Hurricane House (10 page)

Redmond’s blue eyes contradicted his Indian heritage. His high cheekbones and black hair reminded me of a young Clark Gable in Gone with the Wind but without the mustache. The black tee shirt and khaki shorts Redmond wore clung to his muscular physique.

“Sorry, if I startled you,” he said, smiling showing his dimpled cheeks.

I withdrew the cell phone from my shirt pocket. “Let me call you back, okay K.A? I’m talking to one of our neighbors.”

“You’d better call me back,” she said.

After I hung up, I smiled at Sean Redmond, who said, “I’m Sean,” and extended his hand.

To my embarrassment, I blushed, remembering what I’d heard about men with large hands having big penises. “Yes, I know. I’ve read one of your books.”

“Which one?”

“Uh, I can’t recall the exact title, Savage something.” He chuckled. “Did you enjoy it?”

“Yes, very much.” I gripped the crystal, which seemed to be getting warmer by the minute.

“Be glad to autograph it for you sometime.”

I pointed toward unit eleven, where Paula Weardon lived. “Paula, one of our neighbors, loaned me your book. I don’t actually own a copy.”

Redmond laughed. “In that case, I’ll give you one.” He nodded toward unit three, the place next door to unit five, one of the townhouses Kari Ann and I own. He then motioned for me to follow him.

Redmond’s townhouse stood taller than the others on Blue Heron Way. He’d added an extra floor. What a mess during the construction phase. For several months, the residents on the street worried that the big trough in front of Redmond’s place might become permanent. Whenever I drove down from Gerry to check on our rental property, there it sat, overflowing with debris and garbage. I figured one day I’d meet the man responsible and sure enough in the flesh.

“I’m rushing today, Mr. Redmond, though I’m curious about something. Do you know Martial Law is in force now? