Hurricane House (15 page)

“Hi, I’m Maeva Larson, Lilah’s friend. She gave me the crystal necklace. Or rather, loaned it to me. I wanted to chat about that and other things. That is, if you have time.” I recited my cell-phone number; then slipped deeper under the Canary comforter, wishing I’d had the energy to focus on Lilah’s notes and Geneva’s laptop.

I glanced at the canary clock: 12:01 in red. Past my z-time but I couldn’t sleep. So I flicked on the light, picked up a catalogue from the nightstand and restlessly flipped through it. My eyes widened at the pictures: plastic penises,
lubricants, massage oils and lingerie. Oh, my, must be from the party Huberta, a former nun—how crazy is that?—was forced to cancel because of the hurricane.

“The Hummingbird” was “two vibrating heads of ultimate pleasure. A full eight inches of penetration coupled with a smaller partner to satisfy your love button.”

I touched my own love button and tried to concentrate, but the voices from outside distracted me. It sounded like Paula talking to Keith, and being too curious for my own good, I peeked through the yellow curtain and found the window ajar. A few feet away, stood Paula and Keith, kissing under the porch light near the fallen pine tree.

Paula broke away from Keith and said, “Tis now the very witching time of night when churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out contagion to this world.”

“Hamlet,” Keith said.

Paula smiled up at him. “Not bad for an old FBI guy.” “Hamlet and Richard the Third are my favorites.”

“I was referring to your mouth action, not your literary expertise.”

Keith tilted his head toward Paula for a repeat performance. “I can do better.”

Paula let out a breathy laugh. “Maybe we should stick to the subject of Shakespeare. Did you know I wasn’t allowed to teach Hamlet and Richard the Third, only Julius Caesar?”

Keith looked smitten with the white-haired femme fatale. “Why?”

“Julius Caesar has no sex in it.”

Keith tenderly stroked Paula’s hair. “Murder’s permissible but not...love-making?”

Paula played with the hairs on Keith’s chest. “You’d better leave before we get carried away.” “I’m having a talk with Joan.”

“No, don’t. It’ll break her heart.”

“Not negotiable, Paula. You love me, I love you. We were meant to be together. You know it. I know it. Even Joan knows it. I’ve tried to make it work, but I can’t. I’ve never stopped loving you. When you think about it, we’re not being fair to her.”

“You’ve made your marriage work for thirty years, haven’t you?”

“She’s tried. I’ve tried. Our kids are grown. They have their own lives. And I don’t want to live a lie.” Keith lip-locked with Paula again.

I felt my face blush as my cell vibrated on the bed stand. I tiptoed to answer it. “Hello?”

“I’m Martha Chapman,” the Kathleen Turner voice said. “I apologize for calling so late, but your message troubled me.”

“It did?” I touched the crystal necklace. The stone felt hot. “I found your card in the stuff Lilah Sanderford gave me.”

“You’re wearing the necklace, I see.”

“Do you have one of those video phones?”

The Kathleen Turner laugh. “I’m psychic, remember?” “That’s right. And the reason I called.” I heard rhythmic breathing as if Martha had fallen asleep. “Martha?”

“Pay attention to the necklace. It will guide you.” “That’s what Lilah said.”

“And pay attention to your dog.”

“I don’t own a dog.” I wondered why I’d phoned this woman. “I love dogs, but I travel with my job and owning a dog would be...” I stopped talking when I heard more heavy breathing from Martha.
“Hurry, bodies everywhere.”

Then, the phone went dead. “Hello? Martha?”

Upset by Martha’s call, I made a jumbled mess out of Huberta’s canary bedding. No position felt comfortable. I turned cold, then hot. In my nervous state, I glanced at the clock every few minutes while the wind whirled and whistled outside. Eventually, I nodded off, but I snapped awake when I dreamed about Tara’s body. No wonder the Aborigines say the wind carries dead spirits. Also, Martha’s words became a kind of mantra.

“Bodies everywhere,” she had said.

At 5:30 a.m., I got up and filled the Jacuzzi bathtub with the hottest water I could stand. The burning, pulsating water relaxed me enough to drift off until 6:45 a.m.

