Hurricane House

by Sandy Semerad

  “Huberta was supposed to have one of those sexy surprise parties tonight,” Paula said. “You know. You buy stuff like lingerie, massage oil, dildos. The hurricane wrecked it. A shame, because...” Paula lost her train of thought when Sean appeared. He smelled of soap and shampoo. His hair was wet. He’d changed into cargo shorts and a white v-neck tee, revealing his tan, muscular chest. I wondered how he’d managed to wash himself so well without running water.

  Sean propped against the VanSants’ door, and I’m embarrassed to say I felt a sexual spark. The crystal warmed my chest while I blushed like a schoolgirl. I turned away to hide my feelings and somehow lost my balance on the damp floor.

  Sean grabbed me around the waist. “Whoa, you okay?”

  I gathered my composure enough to say, “Yes, but if you’ll please excuse me, I have to get back to work.” I stepped inside the VanSant’s townhouse and started to close the door when Sean said, “Last call for grub?”

  “Something smells delicious.” Paula said. “If you can cook, too, you’re quite the Renaissance man. Don’t you think so, Maeva?” Paula forced the door open before I could close it, and I thought I’d never get rid of this woman. “Writer, cook, chiropractor, and before I forget...” Paula turned toward Sean. “My chiropractor, Allen Toddy, I call him ‘Toddy for the body.’ He said you fill in for him on occasion. Is that true?”

  Not often, but Allen claims he sold me this townhouse with the condition I’d cover for him when he needs me.”

  “Dr. Allen cracks me once a week.” Paula grabbed the back of her neck. “I need an adjustment now.” She winked at Sean. “Did you know Dr. Allen was the first person to introduce me to your books? I simply love them.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Wonderful setting, California desert, Indian reservations.” Paula pinched her nose as if it helped her to articulate. “I couldn’t put them down, and that’s a compliment from me, an old English teacher.”

  I glanced toward Loughton VanSant, now engrossed in conversation with the crane driver. A section of the Trawler’s pink roof dangled from the iron claw. National Guardmen in camouflage jumpsuits were on their hands and knees, digging with trowels.

  “I need to finish up here and move on. Enjoy yourselves. Talk to y’all later.” I began closing the door, but once again, Paula stuck her head in. Unbelievable.

  “Maeva, why don’t you follow me over to Huberta’s after you’ve finish with whatever, okay? Don’t worry about the time. I’ll meet you at the entrance to Gulf Drive whenever.” She handed me a slip of paper. “Here’s my cell number.”

  I stuffed the paper inside my backpack. “Thanks. Take care, bye,” I said, closing and locking the door. Finally. I walked over to Geneva’s laptop on the dining room table. My gut and the crystal told me I needed to check out the computer, and I knew if I didn’t heed those warnings, I’d regret it, though I felt like a snoop when I turned on the laptop. While waiting for it to boot, I walked to the front door and peeked out to make sure Loughton VanSant was still occupied. He seemed to be consoling Roxanne’s husband, but for how long, I didn’t know, meaning I had to hurry.

  I rushed to the laptop and quickly discovered Geneva was a trusting soul. I needed no password to get into her Word or e-mail files. Sadly, there were too many to read at one sitting. What to do. Should I take the computer? I knew it might seem dishonest and illegal, but not stealing exactly, only borrowing.

  While I pondered what to do, the crystal warmed my chest, which I took to mean: Take the laptop. So I slipped the seven-pound computer inside my backpack.

  On the bar, I found Geneva’s purse with a letter from someone named Dee Samson. The ink in the letter appeared blotchy, but I could read enough to realize Dee claimed to be having an affair with Geneva’s husband. Motive, maybe? Evidence?

  I stuffed the letter inside my backpack and spotted a cell phone on the bar. Cell phones contain vital information. Take that, too, I thought I heard Adam say.

  After I threw the cell in the backpack, I walked through the townhouse again to make sure I’d noted all the damages. A broken lock on the upstairs sliding-glass doors meant I could easily return Geneva’s things. If caught, I needed to think of a plausible explanation as to why I took the computer and cell phone.

