Hurricane House (14 page)

Paula poured chardonnay into a cup and gave it to me, and as I watched her pile a smorgasbord on top of a plate and offer it to Keith, it occurred to me I’d never seen Paula without the binoculars around her neck until now.

He smiled at Paula. “Thanks.” Then waved off the wine she offered him.

Huberta crumbled cheese on her salad and mixed it with Italian dressing. “What do you know about the woman they found today?”

Paula poured herself a cup of wine and sat down beside Keith. “If you ask me, I think Tara and Roxanne were murdered and the person who killed them took their feet as souvenirs.”

Keith frowned and massaged his forehead, as if it hurt. He speared a piece of tomato and lettuce with his fork.
What was Keith thinking? Did he agree with Paula? Did he agree that Tara and Roxanne were murdered? I remembered what Geneva had said about them: “Tara and Roxanne are first cousins and best friends, both Miss Florida winners and talented dancers.”

The medical examiner, according to Lilah’s notes, said Tara suffered from diabetes. “The alcohol in her system may have sent her into a diabetic coma,” the M.E. said. “She didn’t die from drowning, but that’s all I’m at liberty to say at this point.” He differed with an earlier report about her right foot being severed by a boat propeller. “No boat propeller I’ve seen.” When I found Tara’s body the foot appeared severed from the ankle as if it had been chopped off. “Which foot of Roxanne’s was missing?” I asked, my voice quivering. So much for trying to sound confident and relaxed.

Keith sucked in air. “Left.”

“This is not a pleasant topic for the dinner table,” Huberta said.

Yes, but you brought up the subject, I wanted to say. Instead, I took a sip of water to swallow the bite of ham sandwich lodged in my throat.

“When Adam was alive, he used to say serial killers often take souvenirs. So I’m thinking Paula is right. Tara’s body turned up without her right foot. Roxanne lost her left foot. And don’t you think it’s awfully suspicious that Geneva VanSant is missing? I hope she’s okay.”

Keith plucked the pen from his ear to scribble something on his pad. “When I spoke to Mr. VanSant, he said his wife would have called him or her mother if she were okay.”

He placed his thumb over the end of his pen clicking it, ready for writing, not ready for writing, ready, not ready. “In
a storm like Hurricane Donald, with the flood surge such as it was, it’s difficult to say with any certainty what’s accidental and what’s not.” Keith leaned back, both hands nested in his hair, still wet from the rain. “But then again, I would think if Mrs. VanSant were alive and able, she’d call someone.”

Paula nodded. “She would. She definitely would. I’d never worry my mother like that.”

Keith continued to snap the end of his pen. “I’m not surprised at anything anymore. Who can say for sure what happened to her? She could’ve decided to just vanish, the storm giving her the excuse. We may never know. Y’all saw what happened in that earthquake tsunami in the Indian Ocean. They never did get an accurate death toll. The same thing after Katrina, many vanished without a trace.”

Keith stopped snapping his pen. “But let’s not dwell on that, shall we? Better to consider all the angles and determine what we know and don’t know and go from there.” He directed his brown eyes at me. “I’ve discussed this with Paula at length, and I’m hoping that you, Maeva, might shed some light as to motive and opportunity regarding Tara Baxter and Roxanne Trawler. I realize you’re not on Paradise Isle year ‘round. And you don’t have the benefit of Paula’s binoculars.” Keith smiled as he squeezed Paula’s shoulder. “But I’d like you to share your thoughts and ideas.”

The crystal around my neck turned warm. I touched it for comfort and sipped my wine, relieved Keith didn’t question me about Geneva’s belongings, though he seemed to know more than he was saying, because he stared at me with his piercing cop’s eyes. “Tell me Maeva. When you checked the VanSant’s townhouse for damage, did you see anything strange or anything that might help us find her?”

Oh, no. “Not really,” I lied.

Chapter Twenty-two

Ellen Langley at Geneva’s house in Tallahasse

Ellen turned up the volume on the television in her room to hear Loughton VanSant on CNN. She recognized him instantly as the man in the pictures displayed throughout her new home.

