Hurricane House

by Sandy Semerad

  I drew a ragged breath and thought of Adam, the way we used to kiss, our lips blending in a passionate dance until we couldn’t wait another second.

  Sean unhooked my bra and his mouth found my naked breast. I pushed him away. “I can’t,” I knew if I stayed another second, I would have given in to this consuming passion. He frowned, questioning me with his eyes.

  I jumped off the bed, ran out of the bedroom and down the stairs.

  Sean called, “Maeva wait.”

  I gathered my clothes and began to dress. “No, I have to go. I’m not ready for this. I barely know you. Some other time, some other place, other circumstances maybe. Not now. This is all too fast.” I fumbled to tie the rope belt around my waist. Sean walked down the stairs in the.nude. Such a gorgeous male body. I loved Adam’s body, of course, even his love handles, but Sean didn’t have an ounce of fat. He was all lean muscle, as if perfectly sculpted.

  I held my hands up. “Don’t bother coming down, please. I can see myself out. I don’t want you to take this personally. It’s not you. It’s me.” I rushed toward the front door to make my exit.

  I heard Sean’s bare feet, coming behind me. “Maeva, please wait.”

  I turned to see him in the nude, holding his manuscript. “Sorry, I rushed you. I’m obviously attracted to you, but that’s no reason for me to force myself. Forgive me and when you have the time, I’d like for you to take a look at this, let me know what you think.”

  I took the binder from him and noticed his hard on. It stuck out like a handshake. “I’ll try to find the time to read it, but as I said, I’m pretty swamped with claims at the moment.”

  He smiled and touched my cheek. “I understand... Could you wait a sec? I’d like you to write down your phone number.” He turned away, flashing his muscular butt. I thought my heart would hammer itself to death while I waited for him to find a pen and a piece of paper.

  “I’m guessing your cell phone is the best way to contact you, right?

  I took the pen and the sheet of typing paper from him. I used the table in the foyer to write down my cell number. “Goodnight,” I said, handing the paper and pen to him.

  “Yes, goodnight, very good night. I enjoyed it very much.”

  Chapter Forty-seven

  I ran inside my townhouse, closed and locked the front door. Onyx barked like a scolding parent. “Calm down, Onyx.” I slid my back down the door until my butt reached the floor, where I quietly petted Onyx, until my heart gained a normal beat.

  Onyx whimpered, as if he knew the pain I felt while we sat together on the floor. In that position, I nodded off and had a flash dream about someone breaking into the house. Traumatized, I leapt to my feet and checked to make sure the French doors were locked.

  I noticed Onyx had made a mess chewing up the plastic bottle he’d found, but my fatigue wouldn’t let me perform clean up duty. So I simply snapped my fingers for him to follow me upstairs where I fell into bed with my clothes on. A deep sleep soon claimed me. At 7:00 a.m. my cell phone rang, awakening me. I squinted to read the number on the caller ID.

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “Are you all right, Maeva?” Paula asked.

  “Yes, I was asleep.”

  “Where?”

  “Unit five, one of my townhouses.” I rubbed my eyes and yawned.

  “God, you’ve got some nerve to stay there. I’m just glad you made it through the night to live another day. Carpe diem, I always say. And speaking of today, do you want to meet me at Huberta’s? Follow me to Roxanne’s funeral?”

  “I’d like to.” I glanced at Sean’s manuscript. I’d placed it on the bed stand last night before I collapsed without brushing my teeth, washing my face or removing my street clothes.

  Sean had asked me to read it, I remembered. Intrigued, I sat up in bed and glanced at the first page.

  Paula said, “I’m leaving around ten-thirty.”

  “Okay, I’ll be there.”

  “See you soon.”

  After I hung up from Paula, I read the book’s Prologue. It began with a man carrying a dead body to the beach. Gruesome and upsetting, because the details of Sean’s book rang true, too true, as if Sean knew what actually happened on Paradise Isle, the night I found Tara’s body. How could that be?

  The dreadful question lingered while I cleaned up Onyx’s mess. He’d chewed the plastic bottle and scattered it everywhere.

  “Why did you do this?” I scolded him. Onyx barked and plopped one paw over a rolled up piece of paper.

  I picked up the paper, and saw it was a handwritten note: “Help me, please. Roxanne is dead. Her murderer is holding me captive. I’m not sure where I am, but it’s very close to the ocean, has a porthole window and smells horrible, like death.” The note was signed, “Geneva VanSant.”

  I waved the note in front of Onyx. “Where did you get this?”

  He tilted his head, barked and ran to the front door.

  “Okay, wait a minute. You eat while I wash my face and brush my teeth. Then, we’ll go out.” I refilled his food and water bowls while I reflected on my evening with Sean and the prologue of his book. Could Sean be capable of murder?

  He didn’t seem violent. He didn’t act guilty. However, he did say he had blackouts when he drank. Maybe he doesn’t remember all of the horrible things he’s done.

  “We don’t have long,” I said to Onyx, as I waved the note and opened the door for him to go outside. “I hope you didn’t find this next door at Sean’s.” I wanted to believe Sean couldn’t have hidden Geneva in his house, though his townhouse had an additional floor.

  I held tight to Onyx’s collar. “I’m not letting you get away from me.”

  He pulled me in the direction of Turtle Cove and the Dolphin Mansion.

  I glanced at the clock on my cell phone. I had misjudged the time. “We have to go back.”

  Onyx barked.

  “Hush, I can’t miss the chance to meet up with Ellen.” Onyx continued to bark until my headache came back. “Be quiet and listen to me. Ellen is bringing a map, and the map should tell us where Geneva is. So let’s go back. We’ll investigate this later.”

  Chapter Forty-eight

  The night Adam was murdered, his friend Tom, another FBI agent, called me to say we needed to talk but not over the phone. Long before Tom arrived with the news, my gut told me what I couldn’t bear to hear Tom say.

  When I pulled into Huberta’s driveway, I felt a similar tugging in my gut. Huberta was squatting in the front yard, planting impatiens. She smiled and waved with a heavy gloved hand.

  Onyx barked and I scolded him, “No.”

  Huberta’s smile turned into a scowl when she spotted him.

  Onyx didn’t seem to notice. He barked another greeting. “Shush,” I said. “Be quiet and stay in the truck. Huberta is allergic to dogs, meaning you can’t go inside.”

  He barked again and I rubbed his chin in an effort to calm him. “I’ll crack the windows for you, but you must be quiet.” I rolled down both windows two inches; then reached for my backpack.

  “Don’t worry about the dog, Huberta.” I called out to her. “He can’t get out.”

  Despite what I said, Huberta continued to glare at Onyx.

  I wanted to defend him, but I decided nothing I could say would erase Huberta’s fear. “Can I use your landline to send my reports?”

  Huberta, still grimacing, said, “Yes.”

  “I’m going to follow Paula to Roxanne’s funeral. Are you going?”

  Huberta shook her head while still staring at Onyx. “I did not know the poor woman. I have much to do here.”

  “Onyx is harmless.” I hoped these words would bring her comfort. Fortunately, Onyx sat quietly at that moment.

  I entered the house through the garage and ran back to the Canary Room. I loved the Canary Room, such a bright, cheery space.

  In a few moments, I was on-line. I sent my reports to Jan Benson at Catastrophe Claims, Inc. then opened the e-mail Jan had s
ent to me. “I understand what you are going through. I do. It doesn’t surprise me you’re going crazy.” Jan wrote. “I’m pulling my hair out with this job. I’m nuts like you. Take your time. Do whatever. Don’t concern yourself with work. I’ll assign your future claims to another CAT. When you regain your sanity, let me know.”

  Jan now thinks I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have. I allowed a mysterious stranger, who might be dangerous, to massage me, carry me upstairs to his bed and remove my underwear. Good thing I came to my senses, though I had to admit the thought of Sean’s naked body made me blush. I tried to shake the feeling by thinking about what he’d written in his manuscript, in order to concentrate on Geneva’s e-mails.

  Too many to read. Ellen’s was the most important one. It verified the meeting time, and I had to hurry. My cell clock showed “9:30 a. m.”

  I stripped out of my clothes, showered, washed my hair and put on fresh underwear. I had no choice but to wear the same clothes I’d slept in. Ellen would be looking for someone in turquoise. That’s what I’d told her, and every detail was vital.