By then, I felt semi-rested. I jumped out of the tub, dried off and dressed in jeans and a white tee, then opened Geneva’s laptop. I had no problem going online. Geneva had stored her Internet password, meaning anyone with access to her computer could check her e-mail.

A trusting soul and well liked, she’d received 246 new e-mails: two from Eleanor King with “storm coverage,” in the subject line. “I love your storm column and pics, but I’m worried about your safety,” Eleanor wrote. Her signature said “News editor, Tallahassee Reaper,” and included address and phone numbers.

I opened an e-mail to Geneva from Lilah. Interesting, though not surprising. Geneva and Lilah worked in the same field. Lilah mentioned her trip to London and the Miss America article she was writing. “My research for this article has led me to new evidence on Tara’s Baxter’s death.”

I saw an e-mail from an ellenlang with the subject line, “Dolphin meeting.” From this e-mail, I learned Geneva had asked this woman to meet her in Dolphin. It was signed, “Your Favorite Reformed Hitchhiker, Ellen.” I knew instantly Ellen was the hitchhiker in Geneva’s award-winning article.

Ellen included a P.S. “Your e-mail came from 12345678910statue. Why? Call me when you can. If you think your home phone is tapped, I’ll go to a payphone. Why aren’t you answering your cell? The phone at your condo is not working. When you called me here the last time, I couldn’t answer. I lost my voice, a long story. I can’t talk above a whisper, but my voice has improved over what it was. In my last e-mail, I explained what happened. Did you get it? Who would have thought I’d be so stupid to catch a ride with a psycho. He said his name was John. I used pepper spray on him. Sorry about this long p.s. I will arrange for safe transportation to Dolphin. Also, want you to know, I’ve cleaned like crazy. Don’t worry. I won’t throw away anything of value. We can discuss all of this when we get together.”

I glanced at Geneva’s cell. The battery showed a full charge, and I noticed several missed messages, but unlike Geneva’s laptop, I needed the password to retrieve them. However, the Caller I.D. listed the phone numbers of the missed calls. Two were from “Home.”

I sat for a while, thinking about what Ellen wrote. I had no idea how to respond, and frankly, it took me a moment to get my head around pretending to be someone I’m not. “Call me on my cell at 6:30 tonight,” I wrote. “I’ll be waiting. Talk to you soon. Geneva.”

Chapter Twenty-five

Paradise Isle, Maeva

     
I drove up to Paradise Palms fifteen minutes early for my appointment with developer John Peterson who hadn’t shown the courtesy to return my call. Strange for someone eager to have his damages assessed.

I parked out front and waited until a security guard who resembled former President George W. Bush walked over to greet me. Before he had a chance to speak, I flashed my ID. “I have an appointment with Mr. Peterson this morning.”

“Sorry, I’ve been instructed not to allow anyone in,” he said sternly.

I understood why when I saw the cavernous washout beneath Paradise Palms, a structure with twenty-two floors,
insured for thirty million with a two-percent deductible. It stood at the end of Gulf Drive, built fifty feet from Dolphin’s boat pass, a body of water combining the Gulf of Mexico and Dolphin’s Harbor.

“Unfortunately, I’ll have to go in,” I said, firmly. “That’s what I do for a living. I’m a CAT. I assess storm damage.”

The guard pointed down Gulf Drive. “You should park at least a block or two away. I’ll call Mr. Peterson. I wasn’t expecting him. He didn’t say anything about your appointment. But I’ll try to raise him.”

“All right, but if Mr. Peterson is detained or planning not to show, let me know.” I handed him my business card. “Call me on my cell.”

“Will do,” he said, smiling.

I returned his smile before driving a block away and parking my truck to face the high rise. I wanted to observe the building while I waited for Peterson, but after fifteen minutes of waiting, I grew antsy, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel until my cell phone rang.

It was Jan Benson from Catastrophe Claims, Inc. “How’s it going, Maeva.” Jan’s voice seemed constricted, over-worked and underpaid.

“It’s going.”

“I suppose you’re trying to keep your head above water like I am?”

I laughed, uneasily. “Yeah.”

“I’ve uploaded twelve new claims to your e-mail. If you can’t access them, let me know.”

