Hurricane House

by Sandy Semerad

  Keith stopped snapping his pen. “But let’s not dwell on that, shall we? Better to consider all the angles and determine what we know and don’t know and go from there.” He directed his brown eyes at me. “I’ve discussed this with Paula at length, and I’m hoping that you, Maeva, might shed some light as to motive and opportunity regarding Tara Baxter and Roxanne Trawler. I realize you’re not on Paradise Isle year ‘round. And you don’t have the benefit of Paula’s binoculars.” Keith smiled as he squeezed Paula’s shoulder. “But I’d like you to share your thoughts and ideas.”

  The crystal around my neck turned warm. I touched it for comfort and sipped my wine, relieved Keith didn’t question me about Geneva’s belongings, though he seemed to know more than he was saying, because he stared at me with his piercing cop’s eyes. “Tell me Maeva. When you checked the VanSant’s townhouse for damage, did you see anything strange or anything that might help us find her?”

  Oh, no. “Not really,” I lied.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Ellen Langley at Geneva’s house in Tallahasse

  Ellen turned up the volume on the television in her room to hear Loughton VanSant on CNN. She recognized him instantly as the man in the pictures displayed throughout her new home.

  He pleaded with the camera and held up a photo of Geneva. “Please call police at once if you have any information about my wife. Please, please.”

  But how could this be? Geneva had sent Ellen an e-mail. In fact, she was getting ready to respond to it.

  Geneva’s husband said he or no one, not even her mother, had heard from his wife since before the hurricane. Why did she contact me and not her husband and mother? The whole thing didn’t feel right. Geneva’s e-mail came to an address Ellen reserved for impersonal stuff. She rarely checked that e-mail box except every now and then when she figured she needed to delete the spam. Good thing she hadn’t deleted Geneva’s e-mail, but of course she wouldn’t when she saw “From Geneva VanSant” in the subject line. Strange that this e-mail came from an address Ellen didn’t recognize.

  Has Geneva gone bonkers? Ellen understood how that could happen after enduring last night’s storm. The wind from a hurricane can drive anyone insane.

  Ellen sighed, her voice a whisper. Healing, but not working properly. Her vocal cords had a long way to go before she’d sing arias again or even be ready for a trip to see Geneva. And how will I get there without blowing her cover? Ellen refocused on the flat screen TV. Loughton wiped his eyes. She thought he might be one of those politicians who could cry on demand. Shallow as water on a hill. He’ll do anything to advance himself.

  A redhaired female reporter asked him, “How will this affect your U.S. Senate plans?”

  VanSant rolled his baby blues, as if he considered the question inane. “The only thing I’m concerned about at the moment is finding my wife and bringing her home safely.”

  A lie, probably, but if Geneva thought so, maybe she disappeared to keep her husband from running for office. On second thought, Ellen decided no. Geneva wouldn’t do that. She’s not manipulative.

  A third possibility could be this e-mail was a hoax. To test it, Ellen wrote Geneva at her usual address, not the weird 12345678910statue one.

  “Are you okay?” Ellen wrote. “Your mother and husband are worried about you. Why don’t you want anyone to know where you are? But whatever, I’ll see you in Dolphin and help you in anyway I can. I don’t know how I’m going to do that yet without blowing your cover. I’ll figure out something.”

  As Ellen sent the e-mail to Geneva, CNN showed a picture of a platinum-haired beauty. An anchorman said, “The body of a former Miss Florida, Roxanne Trawler, was found today beneath the hurricane wreckage of her beach house on Paradise Isle in Dolphin, Florida. Two weeks ago, a woman found Trawler’s first cousin, Tara Baxter, this year’s Miss Florida, floating in the Gulf of Mexico near where Trawler’s body was uncovered this morning. Here’s a special report from Candy Lind in Dolphin, Florida.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Paradise Isle

  A stroke of Providence. The sorry, good-for-nothing punk who ran the front loader didn’t finish the street clearing. Too bad, every task, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant, is an art form.

  “You know anything about heavy equipment?” A soldier asked him. He and Soldier Boy had exchanged pleasantries earlier.

  “Where’s what’s his face?”

  “You mean Joey?”

  “Yeah.”

  Soldier boy shook his head and frowned. “Got paid yesterday. So my guess is he’s downing a six-pack ‘bout now. He took that loader key with him. And we can’t finish the street clearing without it.” “I think this might get it going.” He flashed his mailbox key, figuring it would do the trick. Soldier Boy laughed, but not for long.

  The front loader started right up. “They don’t call me ‘creative genius’ for nothing.”

