Without a Grave (8 page)

Remembering my conversation with Rudy Mueller and his daughter, Gabriele, at the arts and crafts show, I said, ‘Mueller seems pretty sure of himself. He's already hiring, you know. Someone told me he's sending folks for training to one of his mega resorts in Cozamel.'

Henry moved a small bowl of butter pats aside and turned his place mat around so we could see the map on it. Using his fork, he drew a circle around Hawksbill, Bonefish, and several smaller, uninhabited cays to the east. ‘This is my territory, the Land and Sea Park.' He dragged the tines down a long series of Xs that separated the islands from the Atlantic Ocean to the east. ‘And this is the barrier reef.'

‘I've heard it's one of the finest left in the world.'

Henry's gaze was firm, and steady. ‘And I plan to keep it that way.

‘And, here,' Henry said, tapping a smaller cluster of Xs just to the north of Hawksbill Cay, ‘is Fowl Cay where you'll be snorkeling next week.' He looked up, his bottle-green eyes alive. ‘It
is
the finest reef in the world. Vertical drop offs, spectacular cuts, black coral forests, a couple of wrecks. And the sea life!' He laid down his fork and folded his hands. ‘Octopus, giant grouper, lobsters as big and as tame as dogs. They've even got names.'

I nodded, thinking about my friend, Big Daddy.

With my finger, I reached across the table and retraced the circle Henry had drawn. ‘But if all this area is within the protected boundaries of the park, how come Mueller's allowed to build on it?'

Henry scowled darkly. ‘Grandfather clauses. The government wanted to protect the reefs, but there was no way to do it without including Hawksbill Cay where a lot of the land was privately owned. You must have noticed there's no commercial development on Bonefish Cay, where you're living.'

I nodded. ‘And we like it that way.'

‘A lot of the locals agree with you, but some . . .' Henry paused. ‘Well, you can't blame them, really. It's hard enough keeping your kids from leaving the islands, deserting it for schools and high-paying jobs in the United States. And Mueller's development means local jobs, lots of jobs.'

‘It's an uphill battle, isn't it, Al?' Henry continued as the restaurant owner appeared with a glass of ice and a Diet Coke and set them down in front of him. ‘The development's already started. He's renovated the old Tamarind Tree restaurant. Turned it into a private club.'

‘I know,' Paul put in. ‘We've agreed to tour the resort next week.'

‘Watch it, Ives. Mueller's slick. Before you know it, you'll be plunking down two, three million for a condo.'

I gasped. ‘Two million? You've got to be kidding, right? For one of the mansions, maybe, but for a
condo
?' I'd been reading the real estate ads in
The Abaconian
– a girl can dream! – and there were a number of fine properties on the market. Custom-built, four and five bedroom homes right on the water had been listed for a hundred thou or two on either side of a million bucks. I couldn't imagine paying twice that much for a lousy condominium.

‘I wish I were.' Using his finger this time, Henry traced along the southern shoreline of Hawksbill Cay. ‘This is one of the finest pink sand beaches anywhere in the world. But visit it while you can, ladies and gentlemen, because if Mueller has his way, it'll soon be fenced off for the exclusive use of the American Express platinum card crowd.'

‘Surely the government . . .' I began, thinking of the new Prime Minister's stated commitment to local rights, sustainable development and keeping the Bahamas for Bahamians.

Henry raised a hand. ‘Don't get me started. The government's down in Nassau, and they don't give a shit what happens up here in the Abacos.'

I'd read about that, too, in a picture book
Windswept
's owners kept out on a coffee table. The Abacos – deserted since the 1500s when the native Lucayans were wiped out by slave raids and European diseases introduced by the Spaniards – had been resettled in the 1780s by New Englanders coming by way of North Carolina, British citizens who had played for the losing side during the Revolutionary War. Two hundred years later, in 1976, when the Islands of the Bahamas sued for independence from Great Britain, Abaconians picked up their machetes and their pitchforks and protested. They appealed to the Queen, reminding her of their sacrifice and unflagging loyalty to the crown in 1776. But alas, the Queen and her Parliament were unmoved.

‘So why?' I wondered.

The park ranger rubbed his fingers briskly together.

‘Bribes?' Paul asked.

‘Oh, you bet. I can't prove it – yet – but if you have some time, there's a videotape I want to show you.'

‘Goody. I love home movies.'

