly, “I need the actual property owner’s authorization.”
Karen’s smile tightened.
“I am the association president.”
“That isn’t what I asked,” the driver replied.
For the first time, I saw uncertainty move across her face.
Then she reached for her phone.
“I’ll call the police myself,” she said.
I stepped aside and gave her room.
“Please do.”
Chapter 2: A Name on the Gate
The neighborhood was called Ashford Ridge, although there was no ridge and very little ash left in the woods.
It had been built twenty years earlier around a former apple orchard.
My father bought our house before the first sidewalk was poured.
He liked the quiet street, the deep garage, and the fact that the deed allowed him to work on old cars without asking anyone’s permission.
When he died, he left me the house and the Mustang.
I moved back after my appointment as chief because I wanted to live somewhere that still felt like home.
Karen Bellamy lived three houses down in a white colonial with black shutters and a circular driveway.
She had become president of the Ashford Ridge Neighborhood Association the previous winter.
The association maintained a small playground and a decorative entrance sign.
It was not a government agency.
Its authority came from recorded covenants and bylaws, not from Karen’s preferences.
I knew that much because I had read the documents before moving in.
The rules required homeowners to keep their properties reasonably maintained.
They prohibited inoperable vehicles from being stored in public view for extended periods.
My Mustang was operable, properly plated, and parked beside my daily driver.
The association had no general right to seize it.
Karen had first appeared at my door on a rainy Thursday evening.
She carried a basket of store-bought muffins and spoke in the bright voice of someone accustomed to being welcomed.
