Hurricane House

by Sandy Semerad

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Keith and Joan Harrigan’s Home

  Keith found his front gate locked. He wondered why. He’d asked his wife to unlock the gate when he called thirty minutes ago to say he was coming home for a tête-à-tête, a fancy word for the hard talk he had in mind.

  He didn’t blame her for ignoring his request. He’d cruised home at two that morning like a tomcat. Most women would be furious, but Joan didn’t question him. Of course, it would be easier if she gave him an out, made the first move. The two of them hadn’t had sex in more than a month. His fault, not hers. Everyone who knew Joan said she was a sweetheart, too good for him. They were right.

  She’d been raised in Catholic schools by nuns as he had. He thought Joan might enjoy suffering in silence, similar to his mother, who, unlike Joan, smothered him, though his mother appeared matronly. Joan seemed ageless, definitely a youthful fifty. She’d been mistaken for his daughter more than once.

  At the start of their marriage, when they lived in Atlanta, they’d go to Stone Mountain, take off their clothes and have sex in the water or in the woods, exciting but not as intimate as with Paula.

  Joan was nineteen when they married, and he thought Paula was lost to him until recently. Like most guys raised Catholic, Keith felt guilty about his feelings for Paula. To deal with the shame, he’d talked to Skipper Roy, the FBI shrink. Roy told Keith what he already knew: He’d married Joan on the rebound, but that didn’t mean Keith couldn’t or didn’t love his wife.

  “Hell, you can learn to love anyone who’s attractive, loves you, and is good to you, and Joan is all of that and more.”

  “I do love Joan, but not in the way I should,” Keith had said.

  “Keith, there’s not just one woman in the world for you. The problem is, you had unrequited love. Then you found out after all these years that your first love, loved you back. And her father screwed you over. Also, your father ran out on you when you were a tot, which makes you compulsive with a separation anxiety. If you’d been abused as a child, you’d be a Ted Bundy.” Roy had laughed and slapped Keith on the back.

  Massaging his tired eyes to dislodge the past, Keith walked back to his car for his cell phone. He called Joan. “I’m too old to climb the fence.” “Oh, sorry, hon. I’m on my way.” In under a minute, Joan rushed out.

  Keith could see she’d just stepped out of the shower. Her shoulder-length auburn hair was dripping wet, and she wore the terry robe he’d bought her for Christmas.

  “Hey, you,” she said, leaning over to kiss him while struggling to unlock the gate. “I’m sorry. Time got away from me. Rachel called.” Rachel was their long-winded, thirty-year-old daughter with four kids like stair steps.

  Keith adored the grandkids, but they were closer to Joan, naturally. He worked all the time. He knew Joan wanted him to retire. “The FBI won’t let me,” he’d told her. The truth was he’d curl up and die without the FBI.

  “Is Rachel okay?”

  “Yes, just frustrated with the children. You know what she asked me?”

  “If you’d keep the kids for a week?”

  Joan laughed. “She was probably thinking it. I wouldn’t mind, but I couldn’t do that to you. You’ve been so stressed out lately, what with all those dead women and the reporter who’s missing. I saw their pictures in your office. Beautiful women and they all look alike, don’t they?”

  “I told you never to go in my office,” Keith snapped. He had the feeling his wife snooped. He didn’t like it, though he tolerated Paula’s snooping. Not fair.

  Joan opened her mouth. A look of surprise came over her face. She put her right hand over her forehead to block the sunlight from her hazel eyes. “I don’t appreciate your tone of voice, Keith. I know you’ve been under a lot of strain. That’s no reason to take it out on your wife.”

  Keith rolled his head from side to side, trying to release the tension in his neck and shoulders. “You’re right, I’m sorry. You’re such an immaculate housekeeper. I don’t want you going in my office organizing the mess. I won’t be able to find anything.”

  Joan laughed, a bit sarcastically. “How long have we been married, Keith?” She had unlocked the gate but didn’t pull it open. It was as if she’d changed her mind about letting him in. He didn’t blame her.

  “Is that a trick question?”