Henry didn't return my smile. ‘You know where the park headquarters are, right? On Little Hawksbill?'

When Paul and I nodded, Henry continued. ‘We're the first cove on the Sea of Abaco side. The channel tends to silt up, so keep well to the left of the green marks. Come during the week, any time. We monitor 16 and 68, so give us a call so we know when to expect you.'

Al brought Henry's dinner, and we tucked in, chewing in appreciative silence as the restaurant filled up around us. I waited until Henry finished his slaw before asking, ‘What's on the agenda for the Hope Town meeting?'

‘We've got some experts coming in. They all agree that run-off from the fertilizer El Mirador's going to use on the golf course will kill the reef within three years, and the livelihood of our fishermen along with it.'

‘So I heard. And the sewage from all those houses and condos isn't going to help the reef much, either.'

Henry pushed his empty plate aside. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly through his mouth. ‘And the destruction's already started. Over the past several months, Mueller's workers have bulldozed acres and acres of mangrove.'

I nearly choked on the last of my plantain. ‘But don't they know how important the mangroves are? When Cyclone Nargis roared through Myanmar last spring . . .'

Henry raised a hand, cutting me off. ‘I know, I know. More than eighty percent of that country's mangrove forests had been destroyed, so the cyclone had an easy ride into the delta. An impressive loss of life, and much of it completely avoidable.'

‘If there's another storm as bad as hurricane Floyd . . .' I paused, shook my head. ‘Doesn't the Bahamian government get it?'

Henry scowled. ‘I guess they have other priorities.'

‘We can certainly come to the meeting,' Paul said, ‘but we won't be able to vote on anything.'

‘Doesn't matter. What we're looking for is a strong turnout, a show of force.'

‘I can help with that.' I smiled at the park ranger. ‘Pattie Toler's talked me into running the Cruisers' Net starting next Monday, so I'll plug the meeting in community announcements.'

Henry brightened at last. ‘Sounds like our Pattie! Mention that Albury's running extra ferries out of Man-O-War and Marsh Harbour. No reason why folks can't make the meeting.' He laid both hands flat on the table. ‘I really appreciate your help getting the word out, Hannah.'

‘Do you have a website, Henry?'

‘Yup. It's
www.savehawksbillcayreef.com
. We're a coalition of islanders and second-home owners. We can't dictate what Mueller builds on his own land, unfortunately, but where that impinges on our land, and our reef, then we have to speak up.'

I thought Henry had wound down, but he was just getting started.

‘Guana Cay is on firmer legal ground, many believe, because the Prime Minister at the time gave away, actually gave away crown land to a foreigner. Crown land is supposed to be reserved for the Bahamian people in perpetuity. For their children, and their children's children.

‘Think about it this way. It's as if George W. Bush had said to some fat-cat developer in, let's say Japan, “Here's Yellowstone National Park. Take it, it's yours. Turn it into an exclusive gated community that only the ultra-rich can afford.”' He picked up a fork and jabbed the air as if to punctuate his words. ‘If the Privy Council doesn't find in their favor, the heritage of every Bahamian on Guana will be behind locked and guarded gates.'

He leaned back in his chair and let out a long breath. ‘Good thing my wife's not here. She'd scold me for being long-winded. Just met you and here I am, already boring your socks off. On to other things. What's for dessert?'

‘I have been reliably informed that it's banana cream pie.'

‘Have you tried it?' When I told him no, he said, ‘To. Die. For. Cassie doesn't mess with store-bought piecrusts or Cool Whip. Just bananas and cream. What a concept.' Henry waved his arm about like a schoolboy seeking permission to go to the bathroom. When he got Al's attention he called out, ‘Pie all around!'

While we waited for our pie, I asked, ‘Other than the experts and the folks from Save Hawksbill Cay Reef, who'll be there?'

‘Officials from Friends of the Environment as well as representatives of the Bahamas National Trust . . . or so they say. They may just blow us off. It's happened before.'

I picked up my fork. ‘Do we need to bring persuaders? Machetes? Bahamian slings?'

Henry leaned back in his chair, threw back his head and laughed. ‘No. But hold that thought.'

FIVE

MIAMI, FLORIDA (MAR 5 2008) – SHARK-FEEDING TOURS TO THE BAHAMAS – LIKE THE ONE THAT ENDED LAST WEEK IN THE TRAGIC DEATH OF AN AUSTRIAN DIVER – ALSO POSE A THREAT TO ISLAND VISITORS NOT INVOLVED IN THESE EXPEDITIONS.

