Hurricane House

Chapter One

Paradise Isle Dolphin, Florida July 4

My heart hammered a warning when I opened the door to leave the beach house. It felt like an anxiety attack, cause uncertain. I realize now the warning was a premonition of death, but you know what they say about hindsight.

I took deep breaths of the warm, salty air and tried to relax, then slammed the door and checked to make sure it was locked. The face on the full moon reminded me of the last time Adam and I watched the fireworks here. In our ten years together, we never missed the fireworks on Paradise Isle. We’d drive down from Gerry, Alabama, turn off our cell phones and enjoy a few precious days without interruptions.

After Adam was killed in the line of duty, my body ached with grief, and I didn’t have the stamina to confront my memories in the most romantic place on earth. To escape, I buried myself in work. Luckily, my assignments as a catastrophe investigator sent me far away from Paradise Isle, Florida.

This year I took the advice of my sister, who happens to be a psychiatrist. Make peace with the past, Kari Ann advised. Focus on the good stuff and try to be positive, like when you were little Miss Sunshine, singing ‘open up your heart and let the sunshine in.’

Oh, please, I was a kid when I sang that. I told her.

I know. I’m just saying you need to nurture the little girl inside, and with time, you’ll get through this grieving process, Maeva. But for now, try to live in the moment. Be thankful, not negative.

I wanted to follow my sister’s advice. I really did, but while looking at that moon, bathing the beach in a silver halo, reality hit me. I was alone, drowning in the past, with too many raw memories like the first time Adam and I made love.

My family and I have vacationed on Paradise Isle in Dolphin, Florida since I was knee high. Mom used to say, No need to lock the doors. Paradise Isle is the safest place on earth.

In aerial photographs, Paradise Isle looks like a white thumb, surrounded by the Gulf of Mexico, Dolphin Harbor and the boat pass. The luckiest fishing village in the world, according to the Chamber of Commerce sign.

Yet, my heart hammered, as if cautioning me. I glanced all around. Unit Three next door had the lights on. The author Sean Redmond owns that townhouse. I’ve read one of his books, a scary murder mystery.

On the street in front of our townhouses, I saw two teenagers talking and laughing with a man and woman who were probably their parents. They headed up Blue Heron Way toward the boat pass.

For reinforcement, I repeated Kari Ann’s advice: Live in the moment and be thankful.

I felt thankful for the afternoon showers, cutting the ninety-degree heat, but not thankful for the swarm of tourists, setting off their own firecrackers. Crowds make me nervous, especially noisy crowds.

I’d never seen this many boats anchored along the shore, honking like mad geese, impatient for the first layers of electric dandelions and long-legged spiders on steroids to explode in the sky. The honking reached a crescendo when the fireworks began.

Rather than watch them, I took off running down the wet, slanted shoreline. The flashes of light and rat-a-tat-tat of the fireworks followed me, orchestrating my run. I hadn’t jogged in months. Soon my toes and calves started cramping. To endure, I gritted my teeth and panted, as if I were giving birth. Maybe the pain in my body will obliterate the pain in my heart.

When I reached my mile marker, I plopped down in one of the wooden loungers, owned by Bobby’s Beach Service and found myself staring at the old Dolphin Mansion, three hundred feet away. Sooty black mold covered the exterior. Beach erosion threatened to topple the seven-foot-tall wall encircling it. Why hasn’t someone restored this landmark? The artist who painted the dolphins, for which the town was named, had lived and died in there.

I saw a light flash from one of the porthole windows. I closed my eyes, then opened them to stare at the building again. The light I thought I’d seen had disappeared, but the eerie feeling stayed with me. To escape the weirdness, I jumped from the lounge chair and walked out on the cluster of boulders called jetties that protected Dolphin’s boat pass from the Gulf’s relentless attempt to clog it with sand.

During my walk, waves crashed against the jetties and my feet slipped a few times. Luckily, I caught myself before I fell.

When I reached the end, I sat on a chair-shaped boulder and dangled my feet in the water. I felt as though I could reach out and touch the fireworks, which were fired from the Dolphin Bridge directly in front of me. I could watch them in the air, see their reflection in the Gulf, and hear the syncopated beat of the music from several boats anchored in the canal. The waves slapped my back, drenching me, and for the first time in a long while, I began to relax. In fact, I relaxed so completely I let my guard down and didn’t anticipate the giant breaker that slammed dunked me into the gulf. A swift current carried me away.

