Neighborhood Watch
When Ernie Felton retired from the police force, bid goodbye to the crime-ridden streets of Philadelphia and bought a home in a rural community located in Northeast Pennsylvania, he looked forward to enjoying a life of peace and quiet.
"Listen," he told his wife while they were walking their dog one evening, not long after moving into their new home. "Hear that?"
"What?" Joyce asked, confused. "I don't hear anything."
"That's it! No sounds of traffic, honking horns, screeching tires or rap music blasting out of a car stereo. There are no drunken neighbors screaming at one another. No loud televisions. Just quiet. Isn't it great?"
"If you say so."
Joyce Felton did not share her husband's love of the country setting. She missed having neighbors within earshot and a grocery store within walking distance.
"Don't you like it here?"
"I suppose so. I just wish it weren't so ... far away from everything."
"Funny, but that's what I like most about this place."
Ernie and his wife had selected the town of Whitewood not only because of its natural beauty and remoteness but also because the price of houses was much lower than in more populated areas. Since there were no factories or office complexes nearby, there were few job opportunities. That was fine with the retired police officer; he was not looking for employment. Whitewood offered him what he wanted most: an inexpensive home in a surrounding that was nothing at all like Philadelphia.
* * *
Two years after the Feltons moved to Whitewood, an extension of the interstate highway was built near the eastern border of the town. With commuter time to Philadelphia and New Jersey shortened by the new road, young couples from these areas looked to the lower prices in Whitewood when shopping for their first home. Housing developments began popping up on what were once wooded acres and farmlands. With so many new people moving into the community, larger schools were needed. Then came the inevitable strip malls, fast-food restaurants, convenience stores, gas stations and banks.
"First they build a Dairy Queen and now a frozen yogurt shop," Ernie grumbled as he drove down Main Street. "Remember how nice it was when we first moved to Whitewood? The only place you could get ice cream was the frozen food section of our only grocery store."
"But it's good to have more than that one supermarket," Joyce insisted. "Now we've got Weis and Giant, and I hear there's talk of their putting in a Walmart next year."
"That's just great! Why can't they leave things as they are?"
"It's called progress, and it's inevitable."
The same progress that provided the community with a frozen yogurt store, an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet, a Dollar General and a Pizza Hut also brought with it other changes as well. There were now four traffic lights on Main Street where there had not been a single one before. Larger, more expensive houses were built and more affluent couples began to move in. Nearly all owned their own businesses in town.
More and more people. And the noise! Ernie thought, feeling like the Grinch before he discovered the true meaning of Christmas. We left Philly to get away from all the damned noise.
The serene sound of chirping crickets and singing birds that he used to enjoy on the weekends was drowned out by the roar of weed whackers, lawn mowers and ATVs.
"Progress!" he exclaimed as though it were a dirty word.
Joyce took her husband's bad mood in stride. She knew there was something bothering him beyond the proposed building of a McDonald's and a Walmart. When the couple first moved to Whitewood, Ernie was newly retired and looking forward to a more relaxed, less stressful existence. He went fishing, enjoyed long walks with Hershey, the family's chocolate lab puppy, undertook a number of do-it-yourself projects around the house and even tried his hand at digital photography.
Then the winter months set in. Snow covered the ground from early November until late March. With the lake frozen, he was unable to fish. Rather than walk the dog, he opened the rear door and let him have the freedom of the back yard. Even the home improvement projects were put aside until spring. To pass the time, Ernie would read Tom Clancy novels, contact friends and former fellow police officers from Philly via Facebook and binge-watch Sons of Anarchy, Oz, The Wire and Breaking Bad. By the first of April, he was on the verge of succumbing to cabin fever.
With the arrival of spring, however, the outings with Hershey resumed, several of the DIY projects were completed, the camera came down from the top shelf of the hall closet and, once the ice on the lake thawed, he brought his fishing tackle out of the garage. Yet despite the resumption of his outdoor activities, Ernie was slowly but surely becoming disenchanted with retirement.
* * *
Much had changed in the ten years since the Feltons left Philadelphia. Whitewood had grown from a rural community to a busy suburb. The population had quadrupled, and the number of businesses rose significantly. Unfortunately, so did the property taxes; with so many young families moving in, new schools had to be built.
As was too often the case, the taxes and cost of living increased at a much higher rate than Ernie's social security benefits and pension. Although he and his wife were not teetering on the brink of poverty, they did have to tighten their belts.