  Before leaving, I glanced through the front window where a crowd had gathered. Paula Weardon and Keith Harrigan were out there, too, huddling together. Sean Redmond, Victor Curry and several soldiers walked around, looking bewildered, as if in a state of shock. Then I heard screaming. It sounded like a wounded gorilla.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Geneva VanSant

  Geneva awoke on a cot, stiff and cold. Her teeth chattered uncontrollably. She had the worst headache of her life, like someone stabbing her brain. She’d give anything for a drug to relieve this pain.

  She pushed against the cot, stood on wobbly legs and swayed from side to side. The room swirled around her, and she fell back on the cot, helpless, lying there, pondering her plight. How can I get out of here?

  Eventually, her head cleared. The black wash in front of her eyes vanished and she noticed a red light flickering in the corner of her small, padded cell. A surveillance camera. She directed her fist at the red light. “Pervert, stop watching me!” In her anger, she stood and walked a few steps before stumbling on a bottle of cool drinking water. She rubbed the bottle over her aching head and pondered the details of her capture. Foggy, had she actually found her friend Roxanne dead? Or had she dreamed it?

  What happened? Where was she? She thought she’d heard a noise like a jet plane taking off. Then footsteps, clomping across the floor. “Who’s there? Where’s Roxanne?” she called out, her mouth dry and hoarse, her hands shook violently. “Get me out of here. Now.”

  Her mouth felt like sandpaper. She unscrewed the top of the water bottle and drank half the water without thinking. Yuck. Medicinal. Geneva threw the half empty bottle at the surveillance camera. “Psycho.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Maeva Larson on Paradise Isle

  I slogged back through the thigh-deep murky water toward my truck, which I’d parked on a dry mound of sand at the end of the street. I scanned the water looking for sharks and thought I saw fins scooting around and felt a hard thump against one of my rubber boots. No telling what swam in this floodwater.

  To calm myself, I took deep breaths and tried to follow my sister’s advice. “Be thankful you’re alive.”

  My hands and underarms poured sweat by the time I stashed my backpack, with the precious contents I’d collected at Geneva’s, inside my truck. Gray, fish-scale clouds floated over a mother-of-pearl sky, lovely despite the sprinkling rain.

  I gasped for breath and felt dizzy. My lungs burned as I walked back through the floodwaters and headed toward the yellow crime tape in front of Roxanne and Mason Trawler’s property. I held my breath, stepped up to the crime tape and saw Mason Trawler on his hands and knees, moaning and reaching toward his wife’s platinum hair. A black drape covered Roxanne’s body, but her long hair fanned from under it, as if her lovely locks could not be contained. A tall policeman held Trawler away from her as two other officers slipped Roxanne into a body bag and hoisted her onto a stretcher.

  A sobbing Mason Trawler followed the body bag to the copter while Victor Curry chatted with a group of soldiers, and Sean Redmond talked to Loughton VanSant.

  I maneuvered through an overturned washer-dryer, a gold sectional sofa with part of the sections missing and a broken black stereo system to find Paula and Keith huddled together, bracing against the rain.

  Mascara tears streaked Paula’s face. “Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God,” she kept sobbing.

  Keith stood stone-faced, wiping the rain from his eyes while I glanced at the helicopter, now holding Roxanne’s body. “Do we know how she died?”

  Keith shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. Paula grabbed my hands and said, “Roxanne was missing one of her...feet...just like Tara.”
r />   I closed my eyes in despair. “Seriously?”

  Paula nodded. “Serious as a heart attack.”

  Keith brushed the wet hair from Paula’s face. “Get somewhere safe and dry, okay? Talk to you later.” He smiled tenderly at Paula and leaned in close enough to kiss her, but didn’t. Strange. He acted like he wanted to kiss her. Instead, he turned, walked to the copter and jumped inside with Mason Trawler and his wife’s maimed body.

  Paula blew Keith a kiss and waved goodbye.

