Dog's Green Earth

by Neil S. Plakcy

  I remembered Todd Chatzky, and how quickly and unexpectedly his life had been wiped out. “We have to think that about everyone around us.”

  “I can try to do that,” Joey said.

  “That’s all any of us can do.”

  17: Being Present

  When I went back to my office, I settled into my chair and looked out the big glass window at Friar Lake. From the gatehouse I could see all the way through the property, down the paved paths, past the Gothic-style chapel, to the dormitories where the monks had lived.

  Had those monks been happy, I wondered? Were there complaints against the abbot, the cellarer, a brother who snored through evening prayers? Or had they managed to live simple lives without argument, working together for the common good?

  Back then, I assumed, if they had disputes, they were addressed in person, rather than through an electronic intermediary. Was that better, or worse?

  I was in my office for about an hour when Joey showed up. “When things go wrong between you and Lili, how do you handle them?” he asked, as he sunk into the chair across from me. Rochester got up and rested his head on Joey’s knee.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “It seems like we argue about everything lately. Whose turn is it to take the laundry to the laundromat? I let Mark sleep late, so why can’t he make the bed when he gets up? Do we really want to buy a house together when every little thing sets us off?”

  I blew out a breath. “Those are both large and small questions. I try to start with that saying about don’t sweat the small stuff. But I know that’s not terribly helpful.”

  Joey frowned. “It’s not.”

  “But you can handle the small stuff pretty easily. Put up a calendar on your fridge and mark things off when you do them.”

  “That’s so petty, though.”

  “I understand. But sometimes it’s the petty stuff that makes you crazy, and if you can keep track of it, that’s one less irritation.” I smiled. “Unless, of course, you forget to mark things off on the calendar.”

  “Not helping.”

  “The real solution is to talk about what’s bothering you,” I said. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know,” Joey said, with agony in his voice. “I know I’ve been stressed with my father in the hospital, but he’s my dad, and even when my brothers volunteer to help I want to be there. Mark says it’s a control issue and that I have to learn to let go.”

  I thought for a minute. “Sometimes when I get caught up in something, I’m not really present with Lili when I should be. I mean, we’ll be at dinner together, and I’ll be in my head thinking about a question, and she’ll start to get irritated.”

  That had happened more times than I wanted to admit, especially when, as we were then, Rochester and I were nose to the ground on the trail of a criminal. “Does that sound like something that’s going on with you and Mark?”

  He sighed. “Maybe. I know I’ve been trying not to burden him with things that I’m worrying about.”

  “The problem is when you’re worrying about something and the other person doesn’t know what it is, the other person can think it’s them.”

  I shook my head. “That grammar was terrible. If you’re upset about your dad, you should share those feelings with Mark. That’s what a relationship is all about. And if you tell him you’re stressed about your dad, he won’t worry that it’s something he said or did that’s bothering you.”

  “I hate this stuff about sharing feelings,” Joey said. “In the past it hasn’t been a problem for me, because, well, I have a pretty happy-go-lucky attitude toward the world, and Mark is the one who worries about everything.”

  “It’s new territory for you, but that doesn’t mean you can’t grow a pair and man up,” I said. “Talk to him. You’re going to buy a house together. You need to be on the same page whenever possible.”

  He stood up, shaking out his big frame. “I’ll give it a try.”

  My first year at Eastern, I lived in an all-male dorm called Birthday House, full of young guys on their own for the first time, full of testosterone and unaccustomed freedom. No parents to dictate bedtimes or homework, only a couple of resident advisors who were barely older than we were, and unable to control us. I’d gotten into trouble a couple of times, culminating in a wild naked run around the exercise track with a bunch of my buddies after a few too many beers.

  That hadn’t ended well, and I learned a couple of lessons that helped the next time I was pushed into an all-male environment, courtesy of the California state penal system. Keep my head down and my mouth shut. Look for allies who would keep me out of trouble. Avoid conflict at all costs.

  In a sense, that was what I was advising Joey, too. I assumed that was how the monks worked things out, too. When I got home, I practiced what I had preached to Joey. I put all my worries aside, about Friar Lake and River Bend, and focused on being present for Lili.

  She noticed the difference at dinner. “You’ve been so preoccupied lately but it feels like you’re more here than usual. Is that my imagination?”

  I told her about my conversation with Joey, and she nodded approvingly. “You should have more talks like that.”

  “With you?”

  “If you like.”

  And so we sprawled on the sofa, and talked about the photography exhibition she’d gone to in New Hope the week before, and how it might influence her own work. We talked about a mystery novel I was reading when I had the chance, and about Rochester’s behavior on walks.

  The ordinary stuff of daily life, but it was very relaxing. Those good feelings carried over into my work on Thursday, and I was able to get through a lot of paperwork and emails without feeling stressed.

  That evening after dinner, Rick called and asked if he could come over. “Only if you bring Rascal,” I said. “Rochester needs some play time.”

  “Good to know where I stand with you. Be there in a half hour.”

  As usual, Rochester alerted to Rick’s arrival long before I heard his truck pull into the driveway. He started barking like mad, and the only thing that shut him up was when I opened the front door and Rascal rushed in. The two of them took off on a mad dash up the staircase, toenails clicking on the wood.