  “Don’t forget your gun,” I thought I heard Adam say. I was surprised he was still talking to me after my behavior with Sean.

  I strapped on my waist pouch then put the .357 Magnum inside. I’d loaded it with five hollow-point bullets. The chamber under the firing pin was empty for safe carrying.

  Finally, I glanced in the mirror and saw a stain on my tights. Crap.

  I stripped out of the coffee-stained tights and reached into my duffle for my favorite jeans. As long as I wore the turquoise tunic Ellen should be able to identify me, a petite woman with red hair, wearing turquoise, driving a black Silverado truck with an Alabama “CAT” tag.

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Onyx wouldn’t stop barking. I was forced to take him back to Paradise Isle. Even if he didn’t bark at the mourners, it didn’t seem fair to keep him cooped up in the truck, despite the windows being cracked for fresh air. Also, Ellen might share Huberta Huber’s dog phobia.

  Paula came with me, driving her Suburban to Paradise Isle and she waited as I locked Onyx in unit five.

  After I jumped in my truck, I trailed her, but felt like I was driving in circles, going on a wild goose chase. Eventually, Paula called me on my cell to explain what was going on.

  “I just found out from Keith that Roxanne’s funeral isn’t at the First Methodist Church. It’s at the United Ecumenical Church. But don’t sweat. I’m on the right track now.” Paula sighed. “I could have sworn Roxanne said she was Methodist, not ecumenical.”

  Thirty minutes later, Paula slowed and pointed to a large pink brick building, similar to Roxanne’s beach house before the hurricane got it. The gold steeple ascended into the clouds, piercing the somber mood.

  I looked for a place to park in the overcrowded concrete lot and spotted the black hearse at the curb. I parked my truck behind it and waited.

  When no one asked me to move, I grabbed a pen and notebook out of the glove compartment and wrote, “Hi, Ellen, I’ll be in the church for a moment. My truck is unlocked, hop in, crack the window or turn on the air if you like. Keys are in the ignition. I’ll be back soon. Maeva.”

  I stuck the note under a windshield wiper then surveyed the crowd. Talk about ecumenical. United Nations would be more descriptive. Two East-Indian women wore veiled Saris. Several African-Americans dressed in native garb. Muslim men wore traditional Kufi hats and Turkish suits and the women Hijab head wraps. Did Roxanne know all these people?

  The majority of those in attendance had on a combination of street clothes: jeans to business suits. I tried to locate Loughton VanSant and Ellen. News vans were everywhere, parked haphazardly.

  I was still studying the crowd, looking for Ellen, when Paula walked over, shaking her head and muttering about getting lost. She wore a simple black dress with pearls. I had never seen her in conservative attire with her hair pulled back in a twist.

  Paula tugged at the pearl earrings. “I wish I’d parked near you. I’ll never get out of where I am, all the way over in Timbuktu. I’m blocking somebody in, but guess what? I don’t give a rat’s ass.” Paula and I walked toward the church and discussed the eclectic group attending Roxanne’s funeral. When we reached the double doors at the front entrance, I turned to make sure my truck stood out and spotted Loughton VanSant’s blond head, surrounded by reporters.

  A plump woman with short pale hair stood nearby. She wore black slacks and a black shirt, with a blue duffle bag, slung over her shoulder. Ellen. She had a sad face like an orphan on Christmas Day, looking in the window of a celebrating family, knowing she couldn’t go inside.

  At first, I waved at her. Then decided I should keep a low profile. I didn’t want to draw attention to Ellen, who had already said she didn’t plan to attend the funeral service.

  Ellen paced the sidewalk. Eventually she walked behind my truck and removed my note from the windshield. Smart woman. After glancing at the note, she opened the passenger door and climbed inside the truck.

  I let out a relieved sigh, though I couldn’t relax. My mind buzzed on adrenalin, preparing for the dangerous unknown.

  “You seem preoccupied,” Paula said. “I don’t think you’ve heard a word I’ve said.”

  I glanced from Ellen to Paula. “I’m sorry. What were you saying?”

