Because the arrogance was almost unbelievable.
"Ma'am, people moved next to an existing orchard."
She narrowed her eyes.
"And perhaps the orchard should adapt."
I shook my head.
"No."
The smile disappeared.
"We'll see."
She turned and walked away.
The fruit thefts began three weeks later.
At first, I blamed teenagers.
I would come outside in the morning and find small branches damaged.
A few peaches were missing.
Occasionally one lay crushed near the wall.
I installed a temporary motion-activated camera.
The first recording showed nothing unusual.
A raccoon.
A squirrel.
Two birds.
Then, at 6:14 on a Tuesday morning, the HOA president appeared.
She wore exercise clothes and sunglasses.
She approached the wall.
Looked left.
Looked right.
Then reached into my tree.
She picked three peaches.
Dropped them into her handbag.
And walked away.
I watched the footage twice.
Then laughed.
Of all the things I expected her to do, stealing peaches before sunrise hadn't been one of them.
I saved the recording.
Two mornings later, she returned.
This time she carried a small reusable shopping bag.
She picked five peaches.
On Saturday, she came again.
Six peaches.
Monday, four.
Wednesday, seven.
By the end of the month, I had recorded nine separate visits.
Most occurred before seven in the morning.
Sometimes she wore pink.
Sometimes white.
Sometimes a pastel floral blouse.
Her handbags changed.
Her behavior didn't.
She approached the wall.
Checked whether anyone was watching.
Reached across.
Picked fruit.
Then left.
She never asked permission.
Never knocked.
Never called.
Never offered to pay.
And never seemed concerned about damaging the branches.
The strangest part was that she didn't behave like someone stealing fruit because she wanted to eat it.
Several recordings showed her placing peaches on the walkway wall.
Once she took a bite, looked disgusted, and threw the fruit into the grass.
Another time she crushed a peach beneath her shoe.