The first surprise after the preliminary hearing didn’t come from the criminal case. It came in a plain white envelope addressed to every homeowner in Cedar Glen.
Inside was a notice calling an emergency association meeting. Arthur Finch and Priya Shah had gathered enough signatures, according to the bylaws, to request a review of the board’s conduct and procedures. The letter was careful. It did not accuse Vivienne of stealing money or committing a crime. It asked residents to examine financial records, the process for issuing fines, and the authority of the president to make decisions without a recorded vote.
Vivienne responded within twenty-four hours.
She sent a long email accusing Arthur and Priya of “destabilizing the neighborhood during a sensitive family matter.” She suggested their petition was part of my attempt to humiliate her. She warned that anyone supporting it was undermining property values.
I called Arthur and asked if he was all right.
“She’s made me mad enough to learn how to use a spreadsheet,” he said.
“That’s dangerous.”
“You have no idea.”
For years, he explained, the association had budgeted money for beautification projects that seemed never to be completed. The amounts weren’t necessarily evidence of anything illegal. They were simply unexplained, and the board was legally and contractually obliged to account for how community funds were used.
“I’m not trying to turn everybody into a suspect,” Arthur said. “I just want to see where the money went.”
Priya joined the call. She had been reviewing meeting minutes posted in the neighborhood portal. Several files were missing; others referred to votes without identifying who was present. One notice included a fine for an outdoor decoration placed on a property before the owner moved in.
“How did that happen?” I asked.
“Maybe clerical error,” Priya replied. “Maybe people making decisions without checking. Either way, it’s fixable if we stop pretending it isn’t there.”
A woman named Denise Harper then contacted them. Denise worked long shifts as a nursing assistant and lived with her son near the south entrance. For two years she’d received violation notices about delivery vehicles stopping at her curb. She paid several fines because she couldn’t afford to take time off work for hearings.
She wasn’t asking for revenge. She wanted the money returned if the penalties had been improper, and she wanted the board to treat every home by the same rules.
When Arthur told me her story, I thought of the man who had accused me of scratching a bumper years ago. My photograph had protected my work. Denise hadn’t had pictures of the delivery trucks or the conversations afterward. She hadn’t known she needed them.
I realized documentation was a privilege as well as a habit. You needed time, equipment, and confidence to challenge a person who spoke as if authority belonged to her alone.
I offered to pay for copies of the records and a neutral review by an accountant. Arthur thanked me but declined the money.
“This needs to belong to the homeowners,” he said. “Not to your checkbook.”
He was right. I respected him more for saying it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO — The Call from the Restoration Shop
In October, Theo and I drove to the specialty restoration facility where the Lamborghini sat partially disassembled. The drive took two hours. We spent most of it talking about shop work because neither of us wanted to discuss what we’d see when we arrived.
