KENNETH EADE.

For my wife, Valentina, the best person to have in my corner.

"Homeowner's Association: the means whereby people who own homes are able to transfer their rights to the neighborhood control freaks."

-Ron Brackin.

CHAPTER ONE.

Orange Grove was a pleasant modern community in Goleta, California. A former orange orchard, it was a small development, with fresh air and rolling hills. Four different models of tract townhomes, one attached to the other, repeated themselves in different combinations to line twelve perfectly manicured cul-de-sacs. Breezy blues, avocado greens, tilled tans, and cozy creams decorated the exterior of the nearly identical rows of houses, and filled the sleepy bedroom community with a pleasant palette chosen by the developer. Driveways sculpted within twin patches of green led to automatic rollup aluminum garage doors. At a touch of a button, you drove into your garage. At another touch of a button, you were greeted by the soft lights of your own private sanctuary, your castle.

Barbara Densmore was a busybody. Ever since she had learned how to use her nose, she had a terrible habit of sticking it into everyone's business. Growing up, she was always on this or that student committee, and, due to her big mouth and ability to influence people weaker than she was, she was elected head of the student body council at Santa Barbara High School. Barbara had many acquaintances, but no friends to speak of; nobody who would really stick their neck out for her in time of need. Nevertheless, for a resident living in Orange Grove, staying on Barbara's good side was the best way to avoid a tremendous headache.

Today was Barbara's birthday. She could expect a call from her mother, of course, but she and her sister had not spoken in over fifteen years. Barbara had stolen away her sister's boyfriend, Stan, and her sister, Joyce, had never had it in her heart to forgive either one of them. Barbara and Stan had been divorced now for about five years, but that still had not changed the chilly air between her and Joyce.

Barbara entered the small development, and drove the streets, waved to the neighbors who were out in their yards and stopped to chat with some of them. But her real motivation was to find violators of the HOA rules. She had, of course, memorized all of the pesky rules, and kept a little notebook to make notes of whose lawn was overgrown, who left too many cars parked in the driveway, and who had changed the color of their curtains. Today was a non-eventful day. There were the usual infractions that had not yet been abated, but other than that, it was a picture of perfect compliance.

"Happy birthday Barbara!" called out Frances Templeton, the VP of the homeowner's association, as Barbara drove by. Barbara stopped to chat with Frances for a while, finished her rounds, and pulled in to the driveway of her perfectly compliant townhome.

Barbara parked her white Toyota Prius in the driveway, and walked up the beautifully tailored walkway to her front door. On the porch was an exquisite bouquet of red roses wrapped in cellophane, with an impressive red ribbon tied around the vase. Attached to the plastic wrap was a card. Barbara smiled, and opened the card. It read, "To a dear neighbor."

Barbara lifted the bouquet into her arms, opened the door, walked in, and set it down on her kitchen table. There must be two dozen roses here, she thought. I wonder who on earth sent them?

Barbara was eager to get a whiff of her beautiful bouquet, and equally eager to find out who had sent it to her. The possibility of a secret admirer was titillating, and awoke in Barbara the old memory of teenage romance. She tore the clear wrapping off to smell the flowers. As she did, a cloud of white powder popped up from the roses, covering Barbara's nose and mouth. Barbara sneezed as she accidentally inhaled it, and coughed. She quickly found the culprit; the package of rose food had a large tear in it. She examined the label and, determining it was not harmful, threw the offending package in the garbage with the discarded cellophane. There was another envelope of it that she tucked into a drawer in her kitchen.

CHAPTER TWO.

Nancy Haskins opened the door, her hands full of mail. Nancy's little Chihuahua, Nelson, immediately jumped on her as she sorted through the bills and put them into the "pay" and "wait" piles on the small table by the entry. Since Burt had passed away, it was all on her now. Electric bill pay, mortgage bill pay, water bill pay, property taxes wait. No more money. Nancy was 73 years old. She and Burt, who was five years older, had been living under the financial umbrella of social security. But when Burt took ill, Nancy couldn't afford to quit working her regular job as a real estate agent. Retirement for Burt and Nancy was always more of a joke than a dream.

They had begun this dream, as most older couples from the east coast had, with a move to California to be closer to their daughter, Jillian, and the grandkids. But, after Burt's illness, the bills mounted up and before long that dream had turned into a nightmare.

"Hello, my little Nelson," she said, as she caressed the dog, ruffling his pointed ears and stroking where they connected to his tiny little head, as the last letter slipped onto the floor.