  “Keith told me we shouldn’t see each other for a while, not even as friends,” Paula wiped a tear from her cheek. “He doesn’t think we can be just friends. I’ve been telling him all along I didn’t want to break up his marriage, and he kept telling me he wanted us to be together. Now he says our friendship isn’t fair to his wife.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, giving Paula a hug.

  “I thought we could at least stay friends. I feel so alive when I’m with him.” “Paula, you’re the liveliest person I know, with or without Keith Harrigan.”

  Paula smiled. “Thanks for saying that.”

  “It’s true.”

  Speaking of Keith, he was talking to Victor Curry. They looked in our direction and waved. An attractive auburn-haired woman held tight to Keith’s arm.

  “That’s Keith’s wife,” Paula whispered in my ear.

  I nodded and waved back to Keith and Victor. Behind them I thought I saw the back of John Peterson’s head. Standing nearby, was Jim Grayson, the handyman, who reneged on boarding my townhouses against the storm. At least he took the time to attend Roxanne’s funeral.

  I wondered if Sean was here. The thought of seeing him again made my heart flutter. So I took a few slow deep breaths to calm myself and scanned the hundreds of people in attendance. Many of the mourners, paying their respects to Roxanne, suffered hurricane damage.

  Paula leaned over and whispered. “Keith’s wife is very attractive. Don’t you think?”

  I put my arm about Paula. “Are you going to be okay?” “As long as he’s happy, I’m happy for him. That’s what love is.”

  “I’m sorry. I know it hurts.”

  Paula nodded. “Why don’t you have a seat, Maeva. I’ll be right back.” She headed for the Ladies Room.

  I sat in a back pew next to a woman the color of maple syrup who wore her hair in dreadlocks. The woman’s kewpiedoll lips were powder pink. A teardrop rose quartz hung on a silver chain around her neck. Beautiful stone, it’s the one to wear if you’re trying to lose weight or need to increase your self-esteem, also known as the love stone. “Closed coffin.” The woman said to the man beside her. He reminded me of the halfback who played for Alabama the year I graduated.

  I glanced at the coffin, a shiny oak covered in roses. The crystal turned dark, no doubt reflecting the somber mood. “How did you know Roxanne?” I asked the woman.

  She shot me a brown stare as if to say: Who the hell are you? A moment later, the woman smiled and said, “I work for a newspaper in Tallahassee where Roxanne lived.” She reached into her black bag, withdrew a business card and handed it to me.

  Eleanor King
/>   News Editor,

  Tallahassee Reaper

  Oh, my. She was the woman who e-mailed Geneva, saying how much she liked her storm articles, yet worried about her safety. I wanted to talk to Ms. King, but the service began.

  An organist played a medley of songs, “Amazing Grace,” “When The Saints Go Marching In,” “Shall We Gather At The River,” “Ballerina Girl.”

  When the medley ended, an African-American woman in a choir robe walked behind the pulpit. I expected the woman to sing a hymn, but instead, she gripped the podium and began to preach the ecumenical eulogy. I wished I could have stayed to hear it.

  Chapter Fifty

  During lunch at the Doughnut Hole, Ellen talked nonstop and hesitated only when a waitress asked us, “What could I get for y’all today?” We ordered turkey wraps and Ellen said she needed to lose thirty pounds. “I bet you don’t eat much. You’re so tiny.

  “Ordinarily I eat like a farm hand, but I don’t seem to have an appetite today.”

  I’ve never known you not to eat, I thought I heard Adam say.

  A fly buzzed around the table and I almost dropped my water glass, thinking the fly could be Adam. A ridiculous thought, I know.

  As if unaware of my anxiety, Ellen said, “I’ve never lost my appetite, but I lost my voice after that psycho attacked me. I know I shouldn’t have hitched a ride with him, but he didn’t look crazy, and it was pouring down rain. I had to get to Geneva’s right away, and I thought my trucker friend wasn’t coming back. Turned out his rig broke down.”

  I feigned surprise, though I knew about the attack from reading Geneva’s e-mails. “What did this psycho look like?”

  “He had a cap over his head. I didn’t see his hair, but he was handsome, boy was he ever, like a movie star. I didn’t think he’d turn out to be crazy.”

  “What movie star did he remind you of, Ellen?”

  “I’ll have to think about that.”