Hurricane House (13 page)

As I listened to Sandra, my face continued to burn, along with the crystal around my neck. I wanted to confront that man then and there, but I knew I’d have to wait and arrange for an appointment.

I looked up Peterson’s number in my address book and made the call. I heard only one ring before his voice-mail answered. “This is John Peterson. Leave a message.”

After the beep, I said, “Mr. Peterson, this is Maeva Larson. I’m the insurance adjuster assigned to your property. Meet me tomorrow. That’s Monday morning, at eight in front of Paradise Palms. We need to discuss your damages and other matters.”

Chapter Twenty

Geneva VanSant

Geneva forced herself to eat half the green salad and a few bites of the turkey sandwich while she pondered what to do. Why does this monster need to contact Ellen? No logical reason she could figure, but she knew she wasn’t thinking logically.

In fact, she felt so groggy she could barely hold her eyes open. The bottled water might be causing her condition. Probably drugged. Should she keep drinking the water or die of thirst?

Since being held captive in this hellish white cage, she’s been drinking the water and falling asleep or staring like a zombie at the white walls. She tried to sit like an Indian on the floor, but she’d toppled over on her back with Roxanne’s ghostly image floating like a cloud of hope above her. “I’ll help you,” Roxanne whispered.

Geneva’s heart thundered with fear, thinking she had channeled Roxanne’s ghost. She recalled the channeling book she’d read as a teenager. She’d studied it religiously and managed to contact a guide named Hester who turned out to be a low-level spirit predicting disaster.

Even so, that book taught Geneva all about astral travel and eventually she reached a higher guide named Arial, who looked like an angel and she wondered if she might conjure up a spirit guide to help her now?

She massaged her pulsating head, trying to focus and clear the fog from her brain, but she couldn’t escape the task at hand. Why does this monster want to contact Ellen? If I give him what he wants, I’ll put Ellen in danger.

Geneva’s home phone was unlisted. Her Tallahassee residence was in the name of Teresa Collins, Loughton’s deceased grandmother who’d left him the property. No way, she could provide that information to a maniac.

Then it occurred to her: offer him Ellen’s e-mail address. She has two, one for personal e-mail. And another for people she doesn’t like. Or so she said. It’s something like Ellenlanghitch.... That’s right, that’s it.

“If you wish to contact Ellen in private, you need to e-mail her,” Geneva wrote. She jotted down the Ellenlanghitch address, folded the note and placed it on the serving tray. Next, she turned her back to the spy cam and pocketed the extra sheet of stationary her captor had provided along with the napkin. Later, she planned to use the napkin to cover the surveillance camera and the extra sheet of stationary to write a plea for help.

Chapter Twenty-one

Maeva

I called every hotel, motel, bed-and-breakfast within a thirty-mile radius. “No vacancies,” they all said.

As a last resort, I stopped by the Embassy Suites, the largest hotel in town, to beg if necessary. The desk clerk, nametag Geraldo, said, “Sold out. News crews and locals. It’s a double whammy with the hurricane and the death of those women. Are you a reporter?” Geraldo asked.

“No, I’m a claims adjuster.”

“What’d you think about that guy running for Senate with his wife missing? Did you hear about that?”

“Yes.” I didn’t want to stand there and engage in a lengthy conversation, but I did, hoping Geraldo would somehow locate a vacant room for me.

“I just saw him on T.V. Talking about his wife, how nobody has seen or heard from her. Something horrible happened, don’t you know it?”

I shrugged, suffering a guilt pang from taking Geneva’s stuff. Of course, I tried to convince myself Martha’s crystal and Adam’s voice from the other side gave me the go ahead. Also, I thought I’d act faster than investigators, encumbered by a snail-like legal system. Adam had explained it this way: “If a crime isn’t solved in the first forty-eight hours, the chances of solving it were slim and slim just left the building.”

