Death by Association Read online

  Two workers were carefully trimming the hedges while another landscaper mowed the lawn that lay between the buildings in front of the swimming pool. I saw KM Landscaping trucks in Hawkeye Haven almost every day. No wonder our HOA dues were so expensive. What with all the work that went into maintaining common community property, including literally tons of snow removal in the winter, and guards at the gates, the community budget was sky-high.

  After parking my Honda, I headed into the community center, rolling my suitcase full of supplies to the room that had been assigned for the day’s class. I stashed my suitcase in a corner of the room and walked down the hallway to the HOA manager’s office in hopes of learning about Bessie’s condition. Although there probably wasn’t any woman in the world whom I disliked more than Patty Morrison, I figured that she would probably know how Bessie was doing. There was nobody at the reception desk, but I could see Patty sitting in her office, so I walked around the counter that separated the administrative offices from the lobby and tapped on the door frame of her office.

  “Patty?”

  “I’m busy!” she snapped.

  I decided to ignore that comment, and said, “I was just wondering if you had heard anything about Bessie’s condition.”

  “That’s confidential. Shouldn’t you be in class?”

  “I can’t imagine why it should be confidential, and, by the way, class doesn’t start for half an hour yet.”

  She sniffed. “It’s really none of your business.”

  “Bessie’s my friend. I’m concerned about her.”

  “Don’t you think you’ve already caused enough trouble visiting the guardhouse with that flea-bitten dog of yours? The guards are there to work, not to pass the time of day with the residents.”

  “I’ve never interfered with any of the guards, and my dog does not have fleas.”

  She waved dismissively, and since it was obvious that I wasn’t going to get any information from her, I turned and stalked out of her office. I was fuming as I walked down the hallway toward my classroom, but I couldn’t say that I was surprised by Patty’s attitude. She was my least favorite type of person—someone who didn’t bother with being polite unless there was something in it for her, in which case she would pretend to be a best friend until she got what she wanted.

  I remembered the first time I had ever met her. I had already been hired to teach some DIY classes by the director of the HOA’s previous management company. According to Patty, it was a waste of the HOA’s money to hire instructors for special-interest classes, even though the sales staff of Hawkeye Haven always pitched them as one of the community’s amenities that prospective homeowners could take advantage of at no extra charge. One of the first things Patty tried to do after her management company took over was to fire me. Fortunately, I had signed a three-year contract for my teaching services, and my attorney had assured me that the agreement was ironclad. Evidently, he was right about the contract because Patty dropped her idea of getting rid of me. Instead, having given up on firing me directly, she didn’t hesitate to let me know that she considered my services unnecessary, and she never lost an opportunity to make a snide remark whenever she saw me. Usually, I ignored her, but I had to admit that I had let her get under my skin today.

  As I twisted the door handle of my classroom, the door sprang open, and I tripped, falling forward into the room, but luckily I managed to stay on my feet. Someone had opened the door from the inside at the same time I was opening it from the hallway. I looked up and saw Luke, who had a sheepish expression on his face, on the other side of the door.

  “Laurel, I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you coming.”

  “No harm done. Were you looking for me?”

  Luke nodded. “I thought you might be wondering about Bessie.”

  “Yes, I just tried to find out how she is from Patty, but she wouldn’t tell me.”

  “Hmmm…well,” I noticed that Luke seemed to want to say something about Patty, but refrained. “I just got off the phone with Bessie’s son, Tom.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “Her vital signs are stable, but she’s unconscious. She never did regain consciousness after the attack.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Tom said she’s scheduled for some tests this morning, and then maybe they’ll know more about her condition.”

  “Poor Bessie! I still can’t believe that someone would attack her like that. It’s all so senseless.”

  Luke nodded. “I agree. It’s a terrible thing. I hated to have to be the one to tell her son what happened this morning. He was beside himself.”

  “The poor guy. Bessie talks about him all the time. He’s her only child, and Bessie says that he’s always pressing her to move in with him and his family, but she doesn’t want to disrupt their lives. Honestly, I don’t think he’d keep asking her if he didn’t really mean it.”

  I could hear voices in the hallway then, and I knew that my students were beginning to arrive. I needed to unload my suitcase and set out the class materials and sample necklaces I’d made to show to the class members. Luke held the door open while the first six women trooped in.

  “Morning, ladies,” he greeted them as they thanked him for holding the door open for them. “I’d better get going, Laurel. I’ll let you know if I hear any news.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate that.”

  Luckily, I didn’t need to re-arrange the tables and chairs in the room, so I hurriedly set out my supplies at the front table. According to the class roster, twenty residents had enrolled in the class, and I recognized all their names except one––Amber Johannson. By ten o’clock, seventeen women had arrived and were sitting in groups of three or four at five round tables that had been set up throughout the room. Although it wasn’t unusual to have a few latecomers, I like to start my classes on time, so I began showing my samples of the necklace project in various colors. Before class started, I had received several compliments on the sparkling crystal necklace I wore, and I was happy that the students were enthusiastic about making their own crystal necklaces. Because the components of the necklace were small, and it would have been difficult for the students to see the steps in its construction, I had put together a PowerPoint slide show that I could project on a huge screen that dropped down from a recessed slot in the ceiling when I turned on the classroom computer. Tiny beads, wires, and bead tips now became magnified so that it was easy for the students to see what they would be doing in just a few minutes.