  I spotted Victor, waving at me. I waved back, happy to know he’d survived the storm. I walked over to thank him for boarding our townhouses when I noticed Sean, shaking his head and watching a cop take photos inside the yellow crime tape. Standard procedure, I knew, but I feared the hurricane had wrecked the crime scene, and I wondered if we’d ever know who killed Roxanne and Tara.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Geneva VanSant

  The sunlight shot through a porthole window in Geneva’s rubber room. If she could find a way to climb up to the window and break it, she could get out of this hellhole. Too bad the damn window was at least fourteen feet above her, close to the ceiling. The dark wood around the window appeared weathered and old, unlike the walls of her white cell, which looked newly constructed. Those walls were about twelve feet high. Maybe an old gymnast like herself could climb up and over.

  In the corner of the room, an oil lamp burned on top of a serving table where someone had placed a tray holding a green salad and vinaigrette dressing, a turkey sandwich on rye with mayonnaise and a silver fork on a cloth napkin beside a bottle of water. Next to the sandwich plate was a note, two blank pages of stationary, an envelope and a ballpoint pen.

  “Geneva,” the note said. “I mean you no harm. You are here for a reason. I need to talk to someone who works for you named Ellen. On the paper I have provided, please write the following:

  “Ellen, meet me at the above address.” (I’ll supply the address, the day and the time). “Most importantly, instruct her NOT to tell anyone she is meeting you.

  “When you finish writing what I’ve instructed, put the letter inside the envelope and address it. Do as I say and I’ll make you as comfortable as possible.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Maeva Larson

  Night and dense fog had fallen on Paradise Isle as I searched for Sandra Eddelman’s home. Sandra was a single mom with severe flood damage, no running water, and no electricity. An emergency or I would have waited until morning to do her claim.

  She lived on Mackerel Drive and I thought I knew the location of her street, but the hurricane had shifted the landscape and destroyed the road signs.

  I turned onto Turtle Cove by mistake and found myself facing the old Dolphin Mansion, sitting alone and desolate, a virtual House of Usher, the only structure on the street. A light flickered from a porthole window, and I remembered seeing a similar light the night I found Tara’s body. I shivered at the thought, though I knew this house used to be a showplace. I’d seen old photographs and read articles about its history. Cerreta Potter built the Dolphin Mansion when nothing existed on Paradise Isle except boats, fishermen and wildlife. Cerreta died the year I was born and left everything to her younger sister, Lizabeth, the only surviving relative.

  I seemed to remember reading Lizabeth had sold the house, and I was wondering who owned it when I rammed the truck in reverse and backed over a pile of sand. The truck landed in the ravine. I’d forgotten about the little gully being there. The Silverado made a horrible groaning noise, and when I tried to start it up again, the engine growled back at me, as if possessed.

  “Wasn’t it Matthew in the Bible who said a foolish man builds his house upon sand,” I thought I heard Adam say. “What would Matthew say about building a house on a peninsula too close to the gulf?”

  My heart hammered like a machine gun, and I took deep breaths to calm myself then I turned the ignition. Please God make it start.

  Miraculously, the Silverado hummed to life. I looked up at the sky and whispered “Thank you,” before I drove out of the ravine and over a ten-foot mound of sand. My eyelids felt heavy and I fantasized about curling up in a cushy bed, but I knew Sandra needed help. Her rental insurance was a stupid policy, filled with exclusions. I hoped FEMA, the Federal Emergency Management Administration, would get its act together and assist her if her insurance company failed to do so. I had less faith in John Peterson her landlord and my lack of faith seemed justified when I saw the “For Sale” sign in front of Sandra’s home. I parked along the road and sat in my truck while examining the structure. After taking a few notes, I got out and waded through sludge to the front door. At least Sandra had a door and a roof and I didn’t see serious structural damage.

  A blue-eyed blond woman peered out. She had the sweet face of a bride on her wedding day, though she wore a black shirt and pants. In her arms, she cradled a red-haired girl, about two, wearing pink sweats and two ponytails, one on each side of her little head.

  “Sandra Eddelman?” I asked, holding up my CAT license.

  “Yes.” She squinted at the license.

  “I’m Maeva Larson. I’ve been assigned your claim.” “Oh, yes, come in.”

  I stepped into a small, glass enclosed room what I consider a Florida Room, and the crystal around my neck turned warm. A strange sensation hit me, almost like a premonition. The only light came from the flame of a red candle, sitting on top of a serving table. “Beautiful little girl,” I said, smiling at the child.

