Hurricane House (4 page)

Ellen nodded, but wondered if she’d ever make it to Geneva’s house.

Officer Billy then placed Ellen’s report in a black notebook, smiled at Lorraine and tugged at his belt. “See you later,” he said, walking out of the BP with the female cop tagging behind.

To pass the time while waiting for Kenny, not knowing whether he’d show or not, Ellen wrote him a letter. She was putting her pen away when Kenny pulled up in his red-and-silver eighteen-wheeler. Her face broke into a wide smile.

Lorraine smiled and waved, as if she shared Ellen’s gratitude.

Ellen waved back; then ran out of the store to jump up on the truck’s running board.

When she handed Kenny the letter she’d written, he folded it into a square small enough to stuff inside his shirt pocket. “I’ll read this later, okay? We need to get going.” He rammed the engine and tore out of the service station. “That clerk back there said some guy hurt you. You okay?” He turned his head to look at Ellen.

She nodded, pointed to her throat and mouthed the words, “I can’t talk.”

“Was he a trucker?”

Ellen shook her head no.

“You sick?”

Ellen shook her head again and wished Kenny would live up to his reputation as a strong, silent type and not ask questions that required more than a shake of the head or a nod, especially since she couldn’t talk and fatigue pushed on her eyelid.

“Sorry I stood you up,” Kenny said, “My transmission broke and I couldn’t find a replacement. And I lost my cell phone. It was found in the garbage can, in the men’s room. I had everyone calling me. And some drunk taking a piss complained that the damn garbage can in the John was ringing.”

Listening to Kenny, Ellen fell asleep, exhausted from the night’s ordeal.

Her eyes shot open when Kenny said, “We’re here.”

He stopped his rig in front of a lovely two-story house, manicured lawn and green shrubs. The place needed flowers. Hibiscus, tulips, daffodils and jonquils would be nice. Ellen knew a lady in Gibland, Louisiana, who grew acres and acres of Jonquilla. They smelled like heaven.

“Nice place,” Kenny said. “But you look beat. Let me help you.” He got out and went around to Ellen’s side. Then he opened her door, took her duffle and offered his hand for her to step down from the truck.

After Ellen retrieved her duffle from Kenny, she
hugged him goodbye. He smelled soap clean. Must have bathed at the truck stop.

“Good luck,” Kenny said. “Sorry if I let you down.”

Ellen waved at him and remembered what Geneva had said about her house key. “Rose, my next door neighbor, you’ll see the roses in her yard. She’ll have the keys to my house.”

Watching Kenny drive away, Ellen forced her tears back and walked to Rose’s front porch, a sheltered wrap-around. For a moment, she stood frozen in place, facing the heavy mahogany door. She needed to compose herself and remember she was lucky to be alive and would soon have a dry, comfortable place to stay.

Ellen rang the doorbell, setting off a high-pitched, barking dog.

“Who is it?” A woman’s voice came from the speaker beside the front door.

Unable to answer, Ellen dinged the bell a second time. A gray-haired woman, holding a Yorkshire terrier, cracked the door and peeped out.

Ellen handed her a note. It said: “I’m Ellen, Geneva’s new housekeeper. I came for the key. I’m giving you this note, because I’ve lost my voice.”

“Hi, I’m Rose O’Brian. Are you the singing hickhiker?” Ellen nodded.

“I saw that article Geneva wrote about you,” Rose said. “Not at all derogatory. In fact, quite complimentary.” She squinted at Ellen. “And I know you must be who you say
you are, but could you please show me some I.D.? One can’t be too careful these days.”

Ellen reached inside her duffle, pulled out her driver’s license and showed it to Rose.

“Bless your heart,” Rose said. “I had laryngitis last year myself. Geneva tells me you have a beautiful singing voice.” Rose opened the door wide. “Please come in. I’ll get the keys.”

Ellen wiped her feet on the rose-shaped welcome mat before she entered.

“Be right back,” Rose said. “Would you like some coffee? I made a fresh pot.”

Ellen shook her head no. She hated coffee. The smell made her stomach queasy as she watched Rose pad down the hallway in her robe and slippers.

Ellen admired how the oak floors were shined to a high gloss, but she disliked the living room with its antique, uncomfortable-looking furniture.

After a few minutes, Rose padded back, dangling a Seminole Indian key ring, a souvenir of Geneva’s alma mater, Florida State. Rose pointed to the tube key. “This opens the screen porch. Round one is the front door, square key opens the back.” Rose handed Ellen the keys and followed her out the door. “Hope you’re feeling better soon. If you need anything, I’m here.”

Ellen waved goodbye and crossed the yard toward Geneva’s house. The rain had stopped, though black clouds promised more. She inhaled the damp air with the fragrance of wet grass and roses, beautiful roses: red, yellow, white with yellow, red with yellow, pink with white, and red with white. Roses were work, but she’d be willing to plant them if Geneva agreed. She smiled at the thought and walked toward Geneva’s screened porch. She found the door to the porch unlocked. No reason for concern. Nothing on the porch to steal but a wooden swing, and it was solidly attached. Ellen assured herself this neighborhood was safe with friendly neighbors like Rose next door.

She fumbled ineptly with the front-door lock as the rain started pounding the roof like a parade of elephants. It took her several tries, but eventually, the heavy wooden door opened. Darkness greeted her inside.

She searched in the dark for a light switch and found the chain to a Tiffany pole lamp, which illuminated a hallway lined with bookcases. Ellen smiled at what she saw of her new home, but her smile soon faded when she heard a creaking noise from upstairs.

Chapter Five

Gerry, Alabama, Maeva’s Home

     
I called the five realty companies listed in Paradise Isle, Dolphin and surrounding areas, thinking someone would recommend a handy person to help me out. No one answered, only voice mail. Under no circumstances will I drive to Dolphin in this weather, I kept telling myself.

I dug through the business cards in my desk drawer and found one for Victor Curry, a fellow CAT. We’ve worked hurricanes together in the past. I knew he lived in Dolphin on Paradise Isle in a dome-shaped house located a block from my rental units.

Victor’s white card with black lettering gave two phone numbers, cell and home, his e-mail, but no home or office address. Victor, like most catastrophe adjusters, guarded his privacy.

I punched in Victor’s cell phone number.

A raspy voice answered, “Yes.”

“Victor, that you?”

“Last time I checked.”

“It’s Maeva Larson. I need a favor.”

“Cut to the chase, why don’t you? No sense in asking about the weather or how I am.”

I laughed, realizing my rudeness. “Oh, sorry. How are
you Victor?”

“I feel good, but the weather’s not doing so well.”

“So I hear. Are you in Dolphin?” I crossed my fingers.

“Yeah. What’s up?”

“I’m at home in Gerry, Alabama, and I need someone to board up my beach places.”

“And you’re hoping that someone is yours truly?”

“Yes, if you’ll be so kind. I know it’s a lot to ask. My places are next door to each other on Blue Heron Way, not far from yours.”

“Numbers five and seven, right?”

“Right,” I said, while standing at the picture window and watching the rain rippling Lake Gerry. Pines arched in the wind. I looked for Adam’s face to appear again.

On Victor’s end, I heard the Gulf roaring. “Boards,
sandbags, supplies are in the storage sheds out back,” I said, raising my voice so he could hear above the noise of the storm.

“You’ll owe me.”

Not a bad thing to owe Victor, great-looking, fortyish, about six-two, an adorable cleft in his chin, thick dark hair, cut short the last time I saw him. “I promise to return the favor someday.”

“Buy me a drink. We’ll call it even.”

“Any evacuation yet?”

“Not officially, but the ‘disaster-casters’ on the Weather Channel have everybody spooked. Looks like a ghost town here.”

“Are you planning to evacuate?”

“Noooo.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Why? My house is a storm shelter.”

I pictured Victor’s dome home. I’d never been inside, but an article in Dolphin Living said the opening in the center of his house accommodated flood surges. As a kid, I once drew a picture of a giant star bumping into the bottom of the sun and called it “The Martian House.” My drawing looked like Victor’s home.

