Page 27 of Housesitter

Too late. The ‘on hold’ music kicked back in, the staticky, slightly off-tempo cover of a Miley Cyrus song picking up right where it had left off. Shepherd made a frustrated sound in the back of his throat and, hands clenched around his phone, thumped the edge of it against his forehead.

“Having problems?” Easy asked as he looked around the frame of the kitchen door, one dark eyebrow raised.

It was hard to deny, but it probably wouldn’t be professionally prudent to say ‘yes’. Shepherd gave the HOA representative a tight smile that said nothing one way or another.

“Phone tag,” he said and headed back into the kitchen.

Emily—and the 47 loyal viewers of Cold Cases Connecticut—had been ushered back to the little orange VW Bug she’d parked outside. Her phone was still under the dresser. Shepherd had a mental note made to deal with that later.

He had a feeling that getting rid of Easy wouldn’t be as…easy…as hitting him with a big magnet a few times.

The ‘on hold’ music had transitioned into a slightly shitty cover of a Sam Smith earworm. Shepherd shifted it to the back of his mind as he set the phone down on the counter.

“Maybe you should wait until the situation regarding Mr. Madden’s next of kin is resolved,” he suggested. “I’m just a freelancer, and Renfield’s only has a limited remit to act on our client’s behalf.”

Easy had helped himself to a glass of water. He stood in front of the range, his weight idly shifted onto one hip, as he took a drink from the tall glass. Either the particulates in the liquid or the dank, mossy aftertaste it left in the back of the throat made him grimace. He lowered the glass and wiped his thumb over his mouth.

“We could, but we won’t. The board voted to proceed.”

“Wh—” Shepherd started to ask.

Easy didn’t bother to wait for him to finish.

“We had an emergency meeting last night,” he said. “We emailed the current owner of record about it, which satisfies all notification requirements in our bylaws.”

“He’s dead,” Shepherd pointed out.

Easy raised a finger. “Assumed dead,” he corrected. It was a point that Shepherd had made himself, but it was more annoying from Easy. “We don’t have any sub-clauses covering that. Someone should probably raise that at our meeting, but for now we’re in the clear. Anyhoo, according to Captain Doncaster, you're the responsible party of record. So, if you could sign on the dotted line acknowledging receipt of the Notice of Violation and the remediation requirements. As you said, you’re not actually a representative of the Estate, but for the record, they will have thirty days to bring the house up to code and in line with the articles covering the garden, exterior, and presentation of the property within the CC&Rs. If they don’t act within the timeline, that will automatically trigger Section 5.2 enforcement procedures. But that won’t be your problem. So…if you could. I'm going to be late for my tee time at the golf club.”

He leaned over and tapped the literal dotted and initialed line with a long finger.

Shepherd reached for the forms. He cast his eye down the long list of supposed violations. The majority of them were strikingly mundane in nature. Also remarkably petty—the shade of paint on the fence was two tones off the approved Shrimpboat Pink? Really?

“Well, I guess I don’t have much choice,” Shepherd said reluctantly as he looked back up at Easy. The man looked smug. Shepherd tucked the board against his chest and folded his arms over it. “But I will need to have an independent inspector confirm that these violations are all accurate and that they have been properly investigated and documented. Until then I’m not saying anything, and I’ll need a stay on proceedings.”

The smirk on Easy’s face curdled.

Shepherd hadn’t dealt with that many HOAs, but he had dealt with New York co-ops. The mainstay tactics of bureaucratic intimidation were very similar.

“...that’s one way to go,” Easy said sourly. “Not sure it’s something I’d waste my time on when it’s not even my house.”

“That’s why people pay Renfield’s rates,” Shepherd told him. “We go above and beyond.”

They also went below and behind, but that was for clientele that were in the know.

Easy glanced at his watch and grimaced at the time.

“Fine,” he said, under the time crunch of his upcoming tee time. He straightened up and pointed one finger at Shepherd. “But the stay is only on the enforcement process. The remediation timeline still starts from notification. If everything on that list hasn’t been addressed, the HOA will have to escalate. Good luck even finding someone to look at the place in that timeframe.”

“Don’t worry, I’m resourceful.”

Easy shrugged as he carried the glass of water over. He reached past Shepherd—uncomfortably close to his personal space—to put it in the sink.

“And I’m a contractor,” Easy said. “It’s a busy month. Or it’s going to be. Trust me.”

Shepherd’s gut reaction to that was ‘no,’ and he was usually not a good judge of character at all. So that didn’t bode well.

He grabbed his phone, now onto an electro-bossa-nova cover of something, and followed Easy out of the kitchen. He watched from the front door as the lanky man sauntered back to the cherry-red BMW, an equally red-haired trophy girlfriend boredly scrolling on her phone in the passenger seat as she waited for him.