"I can always get a part-time job to bring in a little extra money," Joyce offered when the cable TV bill went up, as it did every January.
"We'll be fine," her husband assured her.
Another spring arrived, and people came out of hibernation to enjoy the warmer weather. Hershey, who was still in good health despite his age, was eager to go on his long walks even though the empty fields and wooded acres he had once run through were replaced with paved streets and sidewalks.
"Come on, boy," Ernie called, reaching for the dog's harness.
Little did the former Philadelphia police officer realize when he stepped outside that warm April morning that life as he had known it for the previous decade was about to change.
He had walked a distance of two blocks, with his chocolate lab straining on the leash, when he saw a late model minivan belonging to the owner of the local hardware store. Someone had spray-painted graffiti on the vehicle and slashed the two rear tires. It was but the first event in what would become a wave of vandalism to hit the previously peaceful community. There followed broken windows, torn up flowers and shrubs, overturned trashcans, stolen patio chairs and smashed lawn ornaments.
When the Feltons' neighbor, Vance Goldwyn, who owned a used car lot, returned from work to find his home had been broken into, the police were called. Upon seeing the patrol car pull into the driveway, other homeowners gathered around, curious as to what was going on.
"Someone took a rock, smashed the sliding glass door and reached inside to unlock it," Vance said, trying to control his anger.
"Was anything stolen?" the responding officer asked.
"I don't believe so. The TV and computers are still there as is my wife's jewelry."
"It's probably just kids, then. No need for you to worry. I doubt the incident will be repeated."
"I don't care if they were minors or not. They broke into my house. Now I've got to have the back door fixed. I want you to find out who did this."
"Were there any witness to the break-in? Do you have any security cameras that may have captured the perps on video?"
"No. Can't you check for fingerprints or DNA or whatever your forensic people do?"
"This isn't CSI, Mr. Goldwyn," the officer laughed. "Whitewood's a small town."
"It has a police force, doesn't it?"
"As I see it, this is a case of breaking and entering but no burglary. I'll take some photos with my cell phone and ask around, but I wouldn't expect an arrest any time soon—if at all."
When the patrol car drove away, the curious homeowners remained in the Goldwyns' driveway, complaining about the lukewarm response from Whitewood's finest.
"Things are getting bad around here," announced Derek Bayles, the hardware store owner who had recently had his minivan vandalized.
"A lot of help the cops are!" Vance exclaimed.
"The Whitewood PD doesn't have the manpower to patrol every neighborhood in the township," Ernie said. "What we have to do is keep an eye out for ourselves and each other."
"How do we go about that?" Derek asked.
"We form a neighborhood watch to patrol the streets."
"You mean like the Guardian Angels?"
"Nothing quite so regimented," the former policeman explained. "We take turns walking through the neighborhood, keeping an eye out for signs of crime and vandalism."
"Will we carry guns?" Vance asked.
"No. Just cell phones, loud whistles and, for night patrols, dependable flashlights. The presence of a neighborhood watch alone will deter most vandals and petty thieves, which is most likely what we're dealing with here."
"You were once a cop; weren't you?" Derek inquired.
"Yes, with the Philadelphia Police Department."
"Could you give us some advice on forming a neighborhood watch?"
"I'll be glad to. I can also give you pointers on what to look for on patrol and offer suggestions on how to make your houses more secure."
The response for volunteers was tremendous. Even women did their part, walking in pairs or small groups for their own protection. People with dogs brought them along when on patrol—much to Hershey's delight. With no further signs of trouble, the neighborhood watch was deemed a great success.
"It's important we don't become too complacent and let our guard down," Ernie, who had been unanimously elected the organization's leader, advised at the watch's monthly meeting.
However, many of the volunteers had become tired of walking the streets of Whitewood looking for wrongdoers. There were other things they wanted to do with their time. After all, jobs, kids, household chores and vacations demanded their attention. Ernie understood the time constraints on his younger neighbors.
"I'm retired," he told them. "I've got a lot more free time on my hands. If any of you have to work, go to your kid's soccer game or take your wife out for your anniversary, just let me know. I'll take your patrol. Hell, I can use the exercise. Since I quit working, I've put on at least twenty pounds."
Soon, rather than one lap around the neighborhood a day, the former policeman did four or five. There were days when he walked in the morning, afternoon, evening and into the early morning hours.
"I feel like a cop on the beat again," he told his wife.
"I don't see why you have to devote so much of your time to the watch. Why can't our neighbors do their fair share?"
"It's hard when you've got a job and a family. Besides, I don't mind. It gives me a purpose in life."
Joyce could not deny that her husband's disposition had improved greatly since the neighborhood watch was formed. He was happier than he had been in years. Not even the advent of winter dampened Ernie's spirits. Paraphrasing the motto of the U.S. Postal Service, neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stayed the head of the neighborhood watch from the swift completion of his appointed rounds.
* * *
Joyce Felton woke one January morning to see that a winter storm had dropped fourteen inches of snow on Whitewood. It was the first significant snowfall of the season.
"What are you doing up so early?" she asked her husband when she found him at the kitchen table at six in the morning. "You usually stay in bed until eight."
"I've got to clear the snow out of the driveway," Ernie explained.
"You? There's more than a foot of snow out there. You ought to ask Bob to stop by with his plow."
"He has to plow his customers' driveways first. By the time he gets here, it probably won't be until late afternoon."
"So? What's the rush?"
"I've got to do my patrol at nine."
"I wish you wouldn't. I don't like you shoveling all that heavy snow. You're not a young man anymore."
"Who said anything about shoveling? I've got a snow-blower."
"Since when?"
"I got it about three weeks ago."
"Is such an expenditure wise?"
"You don't think I would have bought it if we couldn't afford it. Derek had an old model lying around his hardware store, and he gave me a good deal on it."
Joyce frowned as she watched her husband put on his heavy coat, hat, boots and gloves to brave the elements.
New fishing tackle, then a new pair of Timberlands and now a snow-blower, she thought. Where is all this money coming from?
Since her husband managed the couple's finances and paid the bills, she did not know the answer to that question. The following month when Ernie purchased a late-model all-wheel-drive vehicle, her apprehension grew.
"How can we afford a new car on a fixed income?" Joyce demanded to know.
"It's not new."
"It's only three years old."
"I got it from Vance. It's good to have a friend who owns a car dealership."
"I suppose that's one of the advantages of being on the neighborhood watch: grateful neighbors."
"Exactly!" Ernie exclaimed cheerfully. "People appreciate all I've done to safeguard their property."
* * *
Vance Goldwyn was walking his German shepherd down Maple Avenue one unseasonably warm evening in late March and stopped to speak with Derek Bayles, who was watering the tulip bulbs in his wife's flower garden.
"Have you made any plans for vacation yet?" he asked.
"The wife and I decided to stay home this year," Derek answered. "What about you? Are you going to take the camper up to the lake again?"
"Actually, I sold the camper," Vance replied.
Several minutes of uncomfortable silence followed.
"I see Ernie replaced his old Chevy with a Subaru Forester," the hardware store proprietor noted, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.
As he had suspected, his comment struck a chord with Vance.
"I know. He got it on my lot," the tightlipped owner of the used car dealership replied.
Another, even longer, silence ensued.
"Look, I don't like to pry into a man's personal business," Derek began. "But, well ..., did Ernie say anything to convince you to give him a greater-than-normal discount on the price of that Forester?"
Vance's complexion noticeably paled before he answered with a question of his own.
"What about that snow-blower? It must go for about two thousand."
"More than that."
"Seems a bit pricy for a retired police officer."
"Maybe he made me an offer I couldn't refuse."
"I would imagine someone on patrol for the neighborhood watch might learn a good deal about his neighbors, some things those neighbors might not want others to know," Vance hypothesized.
"A three-thousand-dollar snow-blower is a small price to pay for his silence, but that Subaru must have cost at least fifteen grand," Derek pointed out.
"That's retail price. It only cost me fifty-five hundred as a trade-in."
"That's still quite a bit of money."
"Just between you and me, if my wife found out about my little indiscretion, I could lose half of everything I own: the house, the business, our savings. No. I wrote off the Forester instead."
"I felt the same way about the snow-blower," Derek said confidentially. "But then, just the other day, Ernie stopped by while on his patrol and mentioned that his lawnmower was on its last legs. He wants a ride-on model now."
"And he expects you ...?"
Vance's voice trailed off as he realized the implications of Derek's confession.
"It began with the snow-blower," the hardware store emphasized. "Now, a ride-on lawnmower. Who knows what he'll want next?"