“I’m storing my wheels at a friend’s place farther inland. Don’t want to be stranded when the claims start pouring in. Call me mercenary.”

“You’re not mercenary, Vic. You’re Santa Claus.” I thought about Dad. He used to say CAT work was like playing Santa Claus and after Hurricane Andrew hit South Florida in 1992, Dad asked me to work with him. I’d felt honored. What a great opportunity to learn from the best.

“Now that’s a new one.”

“That’s what my Dad used to say about being a CAT.” “Sounds like a great guy and mentor.”

“Yes, he was. I would give anything to play Santa with Dad again, like in Liberty City after Hurricane Andrew hit. I can still hear that Bahamian man saying, ‘The Lord brought
you to me.’ The hurricane destroyed the man’s home, but he felt blessed for evacuating in time with his most precious possessions, photos of his eleven kids, all with college degrees and good jobs.” Talking to Victor, I had a flashback of Dad giving me a framed copy of Lou Gehrig’s farewell address at Yankee Stadium. On the back, he wrote, “Wish I had more time to play Santa Claus.” Until then, I was in denial. I didn’t want to believe Dad had the same disease.

“I’d rather call a spade a spade. I’m mercenary.”

I laughed. If Victor wanted to call himself “mercenary,” let him. And if he wanted to stay for the storm, let him. Victor knew what a category four or five would do, and if he thought he could survive the storm in his dome house, so be it.

He wasn’t a dummy. He’d created his own CAT software, allowing him to process claims in a jiffy. “Lion CAT,” he called it. He’d given me a copy. I was amazed at the boost in productivity. I wrote twenty-four claims a day after Hurricane Opal devastated Paradise Isle, Dolphin and the entire peninsular in 1995.

When Ivan struck the Panhandle in 2004, Victor gave me “a new and improved version.” Using the new program, I filed 175 claims a week. After Katrina hit, I got too busy to count the claims. “I suppose computer geniuses who create their own CAT software are entitled to be mercenary,” I said.

“You’re making me blush or maybe I’m blushing at the view. Roxanne Trawler is running on the beach in the rain.”

“Are you kidding? She’s actually jogging in this storm?”

“She is.”

“That’s what I call dedication.” Roxanne was Tara Baxter’s cousin. At Geneva’s party, Geneva introduced Roxanne as “the woman of the couple who owns the big pink house, more accurately called ‘the pink palace.’ “I’ve phoned Roxanne a few times and left messages,” I told Victor. “But I didn’t hear back. Understandable. News hounds are consuming most of her time, but I’d like to talk to her about the night I found Tara’s body. I sort of feel obligated.”

Victor said, “I saw Roxanne on the news sobbing, saying how devastated she was. The reporter was gushing. She told Roxanne she was thrilled when Tara became Miss Florida, the same title Roxanne won ten years before.”

“What did Roxanne say?”

“She said she and Tara where first cousins and best friends and she accused police of dragging their feet.”

“So sad, Victor, but I need to let you go. Times a wasting.”

“I’m now standing in front of your townhouses.”

“That was quick.”

“Your beach neighbor Geneva VanSant is still here. Or at least her Mustang is.”

“Such a sweet lady.”

“Seems to be, but I don’t care for her politician husband.” “I haven’t met him yet, but he has good taste. His wife is lovely. And she’s a very talented writer.”

“Speaking of writers, I see what’s his face? In the unit to the right of yours, walking in his front door like he doesn’t have a care in the world.”

“Are you talking about Sean Redmond?”

“I think that’s his name.”

“I haven’t met him yet, but I’ve read one of his books.” “What kind of books does he write?”

“The one I read was a murder mystery, set in California on an Indian reservation. In Indio, I think. I wonder if he plans to ride out the storm, too. If so, you won’t be alone on Paradise Isle. Just be safe, Vic, okay? And thanks for helping me out. You’re a true gentleman.”

“Don’t mention it.”