  “Thank you, everyone says that. Say, hi, Lexie.”

  Lexie held out her arms to me.

  Unable to resist the offer to hold this adorable child, I placed my leather folder under one arm in order to take the baby from her mother.

  “That’s unusual,” Sandra said. “Lexie doesn’t usually like strangers.”

  “We’re not stranger any more are we?” I said to Lexie then handed the child back to her mother in order to examine the interior of the small house. It smelled musty, sickening. The carpet looked almost black in spots. Mold lined the windowsills.

  “Sandra, you can’t stay here and breathe this stuff. You have the worse kind of mold. It causes brain damage. You won’t know the alphabet by Christmas if you don’t leave soon. You can’t have Lexie inhaling this.” I shook my head and exhaled a loud sigh to communicate my distress. “What a mess.”

  “Mess,” Lexie said, pointing to me.

  Sandra said, “I’m sure you’re right, but I don’t know when I’ll be able to leave. Or where I’ll go.”

  Lexie clung to her mother, as I followed them into the tiny living area, kitchen combination. No dishwasher. The fridge door was open.

  Sandra pointed to an ice chest on the floor. “I’m trying to save as much as I can. A nice soldier came by. Said he’d get me some ice. My bum luck to have a hurricane two months after I moved in here.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, looking around and making notes. “And I hate to deliver bad news, but I’ve found black mold everywhere. In the kitchen, behind the fridge. On a side door, leading to the utility room. I’ve seen leaks throughout, meaning roof damage.”

  “I hate the thought of moving again.” Sandra walked to the armoire in the living room, picked up Lexie’s sippy cup and gave it to her daughter.

  “I’ll say this, you may have moved in only two months ago, but you’ve made this place look cozy.” I pointed to the arrangement of furniture. The armoire held a television and DVD player. On the opposite wall Sandra had a red futon, two end tables, and a beach chair. Lexie’s room contained a crib filled with toys, a changing table with a chest of drawers and another armoire with shelves. Sandra’s bedroom had a full-size bed and a wicker dresser. “If not for the hurricane and mold, this house would be neat and clean, thanks to you,” I said. “Regardless, it’s out of the question for you and Lexie to stay here until all of this is cleaned. Do you have a family member you can stay with for a while?”

  “My Mama, but I’ll have
to wait for her to pick me up.” “What happened to your car? Did you lose it in the storm? If so, your auto insurance should cover it.”

  “My car was repoed when my ex didn’t make the payments like he was supposed to. I didn’t even know he fell behind. Scared me to death when I saw those goons coming for it.”

  “How long have you been without transportation?”

  “A week. The reason we couldn’t leave, Mama couldn’t come to get me. She was way up in Washington visiting my sister who just had a baby. My brother would have helped, but he and his whole family came down with the flu.”

  “Where do they live?”

  “Samson, Alabama. Mama said she’d fly back tonight and drive down to get me and Lexie tomorrow. That’s what she told the soldier who called her. And I hope she can. The phone lines are down, as you know, and I can’t call out or get calls, but that soldier, his name is Ned, was nice enough to call Mama and my insurance company.”

  I patted Lexie head. “I’m glad to know you and your daughter will be getting out of here soon. In the meantime, I’ll be in contact with Mr. Peterson, your landlord, and see if he’ll repair the damage that your rental policy doesn’t cover.” I reached inside my folder and withdrew the FEMA forms. “Fill these out. We’ll send them to FEMA to explain your needs. You should get living expenses and loss of wages if you were working outside the home when the hurricane hit.”

  Sandra took the forms. “I’m a waitress at the Wagon Spin. Do you know if it blew away? I haven’t heard.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t.”

  “I’ve applied at the Irish Grill. That place is built like a fort.”

  “I like your spirit, Sandra, and I’ll try to help you as much as I can. If Mr. Peterson doesn’t take care of your damages, we’ll report him to FEMA. They’ll take legal action. FEMA should give you the money for relocation now, regardless of what Peterson does.” I patted Sandra’s arm, trying to reassure her. “I’ll come by tomorrow and check on you.”