By two, Margaret had filed a noise complaint with the city’s non-emergency line. The operator asked if she had spoken to the homeowner. Margaret said she had tried, but they were hostile. The operator noted it and moved on. By two-fifteen, she had posted a photo of Andre’s house on the neighborhood Facebook group. The caption read, New neighbors already a problem. Anyone else concerned? Within twenty minutes, the post had twelve comments. Most agreed. A few used words like element and decline and there goes the neighborhood. One person wrote, Someone should call the police before this gets out of hand. Margaret read that comment and smiled. Not one of them had met Andre Fletcher.
Three o’clock came and went. Andre did not shut anything down. The grill was still warm. A fresh rack of ribs sat on the grate. The music was still playing. And Margaret Prescott was done waiting.
She came back across the street at three-twenty. This time she did not come to talk. Margaret dragged her garden hose across the asphalt, up Andre’s driveway, and through the open gate. Sixty feet of green rubber trailing behind her like a fuse. She walked past the folding table, past the guests, past Sonia, and stopped three feet from the grill. “I warned you,” she said. “Three o’clock. You didn’t listen.”
She turned the nozzle to full blast. Water hit the grill like a fire hose. Charcoal exploded into steam. Ash sprayed across the patio. The ribs, the last rack Andre had put on twenty minutes ago, slid off the grate and landed in the mud. Water arced sideways and soaked the folding table. Paper plates dissolved. Plastic cups tumbled onto the grass. A tray of coleslaw floated for a second, then tipped over the edge.
Andre’s cousin Daryl jumped back. His shirt was drenched. Lieutenant Webb stood up so fast his chair folded behind him. Sergeant Colvin grabbed her phone off the table a half second before water reached it. “What the hell are you doing?” Sonia shouted.
Margaret did not stop. She swept the hose across the table like she was cleaning a crime scene. Back and forth. Methodical. Deliberate. Water hit Sonia’s legs, her shoes, the front of her dress. The folding table collapsed under the pressure. Aluminum trays crashed onto the patio. Baked beans splattered across the stone. The speaker toppled off the windowsill and cracked against the ground. The music cut to silence.
Sonia stepped forward to grab the hose. Margaret swung it toward her. The metal nozzle caught Sonia across the forearm and knocked her sideways. Sonia stumbled. Her foot caught the leg of the folding table. She went down hard on the wet grass. Her elbow hit the patio edge. She gasped.
For a moment, nobody moved. The yard was frozen. Water hissed against hot charcoal. Steam rose from the ruined grill in a thin white column. Sonia lay on her side in the wet grass. One hand clutching her forearm. The other pressed flat against the ground.
Duke bolted from under the umbrella. He reached Sonia in two bounds. He stood over her, barking. Not aggressive. Protective. His ears were flat. His body was between Sonia and Margaret. His tail was low. He planted his front paws on either side of Sonia’s shoulders and refused to move.
Margaret pointed at the dog. Her voice went shrill. “That animal is dangerous. It just attacked me. I’m calling animal control. That dog doesn’t have a license.” Duke had not touched her. He had not moved toward her. He was standing over Sonia, tail tucked, whimpering. His nose pressed against her neck. His entire body shook.