Tax Cut

by Michele Lynn Seigfried

  “Is this a live video?”

  “I don’t think so; there’s a window next to the bed…looks dark outside.”

  “Holy moly! Do you think they know about the video yet?”

  “If they do, they got some huge explaining to do.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I couldn’t believe Nero knew how to get a video camera into someone’s bedroom and how he happened to stumble on this scandal.

  “How do you suppose I get this video off my computer?”

  “Don’t know, but it appears it’s going to be a while,” Bonnie said as she pointed toward the screen. Winifred and Pops were doing the deed in quite an animalistic way.

  I searched for a “close” button to save myself from the post-traumatic stress syndrome that was sure to occur after witnessing such a heinous act. It was like accidentally walking in on your parents doing it. I wasn’t against people doing their thing, but it was not something I wished to witness…ever! There was no close button. I frowned. I tried opening up a program. No luck, the box appeared in front of any window I tried to open, including the internet.

  “Bryce, did you have any luck getting this off your screen?” I yelled into his office. Seconds later, Bryce appeared in my doorway with a red face and tears in his eyes. He was having trouble breathing from all the laughing. He was wiping his eyes as he continued to giggle. He shook his head and kept laughing.

  “My (laugh)…stomach (laugh)…hurts (laugh)…from (laugh)…laughing so hard,” he said. Now it was my turn to shake my head. How embarrassing for John and Winifred. I kind of felt bad for John, but not so much for Winifred. Bryce walked away, wiping tears from his eyes and laughing. I turned off my computer. I didn’t want to see any more. I thought about calling Nero to congratulate him on his handiwork, but I didn’t feel like dealing with him. I buried myself with paperwork until it was time for me to deal with tonight’s board meeting.

  * * *

  I pulled my car into the parking lot at six thirty. I arrived a little earlier than usual so that I could set up, knowing I’d probably have a large crowd at the meeting, compliments of the zoning ordinance hearing. I noticed immediately that I wasn’t the only one in the parking lot, like I typically was. I was greeted by twenty rowdy, sign-holding hecklers. They were none too happy to see me. In their minds, I was part of their problem, simply because my employers wanted to take their homes away. I couldn’t blame them for being angry, but their anger was displaced.

  My uneasiness grew as I stepped out of the car. I grabbed my papers for the meeting from the back seat and pulled out my key to the building. I felt like I was about to commit a mortal sin by crossing the picket line.

  “Stop the insanity,” someone shouted in my ear.

  “Don’t take our homes, leave us alone,” others chanted.

  “Vote no for eminent domain; you’re all insane,” I heard another voice yell, and saw that their signs matched their shout outs.

  As I attempted to put my key in the door, I was stopped by a chubby woman in her fifties. “You’re ruining our lives,” she shouted in my face.

  A very tall and intimidating man walked over and stood between me and the door. My hands started trembling.

  “Does it make you happy to make someone homeless?” he asked.

  “I’m not on the board; I’m only here to open the building and take notes,” I explained.

  He stepped out of my way and let me open the door.

  I turned on the lights. A handful of people followed me into the boardroom, but the others stayed outside with their signs, repeating their axioms. They are going to make it clear that they aren’t going to give up their homes without a fight, I thought.

  I placed out the agendas I had with me, but realized I might need more, so I headed into my office to make some copies. When the copier stopped running, I heard voices. I listened carefully and overheard Dingo talking to someone. I was surprised that he was still at work. He normally left by four thirty daily. I left my office and practically bumped into Gino Righetti leaving the tax office. I had thought it was strange that Gino was there at that time of night and not during normal business hours.

  I headed back to the boardroom to find more seats filled in the audience. I set out the nameplates, passed out the board members’ mail, then took my place on the dais. I started up the recorder and computer, then sat patiently waiting for the meeting to start. As I waited, I saw several police officers standing around the back of the room. Crowd control had arrived. This made me feel relieved; at least there were officers around should anyone get out of hand.

  Each of the board members arrived with a police escort by their side. Winifred arrived wearing a skirt shorter than one I would put on my two-year-old. It was beyond unprofessional and it certainly didn’t rise to the level of being age appropriate…yet again. I would have thought that after that video, she would be afraid to show her face. Or at least afraid to show up in an outfit like that. Maybe she didn’t know about the video yet. Luckily, she couldn’t read my mind to see my newly found disgust of her.

  I forgot about Winifred’s skimpy wardrobe and started to wonder if the picketers were out of control or multiplying, but I knew better than to go out and look. When the meeting finally started, it was standing room only. The police wouldn’t allow everyone in the room because the masses would violate the fire code.

  After Marc called the meeting to order, he announced that there would be a two-minute time limit for each speaker and that speakers would only get one opportunity at the microphone, in an effort to allow many people as possible to speak. I was thrilled when I heard the last of his announcements, that there would also be a one-hour time limit on the comments for this public hearing. I had thought for sure that this meeting would have lasted all night, and now it gave me hope that I would be done with the meeting at a reasonable hour.