I gulped a mouthful of salt water as the undertow pulled me down, sucking like a vacuum. At first, I battled the coursing water, making wide circles with my arms and kicking my legs fiercely. Then I remembered what I’d learned in a lifeguard class. Don’t fight the undertow. Let it take you to the bottom. So I commanded my body to relax.

When my toes touched the floor of the gulf, I began to swim parallel to where I thought the shoreline might be, and search for a weak spot in the undertow. My lungs burned and expanded like a balloon about to pop. My fingers touched something black and slimy. I froze, thinking shark.

In my panic, I collided with a sand bar and crawled crablike on top of it. I took several deep breaths and looked around for someone to help me. By then, my muscles trembled from exhaustion, and I didn’t think I had the strength to swim back to the jetties. The undertow had carried me to the gulf’s side. The boats and the crowd watching the fireworks were at least a football field away on the harbor side. The jetties separated the two and they were at least three hundred feet away.

I waved my hands above my head and yelled, Help. I could feel the shifting of the sand bar, soon to wash away.

When no one answered my cry for help, I jumped from the sand bar and swam back toward the jetties. Halfway there, my fatigued muscles demanded rest. So I floated on my back for a while until I bumped into an object in the water.

When I flipped over to see what I’d collided with, I screamed. It was the unthinkable: a woman’s nude body. I gagged and swam doggie-style, backwards and forwards, studying the corpse. I noticed she’d lost one of her feet. Oh, my God. Did a shark do this? A boat, fifty feet away with a boom box blasting I’m Proud to be an American, cruised nearby. I yelled, Help, help, as I pulled the body toward the jetties.

I watched the boat, hoping for a response, but it sped past, ignoring me, but sending a wave that tossed me backwards. I lost my grip on the body and imagined the remains of this poor woman getting caught up in the undertow, never to resurface again.

Though exhausted, I swam after the body. When I reached out to grab it, a cruel wave pushed it away. Eventually, the tide changed and I was able to recapture the corpse. This time, I positioned my body on top of the dead woman as if she were a float. Thankfully and finally, the waves seemed to be working in our favor, pushing us toward the jetties.

The corpse and I soon collided with the rocks and I felt like kissing the boulders, though I didn’t think I had the energy to pull myself up and get out of the water. I gripped a gigantic rock, put my feet in between two of them and was finally able to jump up. Then I got on my stomach and tried to reach the corpse, but my arms weren’t long enough to gain leverage. Thankfully, the waves were pushing the body against the boulders, not taking her away.

I unzipped my waist pouch to withdraw my cell phone. The pouch was waterproof, but after my near drowning, I didn’t expect the cell to work.

I punched in 911. A woman answered, What’s your emergency?

I’ve found a. .dead body. .in the . .near the jetties, I stuttered and shut my eyes, fighting my panic.

You’d think from the way I acted I’d never seen a dead body, but I’ve seen several as a catastrophe insurance investigator, or CAT, as we are called. I’ve dealt with victims of floods, tornadoes, hurricanes. Calm down, the 911 lady said. What’s your name and location?

My voice quivered, My name is Maeva Larson. I’m in Dolphin on Paradise Isle at the end of the jetties, near where they’re exploding the fireworks. I’m wearing white shorts and a white top. I’m five-one, have short red hair, and I’m the only one out here on the jetties.

You said you found a body?

Yes, a woman.

And she’s dead? the operator asked.

Yes, dead, I snapped, trying to keep my voice steady. I’ll stay on the phone with you, the operator said, her voice low and soothing.

No, no, don’t, I’m okay, I said, though I felt anything but. I just need someone out here now. Hurry, please.

After I closed my cell phone, I studied the dead woman. Her gold necklace glinted in the moonlight. The necklace had a gold pendant in the shape of a crown and looked familiar. Too familiar, like the one Tara Baxter had worn the afternoon Geneva VanSant invited me over for wine and finger sandwiches.

Tara had won the Miss Florida contest, and Geneva had received an award for an article about a female hitchhiker. The party was to celebrate both events.