  Soldier Boy turned and yelled to his buddies about how a mailbox key could crank the machinery. “Bet, creative genius can’t push the sand out of the road and dump it to the side.”

  He knew Soldier Boy was kidding when he offered the dare. “No sweat,” he said from the driver’s bench while working the gears.

  “You rock,” Soldier Boy said.

  To avoid being recognized, he put on sunglasses and a flop hat and actually enjoyed the physical aspect of clearing this section of Paradise Isle. He figured it would place him in a favorable light and provide cherished access.

  Sure enough, it had turned dark by the time he got around to Sandra Eddleman’s place. Luck was definitely on his side when he found her chasing after her daughter outside.

  “My Lexie doesn’t want to have her face washed, so I’m playing catch the baby,” Sandra told him.

  Sandra was a looker, his type and he tried to engage her in conversation, but she said she had to get back inside and bathe Lexie. He knew she wanted him, but like the others, she faked disinterest.

  “Another pretentious woman, playing games,” he told Sandra when he grabbed her from behind.

  She fought and scratched him like a hellcat, while the baby screamed and screamed. “Police, help me. Please, someone help me,” she yelled as he wrestled her to the bed. “Shut up,” he yelled back, but Sandra screamed louder than the baby.

  He did the logical thing and covered her mouth.

  Unfortunately, she made a fatal mistake and bit his hand, drawing blood.

  “Jezus shit!” he yelled. That’s when he lost his temper and choked her. How beautiful and still and peaceful she looked afterwards. He would have enjoyed the moment, if not for the baby’s screaming loud enough to puncture his eardrums. He wanted to strangle the kid, but to make sure he didn’t, he put the baby in the bathroom and closed the door. He then walked casually toward the Hummer, jumped inside, looking around to make sure no one saw him or his special container.

  “Curbside service, my dear,” he said to Sandra as he stuffed her body inside. She looked serene, lovely as an angel. Her aquamarine eyes stared at him, as if to say, I’m yours now, thank you for taking me to this new and final stage. No more heartache, no more pain, no more worry.

  “Your welcome, and thanks for helping me decide. I’ll take your eyes. The windows to your soul and mine.” His hands shook with anticipation as he took her to his sanctuary, “Forever and ever, amen,” as the song goes.

  Back at his place, he mourned her passing, cut out her beautiful eyes with a surgeon’s scalpel and placed them in formaldehyde. Afterwards, he lifted Sandra into his kiln, which would serve as her crematorium. It reached eighteen-hundred degrees Fahrenheit. Sandra’s lean, muscular body would take a long time to fry.

  He watched her through the treated glass of the kiln, a sophisticated “retort,” more advanced than the crematorium he’d worked in as a teenager. Everyone’s body burned a different color. Sandra’s burned yellow, then blue, then green, then purple, oh, and what a lovely purple, her potassium. He groaned w
hen he saw her bare bones. They burned black, her carbon compounds being consumed.

  Her skull cracked but otherwise stayed intact. Her sightless eye sockets gazed toward heaven, where her soul had already advanced.

  Sandra’s remaining bones faded to a dark gray color, which he poured into a large processor to grind. He didn’t expect his beautiful Sandra to weigh more than two pounds when he was finished.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Maeva

  I felt tipsy from the wine and wanted to crawl under the canary comforter at Huberta Huber’s house and sleep for a week. The Jacuzzi looked enticing, but as tired as I was, I’d drown in it if I took a bath.

  I barely had the energy to strip out of my sweat suit, put on my Roll Tide tee and brush my teeth, but I needed to keep my eyes open long enough to read through Lilah’s notes about Tara.

  I withdrew Lilah’s spiral pad from my backpack and climbed under the comforter. I stretched out and started to flip open the pad when I noticed a business card taped to the back.

  Martha Davaeu Chapman

  Spiritual Counselor

  504 666-6666

  Below the card, someone had written: “Crystal necklace.” Oh, yes. Martha’s the psychic who gave Lilah the necklace.

  In the lamplight, the crystal around my neck glowed like gold, but of course, it would in the Canary Room. I’d worn the necklace to bed, because it had become a part of me by now. No surprise. I’ve collected more rocks than anyone outside of a new-age jewelry store, and my fascination with this particular stone led me to call the psychic who owned it.

  I reached for my cell and punched in the numbers on the card. Would Martha Deveau Chapman actually answer the phone? I braced myself for the possibility.

  The phone rang several times before a message machine answered. “Hello.” The woman’s voice on the recording sounded like Kathleen Turner in Romancing the Stone. “Leave your name and number. I’ll return your call promptly.”

  “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.