He pleaded with the camera and held up a photo of Geneva. “Please call police at once if you have any information about my wife. Please, please.”

But how could this be? Geneva had sent Ellen an e-mail. In fact, she was getting ready to respond to it.

Geneva’s husband said he or no one, not even her mother, had heard from his wife since before the hurricane. Why did she contact me and not her husband and mother? The whole thing didn’t feel right. Geneva’s e-mail came to an address Ellen reserved for impersonal stuff. She rarely checked that e-mail box except every now and then when she figured she needed to delete the spam. Good thing she hadn’t deleted Geneva’s e-mail, but of course she wouldn’t when she saw “From Geneva VanSant” in the subject line. Strange that this e-mail came from an address Ellen didn’t recognize.

Has Geneva gone bonkers? Ellen understood how that could happen after enduring last night’s storm. The wind from a hurricane can drive anyone insane.

Ellen sighed, her voice a whisper. Healing, but not working properly. Her vocal cords had a long way to go before she’d sing arias again or even be ready for a trip to see Geneva. And how will I get there without blowing her cover? Ellen refocused on the flat screen TV. Loughton wiped his eyes. She thought he might be one of those politicians who could cry on demand. Shallow as water on a hill. He’ll do anything to advance himself.

A redhaired female reporter asked him, “How will this affect your U.S. Senate plans?”

VanSant rolled his baby blues, as if he considered the question inane. “The only thing I’m concerned about at the moment is finding my wife and bringing her home safely.”

A lie, probably, but if Geneva thought so, maybe she disappeared to keep her husband from running for office. On second thought, Ellen decided no. Geneva wouldn’t do that. She’s not manipulative.

A third possibility could be this e-mail was a hoax. To test it, Ellen wrote Geneva at her usual address, not the weird 12345678910statue one.

“Are you okay?” Ellen wrote. “Your mother and husband are worried about you. Why don’t you want anyone to know where you are? But whatever, I’ll see you in Dolphin and help you in anyway I can. I don’t know how I’m going to do that yet without blowing your cover. I’ll figure out something.”

As Ellen sent the e-mail to Geneva, CNN showed a picture of a platinum-haired beauty. An anchorman said, “The body of a former Miss Florida, Roxanne Trawler, was found today beneath the hurricane wreckage of her beach house on Paradise Isle in Dolphin, Florida. Two weeks ago, a woman found Trawler’s first cousin, Tara Baxter, this year’s Miss Florida, floating in the Gulf of Mexico near where Trawler’s body was uncovered this morning. Here’s a special report from Candy Lind in Dolphin, Florida.”

Chapter Twenty-three

Paradise Isle

A stroke of Providence. The sorry, good-for-nothing punk who ran the front loader didn’t finish the street clearing. Too bad, every task, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant, is an art form.

“You know anything about heavy equipment?” A soldier asked him. He and Soldier Boy had exchanged pleasantries earlier.

“Where’s what’s his face?”

“You mean Joey?”

“Yeah.”

Soldier boy shook his head and frowned. “Got paid yesterday. So my guess is he’s downing a six-pack ‘bout now. He took that loader key with him. And we can’t finish the street clearing without it.”
“I think this might get it going.” He flashed his mailbox key, figuring it would do the trick. Soldier Boy laughed, but not for long.

The front loader started right up. “They don’t call me ‘creative genius’ for nothing.”

Soldier Boy turned and yelled to his buddies about how a mailbox key could crank the machinery. “Bet, creative genius can’t push the sand out of the road and dump it to the side.”

He knew Soldier Boy was kidding when he offered the dare. “No sweat,” he said from the driver’s bench while working the gears.

“You rock,” Soldier Boy said.

To avoid being recognized, he put on sunglasses and a flop hat and actually enjoyed the physical aspect of clearing this section of Paradise Isle. He figured it would place him in a favorable light and provide cherished access.