  Lili kissed Rick’s cheek and said she was going to head upstairs. I offered Rick a beer from the fridge and took one for myself, and we sat in the living room. “What’s up?” I asked.

  “Mostly I just need to vent, and Tamsen’s off at a trade show in Vegas.”

  He sipped his beer. “This morning I was out doing surveillance at a bus stop near Crossing Commons. We had a report some of the kids had been getting into trouble while waiting for the bus.”

  Crossing Commons was the first apartment complexes in Stewart’s Crossing, and had been around since I was a teenager. Back then, it attracted what people called “the lower classes,” which meant somebody who couldn’t afford to buy a house. Though it had been completely renovated a few years before, the rumor was that some of the tenants were there on Section 8 vouchers, which made people suspicious.

  “You find anything?”

  “Yeah. Caught a couple of boys trying to knock down a stop sign by swinging their backpacks at it.”

  “Did you arrest them?”

  He shook his head. “They hadn’t managed to do any damage. But I gave them both a serious talking to. One of them plays football and I put the fear of his coach in his head. Hopefully it’ll work.”

  The dogs came scrambling back down the stairs and chased each other around the dining room table a couple of times. We watched them for a couple of minutes, until they suddenly collapsed together in a pile in the middle of the living room.

  “Any news about Todd Chatzky’s murder?” I asked Rick, when the dogs were settled.

  “Nothing. One minute I’m convinced it’s the widow. She has means, motive and opportunity, but at the same time, she’s genuinely broken up about her husband’s death.” He sipped his beer aga
in. “Then I think about all the stuff going on here at River Bend, and I have a gut feeling that all the problems you’ve pointed out must have some connection.”

  “I still have some more data to review. Want to look it over with me?”

  “Why not? I’ll get to see your computer wizardry at work.”

  “Hardly wizardry,” I said. “Just boring data analysis.”

  We moved over to the dining room table, where I turned on my laptop and brought up the material I had downloaded from the Hi Neighbor website.

  Rick and I read together in silence, until he said, “There are a lot of complaints about renters, aren’t there?” he asked. “Your neighbors don’t seem to like them.”

  “There’s a general problem with renters,” I said. “Not that I’m stereotyping, but in general, because they don’t have an investment in the property, they don’t care as much about stuff like taking care of things the association doesn’t handle, like planting flowers. And often they’re younger than the average home-owner, so they play music too loud.”

  Rick pointed to the screen. “This one complains about a dog left outside who barks all day. And there’s a whole bunch who are mad that people don’t put their trash cans out at the right time or on the right day.”

  “You see how narrow these streets are,” I said. “They’re just wide enough that two cars can pass each other comfortably. When people leave their trash cans out in the street, or pile up debris that spills out, it can make the streets like slalom courses.”

  We read together. Sometimes, the complainant was clear. “I live at 1515 Bucharest Place and renters moved into the townhouse next door to me six months ago. They leave their small child in the courtyard and the baby cries with a piercing shriek. I’ve complained to the management office and they tell me to call the landlord, but the only name they have is a corporation with a post office box and no phone number.”

  In others, it wasn’t. “One of renters on my street has a teenage boy who bounces a ball on his garage every night at midnight for at least an hour. Security says it’s his property so he can do what he wants.”

  I pointed to the name at the end of the complaint. “Hi Neighbor requires you to log in with your real name, rather than an online handle, and they validate with some database somewhere to make sure you either live here or own property here.”

  I opened a new browser and plugged in the name of the woman who complained about the teenage boy. “This woman, Arlene Locano, lives on Prague Place. That’s the first street in from Ferry Road.”

  Rascal got up from the floor and nosed his dad, which caused Rochester to do the same thing with me.

  “Fascinating as this is, I’ll leave the analysis to you,” Rick said. “If anyone new jumps out at you with a motive to kill Mr. Chatzky, you’ll let me know.”

  “I will indeed.”

  I let Rick and Rascal out, and sat on the floor with Rochester, scratching behind his ears. “You had a good time with your friend,” I said.

  He looked up at me with his big brown eyes. I remembered a cartoon I had seen online, two dogs talking to each other. The first one say, “What if I die before I find out who’s a good boy?”

  Since then, I’d changed my comments to Rochester. Instead of phrasing them as questions, I made statements. “You’re a good boy. Daddy loves you.”

  I maintained to anyone who’d listen that my dog really understood me, so it seemed a reasonable adjustment.

  18: Low Ball Offer

  Friday afternoon when I had some free time, I returned to the Hi Neighbor information I had been looking at with Rick the night before. Since he’d pointed out so many of the comments were about renters, I created a new spreadsheet and began making notes of homes that were being rented. It was anecdotal information at first—neighbors complaining about neighbors. Eventually I knew I’d have to go into the Bucks County Property Appraiser and see who owned those properties. And maybe I could get a full list of renters from Todd’s secretary Lois, or ask Rick to get it.

