Hurricane House

by Sandy Semerad

  “I can’t believe you stayed on Paradise Isle last night, Mr. Redmond. You must have been scared out of your wits.”

  “Please call me Sean.” He flashed his dimples and showed more of his white teeth. The man had to be aware of his charisma. “See that wall?” he asked, pointing toward the five-foot barrier at the end of Blue Heron Way. “It was built after Opal,” I said, remembering. “A dune grew in front of it, but I see it didn’t survive.”

  “That heroic dune and that wall acted like a funnel and protected our places.”

  I nodded and pulled at my pixie hairdo, a nervous habit, although I’ve read it’s considered a primping gesture. I didn’t want Sean Redmond to get the wrong idea. So I clasped my hands behind my back. “You, and everyone who failed to evacuate and survived, are very, very lucky.”

  Sean frowned, as if I’d given him a calculus problem to solve. “Luckier than I deserve to be perhaps.”

  “I don’t know about that, but I’ve worked too many hurricanes not to know how fortunate you are.” I waved a finger, more in fun than to scold. “You could have been killed.”

  Sean opened his front door, smiled and waved me through. “I just finished mopping up the mess.”

  I hesitated for a moment when I saw the blue slate floor. It looked clean. I didn’t want my feet tracking mud. “Let me remove my rubber boots,” I said, tugging them off.

  Once inside, I noticed primitive oil paintings of American Indians on the foyer wall facing me. “Nice,” I said.

  “What do you mean you’ve ‘worked too many hurricanes’?” Sean asked, ignoring my interest in his paintings.

  “I’m a CAT. It means catastrophe adjuster.”

  He squinted, bowed his head and perched his long fingers on his hips. “You’re a storm trooper?”

  “No, I’m just a plain ole insurance adjuster who works disasters, CAT for short.”

  His eyes roved over me. I felt my body blush from the examination. “There’s nothing plain and old about you. Anyone ever tell you, you look like Debra Kerr in her heyday?” He smiled, showing those dimples again.

  Adam used to say I looked like a skinny redheaded Marilyn Monroe when I wore makeup. Without makeup, I’m more Little Orphan Annie. “Are you trying to flatter me?”

  Sean’s blue eyes caught mine. “I don’t flatter. It’s not necessary.”

  Well, alrighty then, I thought as I followed Sean past his kitchen. A flame under a fondue pot cooked something that smelled yummy. A hurricane lamp burned on the counter beside the pot.

  “I’d like to hear about your CAT work, might prove useful in the book I’m writing.”

  “As I said before, I’m in a rush today, maybe some other time.” I didn’t trust myself with this man. Talking to him made my knees wobble.

  “I don’t mean now, but soon. I’m working toward deadline, but I can’t seem to get any writing done today. I’m worried about my vehicle. This mechanic I know, named Benny, is storing it at his place, but I haven’t been able to get in touch with him.”

  Sean leaned against the wall in a casual way, as if he had plenty of time to chat despite the pending deadline he mentioned. “I must admit there were moments last night when I questioned my decision to stay. I’ve survived a couple of bad earthquakes in California. And I figured I’d get through this hurricane if it happened. But when I saw the gulf rising, I had my doubts. Benny said I’d drown for sure if I stayed on what he called a sliver of land that should’ve been an island if the Army Corps of Engineers hadn’t made it a peninsula.” “Smart mechanic,” I said, smiling. “Wish I had more time to talk, Sean, and I don’t mean to be rude, but I really must get back to work.”

  “I’ll just be a sec. I have a hard-cover of Savage Murder and my second book Tribal Revenge upstairs.”

  I watched Sean take the stairs two at a time. A graceful man, no question.

  While waiting for him to return with the books, I walked around, checking out his place. Two hurricane lanterns, similar to the one in the kitchen, glowed on top of an oak armoire. The armoire held a stereo system.

  Built-in shelves stood beside the armoire. On the shelves, I saw collections of William Shakespeare, Tennessee Williams, Tony Hillerman, Margaret Coel, Sue Grafton, John Grisham, Elmore Leonard, Stephen King, Mary Higgins Clark, Sue Monk Kidd.

  There was a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird and White Oleander beside The Holy Bible and two shelves of historical nonfiction—mainly American Indian culture—and several dictionaries.