  As I flipped the overhead lights off and began the presentation, the door opened and the three missing students came in. I turned the light back on so that they could see to find their way to the tables. It was slightly irritating that students showed up late for my classes, but I was glad that, this time, at least, they had arrived before I’d begun to explain the step-by-step process of the necklace’s assembly. In the past, some of my students had shown up half an hour late or more, and then I’d had to repeat all the instructions for them, but I had finally become resigned to the inevitable. There would always be students who showed up late. After all, they were taking my DIY classes for fun, so I couldn’t be too hard on them.

  Even though I always handed out a copy of each project’s instructions to the students after my slide presentation, it helped them to have some direct hands-on instruction, too, so I always circulated around the classroom, sitting with each group in turn, and helped the students with any techniques that seemed difficult for them.

  I began my rounds of the groups, and as I approached the table where two of the latecomers sat, I recognized one of them as the young, blonde woman who had helped Alice Sandstrom earlier by driving her car away from the back gate. She was the only woman there who had never attended one of my classes before.

  “Hi, I’m Laurel. You must be Amber,” I greeted her.

  “Yes, Amber Johannson. My husband and I just moved here last month. It’s a big change from Phoenix. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to the humidity, a
nd I’m not looking forward to the cold winters, either.”

  “It’s tough. I’m from Seattle myself, and I know what you mean. The weather here can be really brutal, but I love the fall season in Iowa. It’s so crisp and cool.”

  “Laurel, could you show me how to tie the knot again?” asked my friend, Amy Scott, a petite, brown-haired woman wearing a bright orange polo shirt and jeans.

  “Yes, mine keeps slipping out of the bead tip,” said another woman.

  “Sure, it’s like this.” I snipped a piece of beading wire from the spool Amy offered me and demonstrated how to make the knot and close the bead tip over it, making a neat end for a strand of beads and hiding the knot completely at the same time.

  “Oh, I see,” Amy said, successfully forming her own knot, “like so.”

  “Yes, that’s it, exactly.”

  There were approving murmurs all around as the other students managed to tie their knots and began stringing crystal beads on their wires.

  “Amber,” I said, “it was nice of you to help Mrs. Sandstrom this morning. I noticed that she looked confused when Luke asked her to move her car.”

  “I was happy to help. She’s my next-door neighbor, you know. I’m afraid that she shouldn’t be driving anymore. I know that she’s been having trouble with her eyes lately.”

  “Oh, dear. I admit I was surprised to see her driving. I wonder where she was going so early in the morning.”

  “She goes to the supermarket at Four Corners Mall because she can take the side road from the back gate. There’s hardly any traffic on that street, especially early in the morning. I know because my husband and I like to go early to the gym at Four Corners.”

  “Oh, I never go to that mall,” Amy chimed in. “It’s so out of the way. I always use the main gate, but I heard that there was quite a commotion at the back gate this morning. Do you know what happened?”

  Frankly, I was surprised that the community grapevine didn’t seem to be working at its usual pace today. Normally, gossip seemed to travel at the speed of light in Hawkeye Haven. Briefly, I explained that a security guard had been attacked at the back gate. Although I mentioned Bessie’s name, nobody seemed to know who she was, which didn’t surprise me because she was always stationed at the back gate, and few residents ever used it. As I spoke, the low conversations that had been taking place at each table in the classroom ceased. Everybody in the room had fallen silent and was listening to me. When I finished, the conversational buzz resumed, this time with the new and startling topic of an attack on a community security guard.

  As I moved from table to table around the room, helping the students with their projects, it became evident that complacency had been replaced by concern, and, in a few cases, even alarm. The high walls surrounding Hawkeye Haven, the security cameras, gates, patrols, and armed guards had all combined to make the residents feel that they were safe from violent crime. Now they knew better. If an armed guard could be attacked, so could an unarmed resident. Hawkeye Haven had suddenly become a more dangerous place to live.

  As much as I hated to see my neighbors in fear, I had to admit to myself that I no longer felt quite as safe as I had before this morning. Perhaps the security measures at Hawkeye Haven had lulled us all into believing that our community was invulnerable. I shuddered with the realization that there is no absolute security in the world. Nevertheless, I had no intention of giving in to fear. I had heard one of the women who lived alone announce that she would be buying a gun to defend herself. I couldn’t help thinking that Bessie’s gun hadn’t protected her, and maybe it was the reason she had been attacked. Only the gun and her wallet had been missing from the guardhouse. Did the attacker really believe that Bessie was carrying a lot of money in her handbag? That didn’t seem likely. Had the gun been what the attacker was really after? One thing was certain: until the crime was solved, a sense of uneasiness would pervade Hawkeye Haven.