"Next?"
"Blackmail never ends."
"I thought once he got the Subaru that would be the end of it."
"I wouldn't count on it, if I were you. Maybe next time he'll want a Lexus."
Done watering the tulips, Vance turned off the hose before continuing the conversation.
"I wonder if Ernie has preyed on anyone else in the neighborhood," he said.
"I was wondering the same thing. Barney Caulfield, the butcher, lives in our neighborhood, and I noticed his delivery truck in the Feltons' driveway a number of times. And he's got new fishing tackle."
"From Sam Melcher's sporting goods store?"
"I'd be willing to bet on it," Derek declared, his voice sharp with anger. "What concerns me most is what we ought to do about the situation."
"What can we do?"
The hardware store owner looked around, making sure no one could overhear their conversation before replying, in a low voice, "Maybe we can find a way to rid Whitewood of the head of our neighborhood watch."
"Surely you're not suggesting ...!" Vance exclaimed, unable to put his thought into words.
"I'm just considering our options. If you're not interested ...."
"I'm not. Whatever you might be planning, count me out."
"All right. Then may I suggest we forget this conversation ever took place?" Derek proposed.
"Fine," Vance agreed amiably. "Enjoy the rest of your walk."
"Thank you. Nice talking to you."
* * *
The three-day Memorial Day weekend was one of Vance Goldwyn's busiest times of the year. With the inclement winter weather behind them and their income tax refund checks in their pockets, many people were eager to take advantage of the holiday sale prices and buy a used car. By Monday afternoon, when members of the community were sitting down to their barbecues, he had already sold nine SUVs, three station wagons, two full-size sedans and four compact, economy cars.
Vance was just going over the paperwork for the purchase of a 2016 Toyota Camry when he spotted a familiar face strolling through the cars on his lot.
What's he doing here? he wondered when he saw Ernie Felton looking at the sticker price of a two-year-old Subaru Impreza.
Apprehensive, he left his office and walked outside to talk to him.
"Are you patrolling the businesses in town now, too?" he asked, punctuating his question with uneasy laughter.
"No," the former police officer replied. "You know, living in Philly all her life, my wife never learned how to drive. In the city, she pretty much walked everywhere or relied on mass transit. Since we've moved to Whitewood, though, I've had to drive her everywhere."
"I guess that's inconvenient when you devote so much time to the neighborhood watch."
"Yes, it is. So I decided to teach her how to drive."
"Great idea."
"Only problem is I don't want her taking my Forester out all the time."
Vance felt his stomach knot up in anticipation of the worst.
"I think a vehicle like this Impreza here would be perfect for her. What kind of deal can you give me on it?"
The malevolent smile that appeared on Ernie's face made it clear to his neighbor that he had no intention of paying a cent out of his pocket.
Derek was right, Vance realized, his heart sinking at the prospect of writing off another vehicle from his inventory. The blackmail is not going to end.
* * *
It seemed like déjà vu when Vance walked his German shepherd down Maple Avenue and stopped to speak with Derek Bayles, who was once again watering his wife's flower garden. Only this time it was June, and the roses were in bloom.
"Remember that conversation we had back in March?" he asked. "The one we decided to forget about?"
"I believe so."
"I've been giving the matter a lot of thought," Vance said cryptically.
"Come to any conclusions?" Derek inquired, biting his inner lip to keep from smiling.
"I'm in."
"Good! There'll be a meeting of about half a dozen members of the neighborhood watch in the back of my hardware store next Thursday night. You might want to consider attending it."
"Will Ernie Felton be there?"
"No. And we don't want him to know anything about it either, so I suggest you tell your wife you'll be somewhere else."
"Ironic, don't you think?" Vance mused. "We're in this predicament because we tried to keep things from our wives."
"That's one way to look at it," Derek said. "But I put the blame squarely on the doorstep of that blackmailing cop, that two-faced bastard who promised us that forming a neighborhood watch was the best way to protect our property."
* * *
Joyce Felton wore an unadorned black dress and a pair of black flat-soled shoes, both purchased for the occasion at the new Walmart in town. There were no tears in her eyes when she walked into Turnley's Funeral Home and saw her husband of forty-two years lying in one of Stuart Turnley's least costly coffins. Given her financial situation, she could not send Ernie to his eternal rest in a bronze model; a wooden one would have to do.
There was no feeling of grief as the widow looked down at the face of her late husband, only a sense of disappointment mixed with betrayal.