  For the next sixty minutes, almost thirty residents arrived at the microphone, pleading for the board not to take their residences and businesses. The beach club owners were among them. Most people expressed their dismay about changing the zoning from mainly residential to include zoning uses such as a casino and a hotel. They expressed extreme displeasure over the amount of traffic there would be in their neighborhoods. There were concerns about noise, lighting, the effect the Village Pier would have on their homes’ values. Some complained that their taxes would be going up due to the astronomical costs involved in purchasing the beach club. The beach club owners complained that this was their livelihood, that they worked hard to build the business, and they begged for the village to build their project around them. This, I comprehended. What I didn’t get were all the other people asking that their homes not be taken away from them. I wasn’t sure if their words were figurative or literal. Were they afraid of the fact that they lived in a quiet neighborhood now, which could become a bustle of activity, or did they fear their properties would actually be taken away? The zoning ordinance certainly didn’t take anyone’s home away from them. The condemnation ordinance was only to purchase the beach club, not for other properties.

  Audience members cheered and clapped after each speech. The tension in the room was fierce to begin with, but it tripled when Marc called for a vote on the adoption of the zoning ordinance. I noticed nail-biting, legs shaking, and sweat dripping among various audience members, as they awaited the fate of the R1 district. Winifred made the motion and John seconded it. Marc asked me to call the roll.

  “Ms. Brooks?” I asked.

  “No,” she said. The audience burst into a fit of cheer. I had to wait until everyone calmed down before I called the next name.

  “Mr. Paparazzo?”

  “Aye,” he responded as the crowd booed him. Again, I waited for quiet in the room.

  “Mr. Ravens?”

  “Nay,” he said. The sound of applause permeated the room.

  “Ms. Strega?”

  “Yes,” she said, which was confronted with obscenities and more booing.r />
  “Mr. Coglione?” With baited breath, they waited for Marc’s answer. It was a two-two vote and Marc was the tiebreaker. He hesitated.

  “Yes,” he said.

  The masses went wild, enraged at what just happened. They rushed the dais. The police screamed out warnings. I backed myself up as far as I could. I was overly sensitive to angry residents, given my history with one who turned out to be a murderer. Old memories brought back grave fears. I stood paralyzed until the police came and threatened to arrest anyone who didn’t back off. The police chief stood up and made an announcement that the meeting was finished and he told everyone to leave. Police officers escorted the board members out, while I stayed back to clean up a little.

  Once most everyone had left the room, and all was calm, a woman in her late sixties rushed toward me and started screaming.

  “You should have voted no!” she yelled. Evidently, she wasn’t paying attention because if she had been, she would have known I didn’t get a vote.

  “I’m only the secretary. I didn’t vote,” I explained to her as calmly as I could.

  “Then you should have convinced them!” she shouted.

  This woman obviously was not aware I had no ability to convince any board member of anything. And not only that, there was no way I was going to try. Marc hadn’t even allowed to me ask a question in the short time I knew him. I knew he wouldn’t put up with me telling him how to vote on something. I looked around the room for a police officer, but there were none. I didn’t know what else to say or how to disarm the woman, so I said, “I’m sorry.”

  She turned around and spat at me. I jumped back. Luckily, I did not get hit. She stormed out of the room. I noticed a police officer reentered at that moment.

  “Are you okay, ma’am?” he asked.

  “I’m fine, but I’m not cleaning that up!” I announced.

  This garnered a chuckle.

  “May I walk you to your car, ma’am?”

  “Yes, please, but if you call me ma’am one more time…” I stopped. I was about to give him a “bonnieism” about kicking him in areas held tight in place by his “whities,” but I stopped myself before I was accused of sexual harassment in the workplace. The officer walked me out to my car and I drove home.

  Chapter 15

  The next morning, I admired the daffodils that had begun to bloom outside of my house. Spring was in the air. A time for new beginnings, although my new beginning at work wasn’t going so well thus far. Neither was my new beginning with Kris. I sighed. I stopped for a cappuccino on the way into work to lift my spirits.

  One by one, various employees stopped in my office to hear about the crazy meeting from the night before. If nothing else, employees of Coral Beach were gossipmongers. When Bryce came by to ask about the meeting too, I asked him if he knew why Gino Righetti was in Dingo’s office so late in the evening. His best guess was that it had something to do with the taxes on all the properties he owned. I didn’t think that was much of an explanation. Gino could have called during regular business hours for that.

  “Is Gino looking to purchase more homes?” I asked with a confused look on my face—not truly confused, but trying to dig for information in a nonchalant way. “I thought the board was going to condemn the land for Gino’s Village Pier project.”

  “This village doesn’t have enough money to condemn all the land that Righetti wants for his project. That’s why the ordinance was only for the beach club,” Bryce explained.

  “Oh, that makes sense. I guess now I understand why all those people were angry at the meeting. I was so confused last night.”

  “Righetti already owns some of the homes, but he needs to get all of the beachfront homes in that zone.”

  “I guess some people didn’t mind selling out?”

  “Well, one was a short-sale and one house was already up for sale. Then there was one that had burnt to the ground, so I guess the owner didn’t feel like rebuilding. Oh, and he got a bunch of them after Hurricane Sandy a year and a half ago. They were all homes that were significantly damaged. I heard he was offering more money than the insurance companies.”