  Joan pulled the gate open and gave him a playful shove. The robe parted. He caught sight of her breast, still lovely in spite of three grown children and five grandkids. The woman worked out, seldom missed her aerobics in the morning and loved to ride her bicycle through the neighborhood. “Don’t try to be funny, big guy. We’ve been married thirty years. Have you ever known me in all of those years to move your stuff without your permission?”

  Keith glanced at the sky and sucked in his lips. A raindrop hit him on the head, though the sun was shining. He looked at his wife and saw the love on her face. At one time she’d modeled bridal gowns. The money she made helped them through the hard times while he earned his masters in criminal justice. “I hate it when you’re right.” Keith followed Joan up the sidewalk, up the front steps and across the porch into their two-story brick home.

  She laughed nervously. “I made us lunch, nothing too heavy, crab salad and. .whipped cream and. .” She held her robe open to give him a full view of her body, a body he knew all too well.

  He felt like a heel. He’d planned to discuss a separation. Now he wished he hadn’t invited Paula to have lunch with him today. He glanced at his watch, 11:12 a.m. He was late as usual, meaning he’d have to call Paula. Like a fool he’d left the cell phone in his car.

  “What’s wrong?” Joan said. “Didn’t you say we needed to talk, spend some time together?”

  She had obviously misunderstood his intentions that morning when he mentioned the tête-à-tête. She was thinking pillow talk, afternoon delight. “Right, I did, and I’m sorry. Come here.” He held his arms open.

  His wife smiled like a child.

  Keith gave her a hug and smoothed her wet hair. “Okay, we’ll spend time together. I just need to make one quick phone call. Then we can eat and...”

  Joan giggled. “And...I just love long ands.

  Keith kissed his wife’s head and whispered, “Okay. You get the grub ready, and I’ll make that call.” He turned away from Joan and caught sight of a paperback book on the kitchen counter next to the stove. “Light his Fire” was the title in big yellow letters. He felt like a worm as he walked upstairs to his study.

  When he made the call to Paula, he got her voice mail. “Hi, there. Leave a message, and if you’re lucky, I’ll call you back.” Her recorded message always made him smile.

  “Paula, Keith. Something urgent has come up. Sorry, but I’ll have to cancel lunch. I’ll call you as soon as I can.” On the wall facing him were four pictures of beautiful blondes: Helen Rapier, Karen Lovett, Tara Baxter and Roxanne Trawler. Joan had been right, they’d pass for sisters. He knew why, but he didn’t know when the killing would stop or how to stop it.

  “Keith, lunch is ready,” Joan called from downstairs. “Be right there.” He massaged his head near where he carried a sniper’s bullet, too risky to remove, the doc had said.

  Keith stopped to use the bathroom, always squeaky clean. Yet, he’d seldom seen Joan clean a toilet, sink, or bathtub or even vacuum the floor.

  Downstairs, Joan had placed their lunch on the marble table in the large kitchen. She had painted the walls melon yellow. He noticed she’d scooped the crab salad neatly on top of Boston lettuce served on their best china, a gold leaf pattern, and poured him a tall glass of sweet tea the way he liked it with a lemon wedge.

  Joan poured herself a glass of South African chardonnay. “Would you like wine?” she asked.

  “No, I have to work later.”

  “I could put a Budweiser in the freezer with your frosty mug.” Joan smiled.

  “As I said, I have to work. You know how I get when I drink.” He took a bite
of the crab salad.

  She seemed to be waiting for his approval.

  After he swallowed, he said, “Delicious.”

  Joan smiled as if his enjoyment made her happy. “You talked in your sleep last night. Actually it was this morning.”

  Oh, no, what now? He took a drink of tea. “I don’t remember dreaming anything. What’d I say?”

  “You talked quite a bit. It didn’t make sense, crazy, scary, didn’t even sound like you.” She touched his head near where the bullet had lodged. “How are you feeling?”

  “It doesn’t hurt there, if that’s what you mean.”

  “How are you feeling in general?”

  “Exhausted, worried, not very happy with the way things are.” Joan scooted her chair back. She got down on her knees facing him and reached for the zipper on his pants. “Maybe I can make you feel better.”

  Keith placed his hands over his zipper to stop her. “No don’t. I’m not clean down there.”

