Rules of Lying (Jane Dough Series) by Stephie Smith Page B

self, and then squinted out the peephole.
    Mr. Carlson, the president of the homeowners’ association and also of a local bank, stood on the stoop. Even though he couldn’t have been forty, I could only think of him as Mr. Carlson. Come to think of it, I didn’t even know his first name. That was okay because I’d never dare use it if I did.
    It was a scorching day, and he was wearing a dark suit and tie, white shirt, and shiny black shoes. His thinning salt and pepper hair was parted on the side and gelled into place. He had unremarkable features unless you counted his black button eyes and lack of a chin.
    For the second time that day, I considered pretending I wasn’t home. For one thing, it was just plain rude of Carlson to show up unannounced. He had my phone number; it wouldn’t have hurt him to use it. For another thing, the registered letter telling me I had ninety days to clean up my property or else be fined a humungous amount of money had only been delivered two weeks earlier, along with an offer from the homeowners’ association to buy me out. There was no reason for Carlson to be here now except to pressure me into selling. Perhaps the board thought I would always be trouble for them, so they might as well get rid of me now and spare themselves future aggravation.
    They were probably right. I hadn’t paid any attention to that contract clause about maintaining my two acres in a manner consistent with the rest of the neighborhood until they forced me to. There were probably other clauses I wasn’t paying attention to as well. Only time would tell.
    But the bottom line was that I would not be moving, though they offered a fair price.
    Buoyed by my determination, I wrenched open the door.
    “Mr. Carlson, so nice to see you again. To what do I owe this pleasure?” I smiled sweetly without opening the door too wide. He clearly wanted to step in out of the sun. I clearly wasn’t going to let him.
    He gave me a disdainful sweeping glance from head to foot. I gave him one back.
    “Jane, the association has asked me to stop by with this very generous offer to see if you will reconsider. You have to admit, we’ve been more than accommodating. We could have fined you long ago; you’ve lived here for nine months and done nothing about your yard. But now … the entire neighborhood is upset over your humiliating search for a husband, and they’ve been complaining in droves about the sign, the yard, everything. Otherwise, I’m certain this outrageous amount would not have been agreed upon.”
    He unfolded a piece of paper and pointed at the amount. I opened the door wider and leaned over to take a look.
    I was surprised, but I didn’t show it. They had upped the offer by fifty thousand dollars.
    “Who?” I asked.
    Mr. Carlson frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
    “Who are the neighbors upset by my humiliating search for a husband? Which ones? I want names.”
    Mr. Carlson cleared his throat as his gaze skittered away from mine. “You certainly can’t expect me to betray confidences.”
    “I certainly can. Tell me the names of the neighbors who have complained, right now while you’re standing here and not after you’ve left and gone around to dredge some up.”
    He drew back in affront and his chin disappeared into his neck. “How dare you,” he said, glaring at me as though I’d called him a pig or worse. But I guess I was calling him worse. I was calling him a liar.
    “See here, Jane, you’re going to lose this property, and we’re trying to give you a way out. A more than fair way out, I might add. In less than ten weeks, you’ll have to pay us ten percent of your property value as a fine, and no one will give you a way out then. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
    “I understand perfectly. And I’m telling you my property will be consistent with the rest of the neighborhood in ten weeks. Wasn’t that the term? Consistent?”
    Mr. Carlson’s beady eyes bugged out and he sputtered for