  “Makes sense. My parents had a tough time with the insurance company after that hurricane. Their first floor was ruined.” Without giving Bryce a chance to respond, I said, “Bryce, do you mind if I ask you a question. Just between you and me?”

  He looked a little nervous about what I was going to ask and he said, “Sure,” as if it was more of a question than a statement.

  “What do you think of the board members? I mean, Marc and Winifred are kind of mean to me. Are they like that with everyone, or do I just put them off?”

  Bryce stared at me with his deep brown eyes for a full sixty seconds before responding. It seemed more like a half hour. It was surprisingly uncomfortable. I had thought since Bryce was a nice guy and since we seemed to be becoming work friends, it wouldn’t be a problem for me to ask him his opinion. I suddenly regretted having asked during the minute of silence.

  “Well, I don’t have many direct dealings with them, but from what I have heard, you are not alone in how they treat you. I know this sounds kind of ‘high schoolish,’ but those in their clique are treated nicely. Everyone else…not so much.”

  “Oh, I see. I guess I’m not invited to play in the sandbox with them!” I said jokingly.

  “Don’t worry, Chelsey; that invite never arrived in my mailbox either.”

  “Is it the same for John, Aspen, and Jamie?”

  “John’s actually a nice guy. He’s owned the bakery in the village for years. He is very charismatic with his customers and gives away a lot of free stuff. Supplies a lot of rolls and bread for the food pantry and other good causes,” Bryce said.

  He continued. “Aspen got involved in politics young. He’s been around for the past five years. He works full-time as an architect, so he’s not in the building much. It’s rare to see him other than at a board meeting. Jamie is quiet. I don’t know much about her. She works a full-time job too, so I don’t see her often either.”

  “What about Marc?” I asked. “What does he do for a living?”

  “He runs his own swimming pool company. That’s why you see him here a lot. He can make his own hours and plus, his busy season hasn’t started yet.”

  “And Winifred?”

  “From what I understand, she doesn’t work.”

  “Retired?”

  “No, a housewife.”

  “Well, not for long, if her husband finds out about that video!”

  “Ugh, don’t remind me about that video. That was the worst rendition of porn I’ve ever seen in my life!”

  “Oh, so you watch porn?” I asked.

  “Um, no, I mean…”

  I laughed. “Just joking, Bryce.”

  He giggled while turning a bright shade of red. “I’m going to go back to my desk now,” he said.

  “Thanks for the info, Bryce!”

  “No problem, Chelsey. I’ll talk to you later.”

  I was relieved to know that it wasn’t solely me who didn’t care for Marc or Winifred. I got the impression that Bryce didn’t like them much either by his tone of voice when he spoke about them. Actually, most everyone I’d talked to seemed to have a problem with Marc and Winifred. I hoped that Marc’s business would start to take off in a couple of months with his clients getting their pools open for the summer, and that I would receive a reprieve from him. Unless Nero could find some dirt to make him quit. Of course, there was also the fact that he was taking bribes from a known mobster. Perhaps the details of that would come to light without me having to get involved. It was not my desire to mess with the mob. I regarded them like bumblebees—if I left them alone, they would leave me alone. I hoped!

  I had to stop thinking about Marc and Winifred. The wild goose chase that I was on provided me with a lack of motivation to do my job. I had wasted enough time this morning already and today was the deadline for agenda items for next Wednesday’s board
meeting, which meant I could not do any more procrastinating. The agenda items, plus the follow-up from last night’s meeting provided me with plenty of work to get done before I left for the evening. On the bright side, Bonnie was free of tax work today, so she could assist me.

  Bonnie took care of the legal advertisements required for the ordinance from last night’s meeting and copying, then distributing the remaining approved items from last night while I got to work on the next set of agenda items. The first on my list was a tax refund resolution. I started to type it, but I thought I already did this one at the last meeting. I pulled up the resolution for refunds that was approved last time to make sure it wasn’t a duplicate. It wasn’t. The last one was a refund of fourth-quarter taxes from last year. This one was a refund for first-quarter taxes of this year. The same people were on it—Marc, Winifred, John, and several members of the planning board. I also realized the local bakery was on both resolutions. I thought it was strange that there was an overpayment twice in a row for all the same people. I wondered if it was possible that all of them could double pay their taxes two quarters in a row. Taxes in Coral Beach were very high. I thought about the average person’s finances. The average person wouldn’t have given the government more money than it was owed...especially not twice in a row. The average person wouldn’t have that much money on hand to make a mistake like that.

  I also started to think about Marc taking money from Gino and I wondered if something more was going on. I quietly showed Bonnie that I had an identical tax refund resolution and I asked if she could look up the files and let me know who made the payments.

  A short while later, Bonnie let me know that Lutz Online Loans made one payment for each person on the agenda, and the other payment was made by each homeowner. Hypothetically, there could have been a mistake. Everyone could have refinanced and thought they were supposed to pay their own taxes and the mortgage company also paid the taxes, thinking they were supposed to pay. Despite the potential this logical explanation had, I had a feeling this wasn’t an error.