  One shelf held a tray of arrowheads and clay pots near a framed portrait of a young boy. The boy resembled Sean, though this boy had a large head, wide forehead, a “special” child. The Serenity Prayer in a silver frame stood next to the photo.

  On an adjacent wall, behind the sofa, I saw an assortment of Samurai swords and Native American art. In front of the sofa sat two hand-carved tables with stainless steel legs on top of a hand-knotted rug, tribal pattern. The French doors, as in our units, led to the back patio, offering a lovely view of the gulf. Sean jogged down the stairs, carrying two books and a Montblanc pen, platinum and black with gold tip. “How should I autograph these?”

  I rolled my eyes, thinking. “Oh, I don’t know, whatever you want, you’re the writer.”

  Sean sat on the leather sofa and turned to the title page of Savage Murder. His eyes questioned me and I realized I hadn’t officially introduced myself. “Oh, I’m sorry. You don’t know me, do you? I’m Maeva Lawson, spelled M-A-E-V-A.”

  He smiled and wrote:

  “To Maeva ,

  My Beach neighbor and lovely new friend, I’m glad you enjoyed my book. Let’s celebrate surviving Donald. Sean R.” Redmond printed the date beside his signature, then blew on what he’d written before he closed the book and handed it to me.

  Inside the title page of Tribal Revenge he wrote:

  “To Maeva,

  Let me know what you think of my latest effort, Sean R.” “I’d like to pay you for these,” I said.

  He waved away my offer. “Nonsense, your company is payment enough. Stay for lunch. I’m having crab and corn soup, an old family recipe.”

  I knew I couldn’t handle lunch with hunky Sean, a man who seemed unaccustomed to no. “Sorry, can’t. I wish I had time, though I must say, I’m amazed at your ingenuity, cooking without electricity.” I smiled. “Let me take a rain check.” When I realized my poor choice of words, I said, “I need to get busy with my assignments or else I’ll get the boot.” “I understand. Maybe tomorrow or the next day. Anytime,” he said.

  I glanced at his wall clock: 10:50 a.m. “Okay, thanks so much.” I walked toward the front door and heard knocking.

  Sean frowned and shrugged his shoulders before he started for the door. His frown deepened when Paula Weardon walked in uninvited. She wore scuba boots with white shorts, a sleeveless v-neck sweater and binoculars around her neck.

  I had never seen Paula without the binoculars. She wore them like a badge of honor, which seemed unusual for a retired schoolteacher, widow and trophy-winning body builder who looked much younger than her fifty years.

  Paula raked back her platinum pageboy like a diva. “Ahoy there, you two.”

  Sean didn’t answer, but continued to frown. I understood why. Paula made a habit of walking in unannounced. Last summer, I awoke from a nap to find her standing over me. Since then, I’ve been careful to bolt my doors.

  “Lot of activity out there,” Paula pointed at the ceiling. “Helicopters, you name it.”

  We walked to Sean’s front porch and saw a brown copter land near what used to be Roxanne and Mason Trawler’s beach house. Despite the aircraft’s “military” look, two men dressed in slacks and polo shirts jumped out.

  The shorter of the two men paced back and forth and then walked in a circle. He looked familiar, as did the taller, younger man who stared up at the walkway, suspended in mid-air like a giant’s crooked finger.

  Before Hurricane Donald hit, the walkway connected the Trawl
er mansion and other places along Paradise Isle to the recreational area. It could be accessed from the attic if neighbors hadn’t locked their attic doors. The architect and the contractor who created the walkway were called geniuses, but that was when Paradise Isle was considered safe.

  “The tanned, gray-haired guy is Roxanne’s husband,” Paula said, with the binoculars pressed against her eyes. “The tall blond man is Loughton VanSant, Geneva’s hubby. He’s running for the U.S. Senate.”

  The VanSants owned unit nine. I’d never met the husband, but I’d seen his picture in the newspaper and on television. They bought the townhouse a year ago, Geneva said the day she threw the party for Tara.

  I’d been assigned the claim on Geneva and Loughton VanSant’s townhome. Lucky for me, Loughton Vansant walked briskly in my direction, meaning I could inspect his place without delay.

  I walked over and extended my hand as soon as he reached his townhouse. “Hi, I’m Maeva Larson. I’m your beach neighbor, and I’m also the insurance adjuster for your flood and wind claims. We’ve never met, but I know Geneva.”

