Then I told her I wanted to keep documenting what happened before deciding on further action.
Janet wasn’t entirely pleased.
“You don’t have to let her keep doing this.”
“I know. But she’s already ignored every response I’ve sent.”
She closed the folder.
“Then promise me something. If she does anything involving the police or emergency services, you call me immediately.”
“I will.”
I left her office thinking that Brenda might finally be running out of options.
The homeowners had rejected her amendment.
Her attempt to have the Jeep towed had failed.
The property management company had confirmed that she couldn’t simply make up enforcement provisions.
I hoped she’d accept that and move on.
Instead, a few months later, a county code enforcement officer pulled into my driveway.
His name was Tom Ridley.
I was changing the Jeep’s oil.
The hood was up, and I had a drain pan underneath.
Tom stepped out of his vehicle and looked around.
“Chief Cole?”
“That’s me.”
He glanced at the Jeep.
“Somebody filed a complaint saying you’re operating a commercial repair business out of your house.”
I stared at him.
“I’m changing my oil.”
“I can see that.”
“That’s the business.”
He smiled slightly.
“Mind if I take a look?”
“Go ahead.”
He walked around the driveway, checked the equipment, and made a few notes.
There was no commercial operation.
No customer vehicles.
No business signage.
Just a man changing the oil in his own Jeep.
Tom closed his notebook.
“I’m marking the complaint unfounded.”
“Appreciate it.”
He paused.
“Chief, you’ve got somebody spending a lot of time worrying about what you do in this driveway.”
“I’ve noticed.”
After he left, I added the complaint to the folder.
I wasn’t laughing anymore.
Brenda had repeatedly tried to involve outside agencies in something that was entirely personal.
And I was beginning to wonder what she’d do next.
The answer came in March.
I got home one evening and walked around the Jeep, checking the tires before going inside.
When I reached the passenger side, I stopped.
Three long scratches ran across the paint.
They stretched from the front fender toward the rear quarter panel.
They were deep.
Not the kind of marks a branch leaves when you’re driving through brush.
Someone had deliberately dragged something sharp along the body.
I put my hand against the damaged panel.
For several seconds, I couldn’t say anything.
I remembered sanding that same section of the Jeep late one night, years earlier, after my father died.
I’d spent hours restoring the original forest-green paint.
It had been one of the last steps in bringing his vehicle back to the way I remembered it.
Now somebody had carved three lines through the work.
Owen came outside.
“Dad?”
I didn’t turn around.
“What’s wrong?”
He stepped beside me and saw the scratches.
His face changed.
“Who did that?”
“I don’t know.”
He looked across the street.
“Was it Brenda?”
“I don’t know, Owen.”
“But she’s been trying to get rid of it.”
“I know.”
He stared at the damage.
“That’s Grandpa’s Jeep.”
I looked at him.
For the first time in a long while, I could hear how much the vehicle meant to him, too.
Not because of the tires or the winch or the engine.
Because it was one of the few things he could touch that had belonged to a grandfather he’d never really known.
Owen told me he’d heard a vehicle pull up and leave earlier.
He thought it sounded like a luxury SUV.
That wasn’t enough to identify anyone.
I wasn’t going to accuse Brenda of damaging the Jeep without proof, regardless of what she’d done before.
I called the sheriff’s office.
Deputy Tillman came out and photographed the scratches.
The repair estimate was approximately $3,200.
There were no witnesses and no evidence identifying who’d done it.
The report listed no suspect.
That bothered me more than I wanted to admit.
I could tolerate letters and arguments.
But somebody had come onto or close enough to my property to damage something my family cared about.
That night, I ordered a security camera.
I installed it beneath the front eave, with a clear view of the driveway.
Owen helped me test it.
“Think they’ll come back?” he asked.
“I hope not.”
He watched the camera feed on my phone.
“At least we’ll see them if they do.”
“Exactly.”
The camera stayed.
No one came back to damage the Jeep.
But Brenda wasn’t finished.
In early June, Colonel Dietrich called me.
“Ethan, did you get an invitation to the summer social?”
“What summer social?”
There was a pause.
“You’re kidding.”
“No.”
“Brenda’s hosting the neighborhood party on the fourteenth. Across the street from you.”
I looked through the window toward her house.
“First I’ve heard of it.”
“She invited everybody.”
“Apparently not everybody.”
Walt sighed.
“There’s something else. She sent a note asking people to move oversized or modified vehicles off Cedar Bluff Drive during the event.”
I didn’t need to ask which vehicle she meant.
“She specifically mentioned my Jeep?”
“No. But everybody knows.”
He sounded angry.
“It’s ridiculous, Ethan.”
I thanked him for calling.
A copy of the notice reached me later.
Brenda had described the request as a courtesy to help maintain the neighborhood’s appearance for guests.
She wanted modified vehicles moved to a rear parking area.
I read the notice and set it aside.
My Jeep was legally parked on the public street in front of my house at the time. It wasn’t blocking a driveway, an intersection, or pedestrian access.
There was no reason to move it.
On the afternoon of the party, Brenda’s yard was full of people.
White tents stood across her lawn.
There were rented tables and chairs, music playing through speakers, and a catered food station.
She’d put a lot of effort into the event.
Owen and I stayed home.
We had leftover pizza in the refrigerator and a Braves game on television.
I was perfectly happy with that arrangement.
Around four-thirty, Owen looked toward the front window.
“She’s got a lot of people over there.”
“Looks like it.”
“Doesn’t it bother you that she didn’t invite us?”
I thought about the question.
“Not really.”
“Even after everything?”
“Especially after everything.”
He laughed and went back to watching the game.
A little later, the phone rang.
It was Lisa Hernandez, one of our county dispatchers.
I’d known Lisa for years. She had handled everything from structure fires to medical emergencies, and she rarely called me directly unless something needed my attention.
“Chief, I’ve got something you’re going to want to know about.”
I muted the television.
“What’s going on?”
“A woman at 119 Cedar Bluff just called 911 asking to have a Jeep towed.”
I looked out the window.
“Brenda Waverly?”