Take Tara Baxter’s death, for example. The forensic guy said Tara died from an overdose of drugs and alcohol. A boat propeller might have sliced off her foot, and later sea creatures attacked her. No way.
Realizing Geraldo wouldn’t help me, I fumbled to find the slip of paper with Paula Weardon’s number. I didn’t feel like sleeping in my truck, and Paula had offered a place to stay. Why not go for it?

Paula answered her cell on the first ring. “Yes?”

“Hi, Paula, it’s Maeva. I can’t seem to find a room anywhere.”

“Nonsense, you have one here. I told Huberta about you. She says you’re welcome to come over and spend the night. The party’s not gonna happen, of course. Nobody she invited is around, but on the positive side, there’s plenty to eat.”

“Sounds good. I’m starving.”

“Where’re you now?”

“At the entrance to Gulf Drive.”

“I’ll come get you, but it’ll be slow going. Fog is impossible. I can’t see my nose in front of my face.”

“That’s fine. Just be careful. I don’t mind waiting.” I rolled down the window to breathe the warm salty air and listen to the waves crashing the shore.

Ten minutes later, I heard a car horn. In the fog, I could barely make out Paula in the black Suburban, waving and directing me to follow her onto Highway 98. Luckily, she drove slowly. We passed storm-ravaged strip malls that looked like ghosts in a war zone. Four blocks later, Paula turned right. I couldn’t see the road sign, but I noticed the ravaged homes and buildings along the way so I wouldn’t get lost in the morning.

Paula made a quick left, passing an imploded two-story house of concrete and stucco. At the end of that street, she turned into a paved brick driveway and circled around to a side-entry garage. Nice, sprawling, ranch house. It looked untouched by the storm, except for a fallen pine tree blocking the front-porch steps.

Paula parked in the driveway behind a blue Dodge Caravan as a tall woman with graying brown hair walked out to greet us. Huberta. She looked like Sophia Loren with high cheekbones, wide-set eyes and dark eyebrows. A beautiful woman, wearing no makeup, except coral lipstick, her salt
and pepper hair in a bun befitting her attire, a stylish monk’s robe, falling mid-calf.

I grabbed my backpack and duffle before I hopped down from the Silverado.

“This is the young lady I told you about,” Paula said to Huberta.

I held out my hand. “Hi, I’m Maeva. Thanks for inviting me. I’d be sleeping in my truck tonight if not for you.”

Huberta’s chocolate eyes smiled. “You are welcome here anytime.” I detected a slight Spanish or Italian accent. “You are so young and pretty and little bitty for what Paula said you did. Important insurance work. I expected a so much older lady and...” Huberta paused, holding out her arms and hands a foot above my head. “Bigger, much bigger.”

“Thanks. Wish I felt young at the moment.”

“My late husband Luke he would always say you can change most things in life by your perception.” Just what I needed, a lecture on attitude. My sister would love this woman.

Paula stepped aside to let us enter the house. “Huberta used to be a nun, and her husband was a Catholic priest,” Paula said. “Huberta’s always spouting optimism. Her whole life is a miracle. After she and Luke fell in love, they left the church and got married.”
“I wish I was optimistic,” I said and followed Huberta through the laundry room into the kitchen, which flowed into a gigantic great room, housing the dining and living area. This great room looked like a cathedral, a high ceiling with exposed beams. I’d never seen such a large sectional sofa, wrapped around three walls.

“You have a lovely house,” I said.

Huberta hugged herself. “Luke did the renovation.” She opened the fridge and withdrew a jug of water. “He stripped the house to its shell. I had to wear a gas mask, let me tell you, while all this was going on. It used to be very dark inside. My Luke did it all. I don’t know how he did, but he did. Genius, no? He made everything perfect. Then,” she sighed, “I lose him.” Huberta put her arms out, palms facing upward. “But I know he is with me still, smiling from heaven. Would you believe, this house has battled three hurricanes and survived?”

“Amazing,” I said.

Paula pointed to the round kitchen table, covered with trays of raw vegetables, dip, turkey, ham and cheese, wheat bread and fruit. “Help yourself. You said you were starving.”