  VanSant shook my hand. “Loughton VanSant, nice to meet you.” he dug into his pants pocket, withdrawing a ball of keys. “I’m surprised you’re already here. I haven’t even called my insurance company yet.”

  “Someone must have contacted them, or I wouldn’t have your claim.”

  VanSant exhaled through his teeth, making a hissing sound like a quackless duck. “I’m guessing my secretary. She didn’t think this place would be standing.” He cocked his head sideways. “And you say we’re beach neighbors, too?” “Next door neighbors here. My sister and I own five and seven.”

  The corners of his lips turned up showing even, white teeth. “We were fortunate, weren’t we? Not like Roxanne and Mason.” He nodded toward Trawler, who was squatting over his ruins. “I feel terrible for them.” VanSant shot a look at Sean who stood with his muscular arms folded over his chest in a guarded pose. “You’re the author, aren’t you?”

  Sean offered his hand to VanSant.

  “I know your name as well as my own...uh...” VanSant began.

  “Sean Redmond.”

  “My wife read one your books, loved it. Good to see y’all. Wish it could have been under better circumstances.” VanSant stroked the golden hair on his arms and exhaled through his teeth again. “I’m worried sick about Geneva. Haven’t heard from her, not a word since the storm. She hasn’t even called her mother, which is strange.” VanSant raked his hair and nodded toward Trawler, who was burying his head in his arms. “I hope to God Geneva and Roxanne weren’t over there together. Have y’all seen them?”

  “Not today, not even yesterday, I left Paradise Isle early,” Paula said, “I stayed with a friend.”

  I wondered how Paula managed to return to Paradise Isle after she’d evacuated. I started to ask when VanSant pulled out his wallet. He flipped to a photo of Geneva with long black hair. She reminded me of a young Liz Taylor. “Geneva is five-seven, green eyes, beautiful, like this picture.”

  I said, “She’s lovely. Wish I could say something to ease your mind. One of our beach neighbors, Victor Curry, said he saw your wife’s car parked out here yesterday.” “What time was that?”

  “Yesterday morning, but I don’t remember the exact time. Sorry.”

  “Doesn’t make sense. Why didn’t she return my calls? And her mother’s calls? Her mother’s worried sick.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I thought of the car I saw standing straight up in the sand. No reason to mention it unless I knew for sure the car belonged to Geneva.

  VanSant unlocked his front door and released the potty stink cooped up inside. “Jeez, awful.” He motioned for me to walk ahead of him.

  I walked into the foyer and noticed a laptop Dell sitting on a dining table. The heat from the crystal warmed my chest as if giving me a warning about this computer.

  “Check it out,” I thought I heard Adam say.

  Beside the dining table, I spotted carry-on luggage. Surely VanSant would have said something about the computer and luggage if he’d noticed them. Instead, he ran up the stairs without comment.

  “Hey, Maeva,” Paula called from the doorway where she stood with a tall, handsome man, sixty maybe, with white hair, buzz cut, prominent chin and smiling eyes. “Meet an old friend of mine, Keith Harrigan. Keith and I used to be childhood sweethearts. We both grew up in Decatur, Georgia, a suburb of Atlanta.” Paula smiled at Harrigan and his face blushed like a little boy with a crush.

  I walked over and extended my right hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Keith. I wish I had more time to chat, but I’m in a rush.”

  Harrigan offered a bearish hand and bone-breaking grip. I thought he’d never let go. Was he unaware of his strength or did he squeeze my hand like that on purpose? Paula said, “Maeva lives in Alabama. She and her sister own the two places next door, but Maeva’s so busy with her job, I don’t see her much.”

  “What kind of work do you do, Maeva?” Harrigan asked.

  “I’m a CAT.”

  Paula interrupted. “She investigates storm claims.”

  “I know what a CAT is, and if I’m not mistaken, we’ve met before. In Montgomery, a couple of years back, at an FBI, Alabama Bureau banquet. Weren’t you with Adam Lorenz?”

  I felt a stabbing pain at the mention of Adam’s name. “Keith never forgets a name or a face,” Paula said. “You with the FBI?” I managed to ask.

  “Retired, if they’ll let me.”

  “What’s with the helicopters?” I wanted to know. “Surveying the area and transporting Mr. Trawler and Mr. Loughton, who are concerned about their wives.”