ONCE A SHARK LEARNS TO ASSOCIATE BOAT ARRIVALS AND/OR PEOPLE IN THE WATER WITH DINNERTIME, THOSE ASSOCIATIONS ARE REMEMBERED FOR A LONG TIME AND TAKEN WITH THE SHARK WHEREVER IT MAY WANDER – A RECIPE FOR DISASTER.

Bob Dimond,
Cyber Diver News Network

A
t home, I typed
www.savehawksbillcay.com
into my browser. I couldn't believe what popped up on my screen. ‘Meet Susie and her young teen friends! 15,000 pictures online! See Susie take it all off and get it on!' There was a picture of Susie, too, wearing three strategically placed daisies. She had more friends,
lots
of friends, if I'd only fill in my age and credit card number.

I stared at the URL, wondering where I'd gone wrong.

I clicked in the search box and retyped my query, this time in quotes. The site I was looking for was savehawksbillcayreef.com. Clearly, someone had hijacked Henry's URL, wanting to embarrass him. I wonder if he knew.

Putting on my researcher's hat, I went to Whois, and discovered that the imposter's URL had been registered only two months ago, to an owner who was clearly fictitious – Arthur Pendragon, 5 Butt Close, Glastonbury, Somerset, BA6, UK. Butt Close! Get real. To my absolute astonishment, however, when I googled the address, there actually was a ‘Butt Close,' but number 5 was a parking lot.

Whoever he was, I felt like reformatting his hard drive using nothing but a baseball bat.

I decided to get rid of my pent-up frustration by doing something physical, so I spent twenty minutes prowling around in the overgrown lot that separated
Windswept
from
Southern Exposure
, turning up old paint buckets, battered boat dock bumpers, a ratty tarp and other tatty treasures. Eventually I found what I was looking for – a perfect, four-by-six sheet of plywood. Not sure whose property the lumber was actually on, I decided to drag it into Molly Weston's yard – leaving a drunken trail in the sand that would send Daniel scurrying for his rake – and propped the wood up against her generator shed where it could dry out.

The previous day, I'd run into Molly coming out of the post office carrying a grocery sack of mail and a huge parcel with ‘Molly Weston, Bonefish Cay, Abaco, Bahamas' printed on the side in black Magic Marker.

‘You must be my neighbor, Molly Weston,' I said.

‘How . . . ?' Then she blushed. ‘Might as well be wearing a name tag, huh?'

I relieved her of the package, and followed her down to her dinghy. Ten minutes later, we'd bonded instantly over tea and Scottish shortbread on the porch at
Windswept
.

Now I stood at the end of my new friend's dock where she'd hung a bronze bell of the sort used by teachers in olden days to call children in from recess. I grabbed the leather thong attached to the clapper and gave the bell a vigorous ding-dong-ding-dong-ding before starting up the sidewalk that led to Molly's deck.

‘I'm he-ah!' Molly drawled from somewhere inside the house. ‘Come in!'

I slid the screen door to one side and stepped into a brightly lit kitchen that opened into a pine-paneled living and dining room area offering a spectacular panorama of the sea.

Molly (or some Weston before her) certainly had a knack for interior design. A white wicker sofa and two matching chairs covered with flowered chintz and a scattering of pillows were arranged in a conversational grouping around a pot-bellied stove. Paintings by local artists decorated the walls. On a credenza behind the sofa Molly had arranged a collection of photographs. One, framed in sea shells, was an obvious family grouping. Everyone posed informally, arms draped casually around one another. I was trying to figure out where and when the photo had been taken when Molly entered the room.

‘That's me at six,' she explained. ‘With my mom and dad.'

‘You look very tropical. I assume it was taken on Bonefish Cay?'

She nodded, pink lips parted in a wistful smile. ‘A very long time ago.'

In the photograph, a muddy-kneed but otherwise immaculate Molly wore a white pinafore with red rick-rack trim, white ankle socks and white patent-leather Mary Janes. Six decades later, she seemed to favor the same color combination – white clam diggers, a red T-shirt, and white lace-up tennis shoes. Instead of pigtails, though, the grown-up Molly's hair was cut in a stylish wedge; silver strands feathered attractively over the tips of her ears.