  His wife pulled his hands away and unzipped him. “You will be soon.” She picked up the whipped cream from the table and sprayed the sugary foam all over his Johnson. Some of the whipped cream sprayed on his pants. “Oh, sorry, I made a mess,” she said in a little girl’s voice before licking it off.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Geneva VanSant

  Geneva watched Roxanne, performing a fluid dance. This must be a dream. She watched the image for a while before she closed her eyes and covered her face with the sheet on the cot. I’ve been drugged. I’m hallucinating.

  “Hurry, he’s gone now, but not for long.” Geneva thought she heard Roxanne say. “Put the napkin over the camera.”

  Geneva uncovered her face and reached out to touch her friend. It was like touching air.

  Roxanne smiled and waved at the spy cam. “Do you have the note?”

  “You know about that?” Geneva asked.

  How did Roxanne know Geneva had written a cry for help on the extra sheet of stationary her jailer had left? She’d stored the note in her underpants.

  Roxanne whispered, “Put the note in the water bottle.” Geneva drank the rest of the water. Then rolled up the message and stuffed it inside the bottle.

  “Hide the bottle in your panties,” she heard Roxanne say.

  In a flowing backward wave, she seemed to be directing Geneva to follow her. Geneva felt invigorated, climbing up. Then she slipped, fell back down and landed on her butt.

  “Get up. Be quick,” Roxanne said, reaching out and lifting Geneva over the wall.

  Once they made it to the other side, she noticed the grotesque paintings. They reminded her of the artist Edvard Munch.

  Roxanne pointed to a sphere, not much larger than a steering wheel. She pointed toward a pallet knife on a shelf with tubes of oil paints, mineral spirits and charcoal. ”Pry it open. Hurry, he’s back, not much time,” Roxanne whispered.

  Geneva worked the knife around the sphere until the lid popped out. It looked like an enclosed slide at a water park.

  “Throw the bottle in,” Roxanne said.

  Geneva protested, though she followed Roxanne’s instructions. “How will this help me? I want to get out of here?”

  Roxanne’s said, “Not now, he’ll see you.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Maeva Larson, Paradise Isle

  Lexie held out her arms when she saw the graying woman who resembled an older Sandra Eddelman. “Nanna.” Nanna lifted Lexie from the highchair and hugged her, “Hey, baby, where’s Mommy?”

  “Mommy gone,” Lexie cried.

  Nanna jumped when she saw me standing there. “Who are you?”

  “I’m an insurance adjuster. I met Sandra and Lexie yesterday when I came out here to do their claim.”

  “Sandy’s my daughter.” She glanced around the room. “Where is she?” “I don’t know,” I said, my voice cracking.

  “Are you sitting with Lexie?”

  “No. As I said, I’m an insurance adjuster.”

  “And Sandy’s not here? I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t either. I wish I knew what to tell you.” I showed Sandra’s mother my identification. “I’m Maeva Larson.”

  “I’m Frances Beckett,” the grandmother said, balancing Lexie on her left hip as she studied my license. “I don’t mean to be rude. However, I know my daughter. She’d never leave Lexie alone, never in a million years.” Frances glanced down at the floor. “Smells awful in here.”

  “I came over today to see Sandra again after I met with her landlord John Peterson. From what he said, he’s not going to replace the carpet or clean up this mess. He’s selling this cottage to a buyer who plans to tear down and rebuild.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “That’s what he said.” I felt sick. How can I explain to Sandra’s mother about the blood? How can I tell her I found Lexie, screaming inside the bathroom?

  Frances exhaled a worried sigh. “Have you been here long?”

  “Not very long.”

  “Maybe Sandy stepped outside.” Frances frowned, looking confused. “How did you get in?”

  “I knocked on the door. No one answered. I heard Lexie crying, and it scared me. So I walked in here to see what was wrong with the baby. The front door was unlocked.”

  Frances covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh, no. Where’s my Sandy?”

  I put my arm around Frances. “I found Lexie in the bathroom with the door closed.” “Sandy would never leave her baby like that.” Frances sucked in air. “Have you looked everywhere?”