  I heard VanSant exhale through his teeth, signaling his reappearance. “Geneva’s not here. I don’t know what to do.” His voice trailed off as he walked outside, leaving the front door ajar. “I hope to God she and Roxanne didn’t try to stick it out over there.” VanSant jogged through the flooded street where Mason Trawler directed a front loader with a large crane.

  I started to ask Keith about Tara Baxter, but before I could, he walked away, calling over his shoulder. “Nice meeting you again, Maeva. Hope to talk with you later. Don’t forget our lunch tomorrow, Paula.” Keith followed VanSant to where Roxanne’s husband squatted in the sand, looking depressed. Paula sighed. “Keith’s the man I should have married.”

  I felt pressured. I needed privacy and time to work, but I thought Paula might have information about Tara’s death. “You and Keith seem pretty close. Does he ever talk to you about what he’s working on? Adam sometimes did.”

  “Nah, he’s usually hush, hush. I think he’s afraid of my big mouth.” Paula laughed, tilting her head back.

  “I hope we can talk later, Paula. Right now I need to get to work.”

  Paula frowned and nodded. “Don’t you want to know why Keith and I didn’t get married?”

  “Yes, I’d love to hear about it later when I’m not so pressured.” I smiled and backed inside the VanSants’ townhouse.

  Paula followed me. “Why don’t we chat while you do your thing?”

  I sighed impatiently, as I walked through the town home assessing the damages. I had trouble concentrating with Paula talking on and on.

  “I was sixteen and in high school when we met. Keith was older, got drafted to Vietnam. Daddy wanted me to attend college. So he intercepted Keith’s letters. Imagine, my own daddy kept Keith’s letters from me. I thought Keith had lost interest when he didn’t answer mine to him. He did answer, but I never got the letters.” Paula shook her head, sadly.

  “It was one of those awful things. I never stopped loving Keith, even after I graduated from the University of Georgia, became a teacher and married another teacher. Keith married someone else, too, and now he has a slew of grandkids.” Paula wiped her eyes. “Only recently did we find out what happened concerning our letters.” Paula stepped in front of me, forcing my attention. “Don’t misunderstand me. I have no intention of breaking up
Keith’s marriage, even though he claims he never stopped loving me all those years. It’s like I told Keith, ‘I love your wife for taking such good care of you.’ Paula closed her eyes, squeezing out tears.

  I felt pity for this woman, but I needed to be alone in order to check out Geneva’s computer and luggage. “At least you can be friends,” I said, giving Paula a hug.

  “Oh, absolutely, and my mother and Keith’s mother are best friends, always have been. Mother was the one who spilled the beans on how Daddy hid Keith’s letters from me. Daddy confessed right before he died. And to make a long story longer, I always used to call Keith’s mother on his birthday to see how he was doing.”

  Paula raised her right hand as if taking an oath. “I swear I didn’t have an ulterior motive. I wanted to find out how he was, that’s all. One day his mother said, ‘You’ve always loved him, haven’t you?’ I couldn’t lie. Rex, my late husband, had passed away by then. I’d moved here, not knowing Keith had moved to Dolphin, too. Can you believe that? His mother calls it destiny. She gave him my phone number. He called to say he was sorry Rex died. He couldn’t believe I’d moved to Dolphin. I guess we’ve always been on the same wavelength.”

  “Sounds like it.” I patted Paula’s arm. “Fascinating story, and I appreciate you’re sharing it with me, but right now, I really need to focus on what I’m doing. I have a one-track mind and don’t multitask very well. Can’t we talk about this later? I’d like to hear what you have to say about Tara Baxter.” I glanced at the computer and the luggage, thinking Loughton VanSant would return soon to get them. “But now, I have to get my butt in gear. After doing this claim, I have a single mom with flood damage, and many others I can’t get around to today, unfortunately.”

  “You poor thing.” Paula slid her arm around my shoulder. “Listen, I’ve got an idea. I’m staying with my friend Huberta Huber. A great person. You’re welcome to join us tonight if you don’t have plans. Huberta lives alone in a huge house, built like a fort with a generator that kicks in when the power kicks off. You’d be welcome there. I just know it.”

  I walked to the front door; then opened it to let Paula out. “Thanks, sounds good.”