  As the class meeting was coming to a close, Cynthia Bowles, a garrulous retiree, who was known for her active participation in several clubs and charitable organizations, approached me and asked if she could make an announcement. She wanted to take up a collection from the students so that the class could send Bessie flowers at the hospital. Hoping that Bessie would soon be able to see and enjoy the bouquet, I nodded. I fashioned a DIY get-well-soon card from some lavender card stock that I had stashed in my supply suitcase, and, using some hole punches of various shapes, I made a lacey border around it. Cynthia and I signed the makeshift card, and she began passing it around to the students. There couldn’t have been a better person to take charge than Cynthia, who was highly organized and efficient. Within a few minutes, she had collected money from everyone in the room; retrieved the get-well card; and, I had no doubt, would deliver the flowers and card to the hospital herself within a few hours.

  I wrapped up the session by asking each student to show her necklace to the other students. Most of the women had been able to complete their projects during class, and the others were far enough along that they should have no trouble completing their own necklaces at home. As the students left the room, I could hear that the main topic of conversation was still the attack on Bessie. A few of my students had been surprised to learn that the guard who had been attacked was a woman in her seventies, but Bessie had told me that she had worked as a security guard for more than twenty years, and since she had started collecting social security retirement benefits a decade earlier, she had finally been able to enjoy having some extra money, most of which she spent on her grandchildren. Bessie had never considered her job dangerous, despite the fact that she was required to carry a gun at work. Her main duties—opening the gate to admit visitors and residents and keeping track of all the people who entered Hawkeye Haven—were routine and probably more than a little boring.

  Most of the students had left by the time I began replacing the samples, tools, and supplies in my suitcase. Although today I hadn’t needed anything except the samples, I liked to be prepared by bringing extra tools, beads, and components, just in case one of the students forgot to bring her own. I zipped the bag closed, placed it on the floor, and pulled up the handle so that I could roll it out to my car. I said good-bye to Amy and Amber, who had been lingering in the classroom.

  After they left, only one student remained in the room. Although she was sitting with her back toward me, I recognized her because Sonya Arnold was the only woman I knew who habitually wore her long black hair in a ponytail. I noticed something else, too. Sonya’s shoulders were heaving, and I could hear muffled sobs. I hoped that Sonya wasn’t crying about a broken project, as another student had once done several months earlier. Even though the other student’s tears had been ones mainly of frustration, which I could certainly understand, having been the creator of many a DIY project that didn’t quite turn out the way I had planned, the incident had been a bit embarrassing, both to the crying student and her classmates.

  “Sonya, are you okay?” I inquired, realizing instantly what a stupid question I had asked.

  Obviously, she wasn’t okay or she wouldn’t be crying. I edged up to the table where she sat. Sonya was dabbing ineffectually at her tear-streaked face with a soaked tissue.

  “Just a second,” I said, returning to my suitcase, unzipping the bag, and pulling out a box of tissues.

  I set the box on the table in front of Sonya, and she yanked a handful of tissues from it and began mopping her eyes.

  “Oh, Laurel, I’ve been such a fool,” she sighed.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Everything. Tommy and I aren’t getting along. He’s so angry with me that he’s threatening to get a divorce.”

  She paused, but I resisted the urge to prompt her. I figured she would go on with her story when she was ready.

  “Do you know Victor Eberhart?” she asked me.

  “Not really. I know who he is, though.”

  Victor had been the president of the Hawkeye Haven Homeowners’ A
ssociation for the past six months, and he was already so unpopular with the residents that some of them were circulating a petition to have him removed from office. I hadn’t had any personal dealings with him myself, but I knew that I would be seeing him at the scheduled HOA meeting tomorrow night. My friend Liz was having a conflict with Victor about a demand from the HOA that she paint her house, and she’d asked me to accompany her to the meeting to provide moral support.

  “Do you know his reputation?”

  “I know that he isn’t too popular with some of the residents,” I said. “They think he’s unreasonable and unfair.”

  “Oh, he’s that and more. He’s a truly despicable man. If it weren’t for him, Tommy wouldn’t be so stressed out. I can’t believe that something we started with the best of intentions has gone so wrong.”

  “What is it, Sonya?”

  “All we wanted to do was to make our backyard a great place for our kids. We put in a swimming pool, a playhouse, and new landscaping. Olivia—you know, the former HOA manager—told me that our paperwork was fine when she gave me the go-ahead to start construction, and our new backyard turned out even better than I’d hoped. The kids love swimming in the pool, and they adore their cute little playhouse.”

  “But there was a glitch?” I guessed.

  “Big time. After Victor was elected HOA president, he got rid of Olivia’s property management company and hired Patty’s instead.”

  “Let me guess. Patty said that your paperwork wasn’t in order, and you’d have to re-do it.”