  “Just in the house, but try not to worry. I’ve called someone to help us locate her.” I decided not to tell Frances about the blood on the bed.

  “Sandy’s the best mother in the world. She’d never, ever leave Lexie alone. Anyone who knows Sandy knows that.”

  I touched Frances’ shoulder. “I’m thinking this FBI guy I know can help us find her.”

  “FBI?”

  “His name is Keith Harrigan. He’s the investigator who’s...” I stopped myself. I needed to spare Frances the painful details.

  “I bet Sandy’s ex-husband had something to do with this.” Frances covered Lexie’s ears. Then she whispered. “And if he’s hurt my Sandy, I’ll kill him.”

  “Is he abusive?”

  Frances’ whole body quivered in sobs. In an effort to comfort her, I put my arms around Frances and Lexie, who began to cry louder than Frances.

  “A couple of times he’s slapped her...like Sandy’s dad did me. The reason I divorced him. Those types only get worse.” Frances shook her head. “I’m afraid Sandy married a man like her dad.”

  I patted Frances on the back. “It’s unsanitary in here. I think you need to take Lexie home with you until we can find Sandra.”

  Frances stepped away with a questioning stare. “You’re not a mother, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Then you don’t understand. I can’t leave here not knowing where my daughter is. I can’t. I won’t depend on someone else to find her.”

  “I think you owe it to Lexie to get her out of this moldy, potty atmosphere. Sure, it’s painful to leave not knowing, but you won’t be that far away. Sandra told me you live in Samson. Let me help you gather Lexie’s things.”

  “I can’t take Lexie anywhere in my car without a car seat. It’s not safe. Besides, it’s illegal.” Frances stomped her feet. “Did you know they took Sandy’s car? That bum she married didn’t make the payments.”

  I nodded. “I saw a child’s seat somewhere. I’ll get it.” I rushed into Lexie’s room and picked up the baby’s seat. “I don’t know much about attaching one of these, but I think we can figure it out.”

  Frances grabbed the seat in one arm and handed Lexie to me with the other. Carrying Lexie, I followed Frances outside to a white van with three rows of seats. She opened the sliding door in the middle and expertly secured the baby carrier with seat belts, an amazing feat for someone trembling as much as she was.

  “
Go, bye, bye.” Lexie said, smiling.

  Frances reached for her granddaughter. “You’re going home with Nanna.” Frances turned and headed back to the cottage. “But let’s get you your things first.”

  I stopped her. I didn’t want Frances or Lexie seeing the blood. “Why don’t you keep her out here? She doesn’t need to breathe any more of that mold.” I touched the child’s chin to reassure her.

  “You’re right, I guess,” Frances said. “But I need to pack her clothes. Lexie can’t go anywhere without something to wear. I have a few things at my house but not many. And she’ll need food for the trip.” “I gave her a turkey dog before you got here, and I think I can manage to get whatever else she might need until you and Sandra, hopefully soon, can pick up the rest.”

  Frances glanced at the cottage as if searching for her daughter. “But with all this damage, don’t you have to work? Didn’t you say you were an insurance adjuster?”

  “Yes, but I’d like to help you if you’ll let me.”

  Frances wiped her wet eyes. “Thank you. I am grateful, but I’m also upset and...”

  My cell rang. “I’ll be right back,” I told Frances, then walked inside the cottage for privacy. “Yes...Hi, Keith... Thanks for calling me back...” I explained to him what I’d found and my fears about Sandra’s safety.

  “I’ll be right over,” Keith said.

  Chapter Thirty

  Maeva Larson, what a busybody. Soon the cottage would overflow with investigators, taking pictures, DNA samples. No reason to worry, though. Who would suspect him?

  The only wild card was the meeting with hitchhiker Ellen. He didn’t know for sure if the meeting would take place as planned. If not, he’d take care of Ellen at Geneva’s house in Tallahassee, though it would be safer on his turf. That way, he could handle both Geneva and Ellen. Avoid the risk of being seen.

  Maeva, the busybody, was an unexpected thorn, but he had a plan to get rid of her if she got in his way, and that plan made him smile as he set the binoculars down and picked up a book of poems. His favorite, Divine Image by William Blake, seemed to say it all.