Without a Grave (26 page)

I watched Gator thread a dock line through an eye bolt screwed into the roof of his dive shack and secure it to a cleat set in the concrete. ‘Just as well it's gone. Wouldn't want something like that banging up against your dock with a hurricane coming.'

‘Hurricane? You're kidding.' Without Paul home to noodge me awake, I'd overslept and missed the Cruisers' Net that morning, so this was news to me.

‘Tropical storm Helen for now, but they may upgrade her shortly. They're predicting she'll reach us Friday. Winds eighty to a hundred, they say.'

‘Is that bad?'

‘Seen worse.' He stepped over Justice, picked up a dock line and threaded it through another eye bolt.

Gator's strange activities had suddenly become clear. ‘So you're tying stuff down.'

‘Lots to do.' He bent down, picked up a coil of rope and tossed it to me. ‘Give me a hand?'

Our landlords used the side of the refrigerator like a bulletin board. Who to call if the propane tank runs out (Earl Sands). Where to report a power outage (BEC). What to do in the unlikely event of a hurricane (Pray). The first thing I did when I got home was consult it.

Bring porch furniture in, secure doors and windows . . . on and on and on I read. Dozens of bullet points about how to secure their property, but nothing about what I should do personally other than getting myself to the airport and flying the hell out. I'd have to talk to Molly.

My talk with Molly was delayed temporarily by a visit from a representative of the Royal Bahamas Police Force, Marsh Harbour Division. I had been fixing to go to Molly's, when someone pulled up to the dock. I watched curiously from the living room window as he alighted from his Boston Whaler, ambled up the dock, tall and straight and proud, all decked out in his uniform – a light-blue short-sleeved, open-necked shirt tucked into navy-blue trousers with a wide, red stripe running up the side. His military-style hat, also navy-blue with a red stripe, was perched on his head at a rakish angle. He carried a clipboard, the pages flapping as he climbed the steps to the porch and rang our bell.

I came out, all smiles. ‘How can I help you, officer?'

He consulted his clipboard. ‘Good morning, ma'am. I'm Sergeant Wilbur. Are you Hannah Miles?'

‘It's Ives, officer. I-V-E-S. Ives. Would you care to sit down?' I indicated one of the wicker chairs. He sat in one and I took the other. I folded my hands primly and waited.

Sergeant Wilbur eased a pen from his breast pocket, scribbled something on his papers – presumably changing ‘Miles' to ‘Ives,' ascertained that I was, indeed, one of the people aboard
Deep Magic
when the bodies of Frank and Sally Parker were discovered, and asked me to tell him about it.

While I was talking, he took notes.

When I wound down, he asked, ‘I understand that you knew the deceased.'

I explained the Naval Academy connection. ‘But I hadn't seen the Parkers for several years,' I added quickly, ‘and I certainly didn't know Frank had been invited to Hawksbill Cay. I wish I had. Things might have turned out differently.'

Suspicion flashed in his dark eyes.

‘What I mean,' I blathered on, ‘is if we had known they were coming, they might have stayed with us here at
Windswept
and not been in Poinciana Cove at all.'

‘Why do you think they were in Poinciana Cove?'

‘I heard it from someone on the Cruisers' Net,' I said, tap-dancing as fast as I could.

His eyes began a slow roll, which he checked almost at once. It was abundantly clear that Sergeant Wilbur considered the Cruisers' Net a bunch of unreliable nosey-parkers. ‘We have credible information that their boat was found near Eleuthera.'

I didn't comment. What was the point? From that single statement, I knew he'd talked to Jaime Mueller and had taken what the creep told him seriously. I'd believe the word of a cruising sailor over that of a spoiled-rotten daddy's boy any day.

‘We theorize that the Parkers were attacked somewhere near where their bodies were discovered,' he continued. ‘Then their boat was taken to Eleuthera where it was stripped and abandoned by the thieves.'

It's
my
personal theory that if enough money is involved, certain Bahamian authorities can be convinced that the Gulf Stream flows from north to south and the sun rises in the west.

‘Pirates?' I said. What bullshit, I thought. Pirates, drug-runners, desperate Haitians, teenagers partying late who need a ride home . . . they'd steal a go-fast or a cabin cruiser, or even a peppy little runabout before they'd saddle themselves with a sailboat that could make only seven knots per hour even with a twenty-five knot wind pushing on its sails.