  The sun began dipping down outside my window, spreading a golden glow on the grassy lawns and shedding trees. Rochester sat up once and barked as Rigoberto and Juan left in their rundown sedan.

  Then he found one of his peanut-butter bones, settled down on the floor in front of my desk, and began chewing loudly. I did one last check of college emails, then closed my spreadsheet and called Joey. We agreed we could shut the property down for the weekend. On my way home, I stopped at the IGA grocery in the center of Stewart’s Crossing to pick up a bouquet of yellow and orange chrysanthemums for Lili—because I wanted to.

  She was happily surprised by the gesture, and we went out to dinner at a chain steakhouse out on the highway. “What’s new in the wonderful world of Steve?” Lili asked as we ate our salads.

  “I’ve been going through all the posts on Hi Neighbor,” I said. “I never realized there were so many problems, or so many people with complaints. It’s like reading Dear Abby, only without the resolutions.”

  “And all those complaints still don’t motivate you to do something? Like run for the board?”

  “I’m doing what I can,” I said. “Putting together this information for Rick. Trying to see if anyone who posted had a motive to kill Todd Chatzky.”

  “Do you think things will improve at River Bend with him gone?”

  The server appeared to take away our salad plates, which gave me a minute to think. “I don’t know. First I have to figure out if Todd was the source of the problems, or if it was the board.”

  “I think the whole system is screwed up,” Lili said. “When people complained to Todd, he put the blame on the board. But when people went to the association meetings, the board pushed the blame back on Todd and Pennsylvania Properties.”

  “There has to be an answer somewhere,” I said. “If I keep tugging on threads I believe a pattern is going to show up.”

  Lili raised her water glass to me. “Good luck with that.”

  § § § §

  Saturday morning, Rochester let me sleep in until eight o’clock, and we walked up toward the twin lakes in crisp autumn sunshine. As we got close, we ran into Drew Greenbaum and his mother’s corgi Lilibet. While the dogs played I asked how his mom was doing.

  “No better,” he said. “She’s in a rehab place for her broken hip, but I really need to get her into a senior living place with a memory care wing. Which I can’t do until I sell her house.”

  “Any luck getting the liens removed?”

  “I talked to the board president, that guy in the wheelchair.”

  “Earl Garner.”

  “Yeah, that’s the guy. He said he could make me a deal if I’d sell the house to him. He’d ‘take care’ of the liens.” Drew wiggled his index fingers to represent the verbal quotes.

  “Pay them off?”

  “Or something. He’s the president of the board. Who knows what he can do?”

  “You going to take the offer?”

  “Not sure yet. I’m meeting with a Realtor this morning to discuss my options.” I wondered if it would be one of the ones who’d been at Friar Lake for the lunch, and how that person felt about HOAs.

  For my part, I had been happy with the way the community had been run for most of the time I’d lived there. I didn’t start paying attention until things began to go wrong, and I wondered if that was the way many of my neighbors had been, too.

  When we got back to the house, Lili was on her way out. “Heading to New York to get my hair cut at that place Andrea del Presto recommended.” She leaned up and kissed my cheek. “I’ll grab something for breakfast at the train station in Trenton. See you later.”

  She was gone in a whirlwind of Chanel’s Chance perfume, the scent lingering in the air for a few minutes. I fixed Rochester his chow, had a muffin, and then turned back to my computer.

  I finished assembling the spreadsheet of rental addresses, and then turned to the property appraiser’s website. The first address I check
ed, the home of the screaming baby, got me no further—it was owned by 1517 Bucharest Place, LLC. Well, that was irritating. I’d have to go to the Pennsylvania Department of State to research the ownership of the LLC.

  The next address was easier – it was owned by Oscar Panaccio. Before I went any further, I searched for his name, just to make sure I hadn’t put in his home address by accident, and discovered that he owned five properties in River Bend, all townhouses.

  Two of them matched complaints I’d found on Hi Neighbor. Interesting, that he was on a committee that dispatched fines while at the same time he was a landlord who generated complaints. There wasn’t a committee for general complaints like noise violations; those went directly to the property manager.

  I went back to my search and quickly discovered a pattern. Twelve houses in River Bend, from single-family homes to townhouses, were owned by limited liability companies named after the property address, including one on Sarajevo Court a few doors down from mine.

  When I moved in, the people who lived there were an elderly couple, the Camerons. Mr. Cameron had a bichon frise who he walked all around the community, and he waved at every car he passed. He was a regular fixture of River Bend, and I was surprised one day when I saw a younger man come out of the Camerons’ townhouse with the dog on a leash.

  Neighborhood scuttlebutt—pre Hi Neighbor–provided the details. Mr. Cameron had suffered a stroke, and his stepson had moved in to help while he recovered. When Mr. Cameron came home from the hospital he’d lost at least fifty pounds and needed a walker.

  The stepson, a chain smoker, walked the dog morning and night. Then one day an ambulance appeared at the Cameron house and the news wasn’t good. Mr. Cameron suffered a stroke and died.

  Things went downhill quickly from there. Within months, the stepson was diagnosed with lung cancer—once again taken away in an ambulance, according to a neighbor. We learned that his cancer was at an advanced stage, and he never returned.