You and that damned neighborhood watch! she thought angrily. Why couldn't you have just enjoyed your retirement and not gotten involved?
Like many people born and raised in large cities, Joyce had considered noninvolvement the best course of action. Obviously, her husband's death—fatally shot by a would-be burglar while patrolling the neighborhood—was proof she was right.
After being left alone for a few minutes with the corpse, she was joined by the first of the mourners. One by one, the neighbors showed up at Turnley's to pay their respects, led by the remaining members of the watch.
"Your husband was a wonderful man," Derek Bayles told her. "And a good neighbor."
"We're all going to miss him," Vance Goldwyn added.
Barney Caulfield, Sam Melcher and several others, who had been incredibly appreciative to her husband since he began patrolling the neighborhood, also had good things to say about the dead man. All their condolences and kind words, however, could not bring her husband back.
Not surprisingly, when memories of good times shared were brought up, no one mentioned the poker game held in the back of the hardware store on the night Ernie Felton was killed. Seven men, all victims of the unscrupulous blackmailer, had attended. One, whose identity the other six would never reveal, had slipped out during the evening and, under cover of darkness, put a bullet in the former Philly cop before returning to the card game.
As she walked around the room, admiring the many floral pieces from friends and neighbors in Whitewood, Joyce considered her financial situation. With her social security checks, Ernie's pension and life insurance proceeds, she should be able to remain in her house. She would, however, have to cut back on unnecessary expenses. It would be tight, but she was fairly sure she could do it.
A week later, with her husband resting peacefully in his grave, she began the unpleasant task of packing up his belongings to send to Good Will.
Where on earth did he get this Apple watch? she wondered. He always wore a cheap Timex.
It was but the first of several expensive items she found in her husband's drawer. Hoping to solve the mystery, she went to the home office—nothing more than a desk and a computer placed in the spare bedroom—in search of Ernie's checkbook and bank statements. As she thumbed through the check register, she found nothing but payments for the usual household bills.
"Electric, cable, groceries, telephone—nothing out of the ordinary."
Moments later, in the bottom desk drawer, she discovered a brand new Surface tablet, never taken out of its box.
"Where did he get this? More importantly, where did he get the money to pay for it?"
She found nothing in the remaining desk drawers to shed light on her husband's spending habits. It was, to her surprise, the tackle box in the garage that held the answers she sought.
Having discovered the wire-bound notebook in which Ernie recorded his voyeuristic observations, Joyce deduced that her husband had blackmailed the men named on its pages. He was smart enough not to demand cash, which he might have had to explain to the IRS. Instead, he took his hush money in the form of goods, from an Apple Watch to a snow-blower and from fishing tackle to a Subaru.
"I have to hand it to you," she said as though speaking to her dead husband. "You were smarter than I thought. But you were too greedy; weren't you?"
It was not hard for her to figure out that one of the men who had praised Ernie Felton at his funeral—one of the members of the neighborhood watch who told the police they had attended a poker game on the night of the shooting—murdered her husband.
* * *
Unlike her late spouse who intimidated his victims with threats, Joyce Felton used the information in the wire-bound notebook to instill gratitude rather than fear. Seven married men who lived in properties protected by the neighborhood watch had been discovered in adulterous relationships—one with another man. The widow took that information to the seven wronged wives who then began divorce proceedings against their husbands.
All seven women, granted generous divorce settlements by sympathetic judges, were grateful to the widow and showed their gratitude with gifts including expensive clothes, handbags and jewelry. Although she had cut back on unnecessary expenses, she enjoyed luxuries such as having her hair and nails done every week by Donna Goldwyn, a beautician, who became her closest friend. She also got free treats from Grace Bayles' bakery and romance novels from Marilyn Caulfield's bookstore.
Joyce did not feel any sense of guilt that her husband's killer had gotten away with murder. Whoever pulled the trigger surely suffered enough when the secret he killed to preserve was revealed in a court of law. All seven men at that fateful poker game lost their homes, businesses and half their life savings.
As for Ernie Felton, it would probably not have mattered to him that his homicide was destined to be an unsolved cold case. He would be far more upset, Joyce believed, to learn that the information in his wire-bound notebook would put an end to the Whitewood neighborhood watch.
Our neighborhood watch keeps an eye on Salem. He was once arrested on suspicion of being a cat burglar.