‘Yes, ma'am,' he nodded sagely.

Wilbur opened the clip on his clipboard, released a sheet of paper and handed it to me. ‘There's going to be an inquest on September 10 at the courtroom in Marsh Harbour. This is a summons requesting that you appear.'

I must have looked worried because he added, ‘Don't worry. You'll just tell the coroner and the jury what you told me today. There'll be other witnesses, too. Then the jury will bring in a verdict.' He stood, rearranged his papers under the clip, and extended his hand for me to shake.

‘But what about the storm? I hear there's a big one coming.'

‘We cross that bridge when we come to it, ma'am. If the inquest is cancelled, we'll be sure to let you know.'

‘Can you tell me how the Parkers died?' I asked even though I already knew the answer.

‘No ma'am. Sorry. That's for the pathologists to say.' He checked his clipboard again. ‘Which dock belongs to a Mrs Molly Weston?'

I pointed to the path through the bushes. ‘You can leave your boat tied up here, Sergeant Wilbur. Her house is just through the trees.'

When the last blue speck of Wilbur's uniform disappeared into the foliage, I powered up my laptop and Googled the police website. Little seemed to have been updated since 2006. Many of the links were ‘under construction,' amateur clip art warred with text blocks sometimes overwriting them, and a click on ‘Abaco' produced a
404 file not found
error. I suspected that the link to ‘Police Most Wanted' would return mug shots of thugs who had long ago escaped the short arm of the law, but decided not to test my theory.

I knew ten-year-olds who could build better websites. Didn't do much to inspire confidence in the Royal Bahamian Police Force.

When I heard the
rrrhumm
of Wilbur's departing Whaler, I popped next door.

I had to laugh. Molly had received Officer Wilbur wearing a 1950s-style cotton house dress and fuzzy-pink bunny slippers. Her hair stood out in erratic spikes like a victim of The Mad Mousser.

‘You get a summons, Molly?' I asked.

‘Same as you.'

‘Did you hear we've got a tropical storm coming?'

‘Oh yes,' she said wearily, pointing to her television where CNN was tracking the storm. ‘Believe it when I see it.'

‘I was thinking of evacuating, especially since Paul's back in Maryland. But with this summons, I'm kind of stuck.'

‘I'm not leaving,' she said. ‘This old place has survived every hurricane for the past fifty years, and that includes some humdingers like Floyd, Frances and Jeanne. The biggest danger is storm surge, and we're high enough above sea level never to be bothered by that.' Her eyes widened. ‘Tell me you're not really leaving, Hannah?'

I paused to consider her question. Paul would have a fit and fall in it if I stayed. But he'd be worrying unnecessarily. I'd been through hurricanes before. Eloise, Floyd, even Isabel scored direct hits on Annapolis, but other than a foot of water in the basement, a few lost shingles and a twisted gutter, we'd lived to tell the tale. As long as I could hold out inside a sturdy, well-built house, I wasn't particularly concerned.
Windswept
, like
Southern Exposure
, had been built by shipbuilders, men who knew how to confront, exploit and tame both wind and sea. We'd be just fine.

But I didn't fancy riding out the storm alone, so I smiled at my friend and said, ‘Not if you aren't.'

NINETEEN

TROPICAL AND GLOBAL FORECAST MODELS ARE IN GOOD AGREEMENT ON NEWLY FORMED TROPICAL STORM HELEN'S MOVEMENT. SHE'LL LIKELY APPROACH THE BAHAMAS, PROBABLY THE ABACOS FRIDAY SEPT 5. INTENSITY MODELS SUGGEST HELEN WILL BE A POTENT CATEGORY 2 OR 3 HURRICANE WITH WIND 80 KNOTS TO 100 KNOTS.

Chris Parker,
Wx Update
, Bahamas, Tue 2, 10a

P
aul called on my iPhone, fully expecting that I'd have closed down the house by then, and be well on my way home. In Ft Lauderdale, perhaps, or West Palm. ‘Where are you?'

‘I'm standing in the Pink Store, buying supplies.'

‘I thought you were coming home!'

‘It's a tropical storm, Paul, not a hurricane.'

‘I beg to differ. It's a hurricane, Hannah. CNN just said so. And I want you to come home.
Now
.'