After the get-acquainted hellos, I noticed the crown necklace, Lovely. Appropriate for your title as Miss Florida. I remember lifting my glass of red wine to Tara in a toast. Here’s hoping you become the next Miss America.

From your lips to God’s ear, Tara had said and sipped her drink.

Is that necklace something the winner gets?

Tara chuckled and said. No, Maeva, my mother had it designed for me.

I didn’t want to believe this dead body was Tara, but I saw no other alternative. On her right hand was a heart-shaped pinky ring. I was certain Tara had worn a similar ring.

What was taking the responders so long? I wondered. The fireworks had ended. The crowd on the beach was moving on. The waves kept crashing the jetties, smacking Tara’s body into the rocks. As I watched her, I began to sob like a frightened child. Never had I felt so alone and powerless.

My body went limp with relief when I saw the markings, Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission, on the side of the boat with the blue lights flashing. I crisscrossed my arms over my head to flag down the vessel.

The hum of the motor stopped a few feet away. I noticed two patrolmen on board. In the full moon I could see them clearly. One, about fifty, was thin and tall, more than six feet. The other guy looked like a teenager, a stocky five-ten. The taller man flashed a light in my direction.

I pointed down at the body, and when the flashlight found Tara, the younger officer threw out the anchor. Both officers jumped on the jetties and knelt to take a closer look at Tara’s body.

The taller, older one said, Whew, scratched his head and looked at me. Are you Ms. Larson, the lady who reported the body? I nodded. Undertow is treacherous, the older officer said, while keeping the flashlight on Tara’s body.

Deadly, in her case, definitely. He touched his forehead and chest, making the sign of the cross. Then he withdrew a squawking walky-talky from his shorts’ pocket. A crackly female voice from the walky-talky asked. What’s your twenty?

At the scene, standing on these boulders, actually called the jetties, with an unknown victim found in the water...female...dead. He withdrew a pad from his shirt pocket and appeared to be reading from it. I’m talking to Ms. Larson. Over.

The crackling voice said, M.E. wants y’all to bag and deliver the body.

Will do, over.

I blinked in disbelief. Where were the forensic folks and the sheriff? Who’s going to secure the scene? Are they sending an investigator? The knot in my stomach told me this wasn’t an accident.

The older officer said, I’m not sure. We’ve been told to bag the body and get the victim to the medical examiner who will determine her identity.

I think I know the victim, I said, wondering why anyone would want to kill Tara.

Both officers frowned at each other; then gazed at me as if they thought I had something to do with Tara’s death.

The older officer read over his notes again and said, Oh, really? They didn’t report you knew the victim.

I didn’t recognize her at first. Then I saw she had on the same necklace and ring Tara Baxter wore the day I met her. So I’m pretty sure this dead woman is Tara Baxter, Miss Florida."

Do you live in the area? the older officer asked.

No I live in Gerry, Alabama, but my sister and I own two townhouses that we rent out. I come down here to check on things.

Both officers nodded. I had their full attention as I told them about the party at Geneva’s where I’d met Tara.

Do you have identification, Ms. Larson?

No, I left everything, except my cell, at the townhouse.

What do you do for a living? the older officer asked.

I’m a CAT, which is short for catastrophe investigator, and I have a private investigator’s license. I thought mentioning the private eye license would give me more credibility.

The older officer squinted as if he didn’t believe me. We’ll need a detailed statement from you. And we’ll need to see your I.D.

Chapter Two

DeFuniak Springs, Florida. Ellen Langley

Ellen glanced at her Mickey Mouse watch. What’s taking Kenny so long? She’d been waiting at the MacDonald’s for three hours with the dark sky pouring rain.

Her hair and clothes were soaked from going outside, looking for Kenny’s rig. That’s what I get for being a homeless hitchhiker and riding with truckers I don’t really know.

At 10:30 p.m., Ellen’s worry trumped her fear of thunder and lightning. She raced across four-lanes of traffic to use the pay phone outside the Shell station. Rain dripped from her fingers as she punched in the numbers of her calling card and Kenny’s cell-phone number.

His voice-mail answered, Yo... Why don’t you ever answer your phone, Kenny? Ellen waited for the beep before leaving a message. Kenny, where the blue blazes are you? You said you’d pick me up at seven. Have you forgotten about me? They’ll be closing the MacDonald’s soon. Hurry, please, it’s raining elephants.