It was from the "Orange Grove Homeowner's Association." Coming from Long Island, a homeowner's association was something foreign to Burt and Nancy, but they had soon learned what it was all about.

"Not again!" Nancy muttered to herself, as Nelson scratched and jumped against her jeans, whining and yelping. Turning her attention to Nelson, she threw the envelope on the "wait" pile.

The nightmare had begun with the color of their house. A year ago, Nancy and Burt received a notice requesting them to paint the exterior of their townhome, which included a detailed list of instructions. They just turned over the instructions to their painter, and asked him to paint the house the same color as the one down the street. It was a pleasant powder blue, and they had always loved it. The painter took a sample from the neighbor's house and matched the color perfectly. The only problem was, unbeknownst to Burt and Nancy, they were not allowed to change the former color of their home. It messed with the "palette" and was a violation of the HOA rules. Nancy and Burt were happy until the HOA sent them a "Notice of Violation," that began a series of legal battles with mounting costs and attorney's fees. It didn't take long for the HOA's fees to pile up higher than a New York City high rise.

Nancy slumped onto the couch and Nelson jumped onto her lap as if he were spring-loaded, and started to play the "biting game." It was his favorite. He charged at Nancy on the couch, and she pushed him away, over and over and over again, and each time, Nelson gently bit at her fingers and growled as he delighted in the attention.

After Nelson calmed down and curled into a tiny ball on the couch, Nancy's mind kept going back to the HOA notice. She and Burt had exhausted all their savings fighting, litigating, and finally settling with them on the paint case after a lengthy mediation. The curiosity nagged at her until she couldn't stand it anymore, although she knew what to expect. Because of the legal bills, mounting expenses, loss of Burt and the economy, the HOA assessments had piled up. Not only that, the Association had added "special assessments" for improvements to the common areas, as well as a ton of attorney's fees. Nancy simply could not afford to pay for them all. She ripped open the envelope to reveal her greatest fear. It read, "Notice of Foreclosure Sale."

CHAPTER THREE.

Jean Goldstein had had her share of tragedy in life. Her dream move from New York to California had turned to shit in its third month.

Soon after the move, at the age of 16 years, her son, Thomas, lost his life in a car accident. The strain tore apart her marriage, and she and her husband, Gary, stayed together because they couldn't afford to live apart, or maybe just because they didn't know what else to do. Jean had planted a Bigtooth Maple tree in her front yard on the day of her son's funeral in his memory. That was two years ago, and now it had already grown to a healthy height. Jean felt good every time she looked at the tree. Gary had made a wall of stone around the base and affixed a little brass plaque with their son's name on it to the wall.

When the HOA notice had come in only weeks after they had planted the tree, Jean and Gary ignored it. They were from New York and deed restrictions were as foreign to them as a monkey in a suit. After thousands of dollars in legal fees, they had dug in their heels and were now facing potential jail time with a contempt of court citation. It had become a matter of principle to them. Nobody was going to disgrace the memory of their son.

CHAPTER FOUR.

By the time Nancy had gathered enough money to hire a lawyer, the foreclosure sale was coming close. Nancy walked into the State Street office of lawyer Brent Marks feeling defeated, but that feeling changed to confidence instantly after he evaluated her case.

Brent looked up from the files and smiled. "It looks to me like they didn't comply with the Davis Stirling Act," Brent told her. "They need to personally serve you with notice of the board's decision to foreclose. This proof of service says they served you by substituted service at your office."

"I'm never at the office. I work out of home."

"That's what substituted service means. If they can't find you at your home or place of business, they can serve an adult there who appears to be in charge. But the Act requires that they personally serve you."

"What do I do?"

"Well, I think it's too late to serve you now, but they may try to do it after we raise the issue. Just be aware."

"I won't answer the front door, and I'll go in and out through the garage by car."

"That will probably work. But, remember, if we win this case, it's just going to delay the inevitable. You'll have to pay the HOA assessments and fees."

"I know. I just need some time."

Time was a precious commodity to Nancy. She needed to close a couple of escrows, and needed to do it fast. In addition to the assessments, there would be legal fees for the HOA and now for her new attorney, Brent Marks.

Brent's secretary, Melinda, an attractive 20 something, brought in the retainer agreement for Nancy to sign. She was what some people may call a "dumb blonde," equipped with stunning blue eyes, but, besides being a little ditzy, she was anything but dumb.

"I'm so happy that I found you, Brent," said Nancy. "I know that you'll put an end to this nightmare."