Milk and bread had long since disappeared from the Pink Store's shelves, as well as toilet paper. As I tried to calm my husband down, I pushed the cart around the narrow aisles, dropping in napkins as a substitute for toilet paper, a package of Fig Newtons, a box of Ritz crackers and two jars of Skippy Super Chunk peanut butter.

‘I can't, Paul. I've been summoned to the inquest in Marsh Harbour next week. If I don't show up, they can arrest me.' I glommed on to the last package of McVitie's Hobnobs and tucked them into my basket, along with a four-ounce jar of instant coffee, although I really hated the stuff. ‘I don't think I want to spend time in a Bahamian prison.'

‘I can make some phone calls.'

‘Please don't muddy the water, Paul. As far as I know, they plan to go on with the inquest as scheduled. If the Bahamians aren't too concerned about the weather, you shouldn't be either.'

‘I don't like what I see on CNN. They say Helen's heading directly for the Abacos.'

‘Hurricanes can be very unpredictable. Look what happened with Jeanne.' Molly had mentioned to us earlier that Jeanne had meandered around the Caribbean for ten days before steaming out into the empty Atlantic. Then she surprised everyone by making a two hundred and seventy degree turn and heading back toward land. Just like a woman. Unpredictable.

On the other end of the line Paul snorted. ‘May I remind you that Jeanne devastated the Abacos.'

‘Bad example,' I said, picking up an apple and checking it for brown spots.

‘You must always assume a storm is going to turn in your direction and act accordingly, Hannah.'

‘That's why the house is battened down and I'm in the Pink Store, buying groceries.'

By the time I reached Winnie and the checkout counter, I had promised Paul that if it looked like the hurricane was going to be a doozey, I'd hie myself to the airport and nip out of there, pronto.

Over the next two days, resorts emptied. An unbroken procession of golf carts, ferries and taxis transported grumbling guests and their belongings to the airport where they waited in long lines – sitting on their bags, sleeping at uncomfortable angles on plastic chairs – for the privilege of being packed into tiny planes and flown to safety on the mainland.

Safety
. I had to smile. When Hurricane Helen finished with Abaco, she'd no doubt head straight for Florida, then where'd they be?

Rudolph Mueller joined the stream of evacuees, too, flying himself back to San Antonio where his young family awaited. He left his son, Jaime, in charge. Jaime, who nobody'd laid eyes on for weeks. Maybe he'd evacuated, too, and just forgot to tell anyone.

Cabin cruisers, motor yachts and fishing boats headed west in flotillas. Mega-yachts, too, just as quickly as crews could be flown in to drive them back to their owners in Jupiter, Palm Beach or Miami.

Meanwhile, cruising yachtsmen were jockeying for secure moorings in Hope Town, Man-O-War and Hawksbill Cay, all popular hurricane holes, or deciding to risk a mooring in Marsh Harbour or a tie-up at one of the marinas.

By the time it was certain that Helen would make landfall in the Abacos, the Parker inquest had been cancelled, Radio Abaco shut down all programming except for storm warnings and evacuation notices, and it was too late for me to leave the islands.

I got my ditch kit together: passport, money, prescription meds, my wallet containing my Blue Cross/Blue Shield card – and put it all in a wheely duffle along with enough drinking water and clothing for three days. I packed canned goods and unperishables in a canvas tote, and added a can opener. Manual. I found some long-life milk only two months past its sell-by date, so I chucked that into the bag, too. My sleeping bag topped everything off.

Over the last of Molly's chicken and a casserole of green beans, Molly and I discussed what to do. There were no designated shelters on tiny Bonefish Cay. Two women riding out a hurricane alone on an otherwise deserted cay didn't seem like a good idea to me, even if we were both able-bodied gals described by everyone who knew us as ‘spunky.'

Our designated shelter was the Hawksbill Cay All-Age School, but Molly taught poetry there from time to time, and wasn't convinced it'd be any safer than staying at home on Bonefish. ‘Trust me when I tell you, Hannah, I'd rather ride out the storm in
Pro Bono
than in the Hawksbill All-Age School.'

An alternative was the St Frances de Sales Catholic Church in Marsh Harbour, but we didn't know anybody there.

Then on the Cruisers' Net that morning, a welcome announcement. Jaime Mueller (who claimed he never listened!) called in on open mike to say that the Tamarind Tree Resort and Marina could be used as an evacuation center.