Huberta opened the oven to remove a tin of tiny quiches. “What would you like to drink? I have cool water, chardonnay, and coffee. But I am sure you want to freshen up.” She scooped the quiches on a platter and placed them on the table with the other food before she said, “Come,” and motioned for me to follow her. “I have you in the Canary Room.” Huberta kicked off her clogs and led me down a long hallway. We entered the last door on the left, painted yellow, pictures and figurines of canaries everywhere. Even the queen bed held a canary comforter.
The entire room looked inviting, especially the bed with its four yellow pillows propped against the oak headboard. I needed sleep, but first, I needed to keep my eyes open long enough to get some work done.

I spotted the antique telephone on top of an end table. “Do you have wireless or is your phone line working? I have to go on-line later.”

“You mean computer, don’t you? Yes, I am hooked up. I go on-line for e-mail. You are welcome to use my computer in the study, but if you have a portable computer, you can plug it in here. It should do fine.”

“That’s great, thank you.” I put my heavy backpack on the reading desk beside the armoire with a television and chest of drawers. I set my duffle down on the suitcase stand next to the bed.

Huberta frowned at the backpack. “It is as big as you.” She opened the door to the bathroom. “I put fresh towels and bath cloths in here.” She nodded toward the bathroom as if she wanted me to take a look inside. So I did. All yellow except for the white sink and Jacuzzi bathtub.

“Nice, thank you,” I said.

Huberta smiled serenely like the Virgin Mary in an Immaculate Heart of Mary painting. “Take all the time you need. When you are ready, come and eat with us,” she said, closing the door behind her.

After Huberta left, I walked over to the backpack and removed Geneva’s cell phone to charge it. Being a Nokia, same as mine, I figured the charger would fit and it did.

Next, I used the toilet; then washed my hands and face. I didn’t like what I saw in the mirror above the sink. My eyes looked red and swollen as if I’d been crying. “Maeva, you okay?” Paula opened the door, uninvited, as usual.

“Yes, just washing up.”

“Keith’s here. He’d like to talk to us. We’ll be in the dining room.” Paula smiled, her blue eyes dancing mischievously.

I wondered if perhaps Paula and Keith knew or somehow sensed I had taken Geneva’s computer and cell phone. But how could they? Unless Loughton VanSant had reported them missing. If so, I would be the logical suspect.

I walked down the hall to face the consequences. If questioned, I needed to come up with a plausible explanation.

Paula led me to the formal dining room, off from the kitchen. A mahogany table with twelve straight-back chairs sat in the center.

On the wall facing me, I noticed an oil portrait of a man, wearing a priest’s collar. “Is that your late husband?” I asked Huberta.

“Yes, that is my Luke,” she said, then clapped her hands together. “Okay, there’s plenty of food as you can see, paper plates, cups, napkins, plastic forks, spoons and knives. I decided to make less work by using paper and plastic.”

“I don’t blame you,” I said. “You’re so gracious. This is much more than I expected.”

Huberta walked out and soon returned, clutching a silver candelabra holding three ivory candles. “We can make it nicer by candlelight.” She glanced at Keith. “You have matches?”

Keith patted his dress shirt. “Sorry, no, not since I quit smoking.”

Paula put an arm around his shoulders. “Means you’ll be around longer, Sweetie.”
Huberta frowned. “Oh, my, I need to find some.”

I felt sorry for her. She had already gone above and beyond. As for me, I felt like an unrepentant sinner, having to stand there, with my guilt as visible as my exhaustion, and I thought surely everyone could see I’d taken Geneva’s things.

Finally, Huberta returned with a box of kitchen matches, fired one up and lit the candles. I stared at the triple flames for a moment, trying to center myself.

Keith withdrew a spiral pad and ballpoint pen from his shirt pocket. He slid the pen behind his right ear.

Paula asked him, “You want me to make you a plate?”

“No, thanks, I’ll take care of myself. You go ahead.”

Paula handed me a paper plate. I took it and said, “Thank you;” then assembled a ham sandwich with wheat bread, salad and mayonnaise before sitting down at the head of the table.