“Keep working on the audit spreadsheets,” I told her, picking up my paper folder.

“Where’re you going?” she asked.

“To go find Arthur Peterson,” I said.

At eleven thirty, Arthur Peterson was walking the asphalt curve of the cul-de-sac with a wooden ruler under his arm.

The HOA president pushed his silver-framed glasses up by the bridge as I stopped on the curb next to him.

“Good morning, David,” Arthur said, keeping his voice carefully even.

“I’m doing our quarterly gutter drain inspection for the township maintenance report.”