The broadband wouldn’t work on my laptop. No surprise. Signal was out. I thought about going to Starbucks or Java Jay’s, but I doubted anything high-tech was operating
after the hurricane. Worse scenario, I’ll go on-line at Huberta’s later.

I continued to wait, getting angrier by the minute as I considered my claims piling up and everything else on my plate I didn’t have time for, and here I was wasting time waiting for Peterson. It was eight-fifteen already, according to my truck’s clock.

A military jeep and a Ford Explorer from the sheriff’s department drove past, but no sign of Peterson. I’d never met the man, though I knew what he looked like: Vin Diesel with lots of hair. The local newspaper had showed him losing his temper at a City Counsel meeting when he was ordered to lop off the top floor of his house to comply with the height allowance. I knew where he lived. His house had Mardi Gras colors: yellow, green, and purple, a monstrosity that took up half the block a mile from where I sat in the Silverado. He could have walked to the appointment by now.

I decided if he didn’t show in the next fifteen minutes, I’d drive over to his house and pound on the door. First, I needed to call the IRS guy and postpone next week’s audit. I had an airtight excuse. The Pensacola Bridge and portion of I-10 were out. No way I could’ve gotten over there unless I sprouted wings.

I punched in Puker’s number. His voice mail answered: “Hello, this is Charles Puker...” An appropriate name for an IRS auditor, I wanted to say after the beep, but restrained myself.

“Hi, I’m Maeva Larson. I received your letter, but there’s no way I can make next week’s appointment. I’m in Dolphin and the Pensacola Bridge and parts of I-10 are out. Also, I’m swamped with claims. I’m a claims adjuster, which
you already know.” I gave Puker my cell phone number and asked him to call back to reschedule.

After I closed the phone, I glanced at the truck clock: 8:55 and still no sign of Peterson. He was obviously an insecure control freak, forcing others to wait in order to feel more important. I wanted to drive over to his house and confront him, but I decided to pass the time productively.

I opened Geneva’s laptop, scanned her files and clicked on the folder called Hurricane Horrors: “From my front door, I see a flood surge already in progress. The foamy gulf is roaring through the street in front of this townhouse. My Mustang won’t start and sits cockeyed in the driveway, soon to float away....” Meaning if Geneva’s car wouldn’t start, she couldn’t evacuate.

As I continued reading, I learned Geneva called Roxanne the night of the hurricane. I wondered if Geneva saw Roxanne that night. Of course, I had no way of knowing, though I knew Geneva must be alive. She had e-mailed Ellen after the storm.

A tap on my window startled me. I turned to see Peterson, smiling, wearing Matrix sunglasses. He wore black jogging shorts, white stripes down the sides, and a white, v-neck tee with “Dolphin, Florida” printed in blue letters above the pocket. The short sleeves stretched to accommodate Peterson’s bulging biceps.

He opened my door. “Sorry I’m late. My owners are pestering the devil out of me wanting to know how much damage they’ve sustained, and when they’ll get to see for themselves.”

“Can’t say that I blame them,” I said, closing Geneva’s laptop. “They plunked down...what? More than a million for a beach getaway they can’t use and a whopping how much in monthly association dues?”

“Nine hundred.”

I reached for my leather binder containing my pen, writing pad and Peterson’s insurance information. “You should have called to let me know you were running late.”

Peterson extended his hand and laughed, as though I’d told him a joke. “Hi, I’m John.”

I took his hand and his offer to help me step down from the truck. “I’m Maeva Larson, the lady who’s handling your claim, as if you didn’t already know.”

Peterson’s grip hurt. The turquoise ring and the diamond solitaire, cut into my fingers, pinching to the point of pain, but not nearly as painful as the memory of the night paramedics found the engagement ring inside Adam’s jacket. It was still in its velvet case along with the blood-stained card, “Maeva, don’t say no. Love forever, Adam.”

I freed my hand from Peterson’s grasp. “Your high-rise leans like the Tower of Pisa and needs to be condemned.”

Peterson slid his Matrix sunglasses on top of his head. His tiger eyes, yellow and brown, frowned. “I refuse to let anyone condemn my building by painting an orange C on it.” He made a motion of a C in the air. “I’ve got a crew coming with jacks and steel netting like you wouldn’t believe.”