Sure enough, it had turned dark by the time he got around to Sandra Eddleman’s place. Luck was definitely on his side when he found her chasing after her daughter outside.

“My Lexie doesn’t want to have her face washed, so I’m playing catch the baby,” Sandra told him.

Sandra was a looker, his type and he tried to engage her in conversation, but she said she had to get back inside and bathe Lexie. He knew she wanted him, but like the others, she faked disinterest.

“Another pretentious woman, playing games,” he told Sandra when he grabbed her from behind.

She fought and scratched him like a hellcat, while the baby screamed and screamed. “Police, help me. Please, someone help me,” she yelled as he wrestled her to the bed. “Shut up,” he yelled back, but Sandra screamed louder than the baby.

He did the logical thing and covered her mouth.

Unfortunately, she made a fatal mistake and bit his hand, drawing blood.

“Jezus shit!” he yelled. That’s when he lost his temper and choked her. How beautiful and still and peaceful she looked afterwards. He would have enjoyed the moment, if not for the baby’s screaming loud enough to puncture his eardrums. He wanted to strangle the kid, but to make sure he didn’t, he put the baby in the bathroom and closed the door. He then walked casually toward the Hummer, jumped inside, looking around to make sure no one saw him or his special container.

“Curbside service, my dear,” he said to Sandra as he stuffed her body inside. She looked serene, lovely as an angel. Her aquamarine eyes stared at him, as if to say, I’m yours now, thank you for taking me to this new and final stage. No more heartache, no more pain, no more worry.

“Your welcome, and thanks for helping me decide. I’ll take your eyes. The windows to your soul and mine.” His hands shook with anticipation as he took her to his sanctuary, “Forever and ever, amen,” as the song goes.

Back at his place, he mourned her passing, cut out her beautiful eyes with a surgeon’s scalpel and placed them in formaldehyde. Afterwards, he lifted Sandra into his kiln, which would serve as her crematorium. It reached eighteen-hundred degrees Fahrenheit. Sandra’s lean, muscular body would take a long time to fry.

He watched her through the treated glass of the kiln, a sophisticated “retort,” more advanced than the crematorium
he’d worked in as a teenager. Everyone’s body burned a different color. Sandra’s burned yellow, then blue, then green, then purple, oh, and what a lovely purple, her potassium. He groaned when he saw her bare bones. They burned black, her carbon compounds being consumed.

Her skull cracked but otherwise stayed intact. Her sightless eye sockets gazed toward heaven, where her soul had already advanced.

Sandra’s remaining bones faded to a dark gray color, which he poured into a large processor to grind. He didn’t expect his beautiful Sandra to weigh more than two pounds when he was finished.

Chapter Twenty-four

Maeva

    
I felt tipsy from the wine and wanted to crawl under the canary comforter at Huberta Huber’s house and sleep for a week. The Jacuzzi looked enticing, but as tired as I was, I’d drown in it if I took a bath.

I barely had the energy to strip out of my sweat suit, put on my Roll Tide tee and brush my teeth, but I needed to keep my eyes open long enough to read through Lilah’s notes about Tara.

I withdrew Lilah’s spiral pad from my backpack and climbed under the comforter. I stretched out and started to flip open the pad when I noticed a business card taped to the back.

Martha Davaeu Chapman

Spiritual Counselor

504 666-6666

Below the card, someone had written: “Crystal necklace.” Oh, yes. Martha’s the psychic who gave Lilah the necklace.

In the lamplight, the crystal around my neck glowed like gold, but of course, it would in the Canary Room. I’d worn the necklace to bed, because it had become a part of me by now. No surprise. I’ve collected more rocks than anyone outside of a new-age jewelry store, and my fascination with this particular stone led me to call the psychic who owned it.

I reached for my cell and punched in the numbers on the card. Would Martha Deveau Chapman actually answer the phone? I braced myself for the possibility.

The phone rang several times before a message machine answered. “Hello.” The woman’s voice on the recording sounded like Kathleen Turner in Romancing the Stone. “Leave your name and number. I’ll return your call promptly.”