"It's not going to be easy, Nancy, but I'll do my best."

"I know you will."

Nancy smiled with hope as she signed the agreement, and then reached into her purse for her checkbook.

"This is the best $5,000 I ever spent," she said, as she wrote out the check.

Back at Orange Grove, Barbara Densmore was staying up late as usual, going over the HOA books. Something about them was just not right. There seemed to be thousands of dollars unaccounted for, and she wanted to prepare as much as she could for her meeting with Frances Templeton, who was also the HOA's treasurer. Barbara had developed a nasty cough over the course of the day, and the cough syrup she had been taking was not helping at all. I must have caught some kind of flu, she thought, and it was getting to the point where she felt she needed a doctor. She was achy all over and feverish. As she picked up the phone to call the doctor, it became difficult to breathe and she gasped for breath.

"Call 911 immediately," her physician advised. "I'll meet you at the Cottage Hospital emergency room."

Barbara hung up and did as she was instructed. She was in a panic, her heart was racing, and she was coughing up a white foam, mixed with blood.

Barbara, her body surging with adrenalin, shot up from her seat and headed for the door. The room was spinning as she gasped for air and lost her balance. She reached out to try to catch the top of a chair as she fell to the floor.

CHAPTER FIVE.

Barbara Densmore was pronounced dead on arrival at Cottage Hospital. The cause of death was cited as respiratory failure. Barbara's health, in general, had always been good, and her sudden death came as a shock to Dr. Theodore Brown, her regular doctor, who was puzzled, and could not determine what had caused her body to shut down. From the symptoms she exhibited, he suspected it may be some kind of poisoning. He collected samples of the bloody foam discharge, as well as blood and urine samples and sent them to the lab for a toxicology test.

Frances Templeton knocked on Barbara Densmore's door at precisely 8:30 p.m. for her meeting with Barbara. When Barbara didn't answer, Frances called her cell phone, but it went straight to her voice mail.

"Barbara, are you in there?" called Frances, as she pounded the door.

"Is everything alright?"

Keith Michel, Barbara's next door neighbor, heard the racket, peeled open his non-conforming blue curtain, peered out his window and saw Frances on Barbara's front porch, frantically knocking. Let the bitch pound on the door until her knuckles bleed, he thought, and went back to smoking the rest of his roach while he endured his textbook assignment. A part time student and a full time surfer, Keith was one of four guys who roomed together as tenants in the four bedroom townhouse. He hated the HOA just as much as the next guy, no even more but the pounding on the door in his hypersensitive state seemed like it was slamming around in his head and reverberating down his spinal cord. He opened the door to put an end to the noise.

"She's not there, Frances."

The surfer. He and his blue curtains have got to go, thought Frances, looking at the super tanned blonde idiot.

"Oh? And how do you know that?"

"The ambulance came for her about an hour ago," said Keith, the wisp of a smile curling from the sides of his chapped lips. Keith didn't like Frances. He didn't like her beady little dark brown eyes. He didn't like her sneaky, faux-feminine mannerisms. And he didn't like her sticking her nose in his business.

"Ambulance?"

"Ask me, she needed a meat wagon."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"She was lifeless, dude. Like a bag o' sand."

"Where did they take her?"

"Who do I look like, 4-1-1?" snickered Keith.

Frances turned her back on Keith without answering and slinked off to her own place, making a mental note to call the HOA attorneys on the rude little addict. Maybe even the police. Well, maybe not.

CHAPTER SIX.

Dr. Ignacio Perez raised his tired eyes from the microscope, grabbed the stale baloney sandwich from the plate next to the scope and took a bite, with one eye still on the slide.

"Doc, got another live one for ya."

Perez looked up and saw Gabriel Mendez, his assistant, roll in a covered gurney. Mendez was grinning.

"How many times do I have to tell you, Gabriel? This is a place of business. Please respect it."

"I'm not the one eating a sandwich and looking at an HIV sample at the same time," quipped Mendez.

"Gabriel, please!"

"Sorry doc. You got a new stiff."

"Do you think you could stop referring to them as 'stiffs'? These were real people, with real lives."

"Doc, you know me."

"Yeah, yeah, the master of bad jokes."

Gabriel had the annoying habit of trying to make a dumb funny out of every phrase. This didn't make him very popular on the fifth floor, where he used to work, with the aged. The last straw was when Gabriel punned whether he should wheel one of his old senile patients back into his room or down to the morgue. That earned Gabriel a new assignment as assistant to the medical examiner.