Ellen slammed down the phone and ran back across the street, braving four lanes of traffic and the worst rain she could remember. By the time she reached the MacDonald’s, she was soaked through her underwear.

You okay? A man’s baritone voice asked.

Ellen stopped and turned toward the voice. You talking to me?

He nodded. The man wore one of those stylish stretch caps and she couldn’t see his hair, but his handsome face reminded her of the actor John Gavin—Janet Leigh’s lover in the old movie Psycho.

It was nice of him to roll down the window of his Hummer in this horrific rain to inquire about her. I’m waiting for my ride.

Where’re you going?

Tallahassee.

I’m going there myself. You’re welcome to ride with me. He reached across the seat of his pseudo-tank and opened the passenger door.

Why not? Ellen decided. This man was far from a bum, and what choice did she have? No telling when Kenny would get around to checking his messages and calling her back. He’d already proven he couldn’t be trusted. He’d promised to pick her up at the McDonald’s hours ago, but he never showed, and she needed to get to Geneva’s house before she left for the beach. Otherwise, Ellen wouldn’t have a clue what Geneva wanted her to do. It had been six years since she’d cleaned and organized Geneva’s place. Long enough for Geneva to marry a lawyer/politician and move into a house that, according to the photos, looked like something a Barbie doll would live in.

Thinking about Geneva, Ellen felt a wave of gratitude. No doubt that woman was heaven sent. No other way to explain why she’d interviewed her and wrote that Singing Hitchhiker article. Thanks to Geneva, Ellen could finally leave the road. No more risking her life and limb with strangers. Now she’d be safe and productive as a live-in housekeeper.

Ellen positioned the strap of her duffle bag over her shoulder and walked toward the Hummer. The bag contained everything a veteran hitchhiker would need, including a canister of pepper spray.

She wondered why anyone would want to drive a car as big and costly as a house. Are you serious? Going all the way to Tallahassee?

He smiled. Sure am.

I’m soaked, might ruin your upholstery.

Don’t worry about it.

Ellen edged into the seat beside him and put her duffle on her lap. The Hummer looked clean, but contained a musty odor. A long fridge lay on its side in the back. Thanks. You can drop me off at the nearest Tallahassee exit. I’ll take a cab from there.

He grabbed the strap of Ellen’s bag. Let me put this in the back for you. No, I’d rather hold it. The nerve of him, trying to take my stuff. He flashed Ellen a movie star smile, perfect teeth. You from Tallahassee?

No. She told herself to stay calm as she reached inside the bag to locate the pepper spray.

He turned to face her. Just visiting?

Don’t know, I may move there permanently.

Where’re you staying in Tallahassee?

Ellen wanted to say none of your business, but she held her tongue for once. With a friend.

Who’s your friend? I know several people in Tallahassee. May know him.

Ellen studied the stranger. His red polo shirt looked soiled, and he wore black gloves. A bad sign. Not a him, a her.

Oh, sorry, but maybe I know her? I have several friends in Tallahassee. He shrugged and winked. I might know your friend.

Ellen didn’t like his wink and she was growing wary of his questions. They felt wrong, even though this guy was obviously no bum and nice enough to give her a ride. I suppose it’s possible you know her. She’s Geneva VanSant, a well-known journalist. Her articles have appeared in newspapers all over the country.

The stranger’s jaw dropped as if he’d heard something shocking.

Ellen thought he may have seen Geneva’s by-line or met her at some celebrity bash. Do you know her?

The stranger pulled his Hummer onto Interstate 10. The name sounds familiar and I’m thinking I’ve seen her somewhere. I’m not sure. Maybe it will come to me.

He smiled and pointed to the seatbelt, Be safe, buckle up.

Ellen smoothed her Clairol-blond pixie, thinking no way she’d trap herself in this tank with a strange man. I don’t think so. I hate seatbelts.

You ride with me, you’ll wear yours.

Ellen’s neck hairs bristled. Maybe you’d better take me back to MacDonald’s or drop me off here. She inched toward the door and held onto the pepper spray in her bag.

In this rain? He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. "You’re feisty I’ll give you that. Why else would a fine woman like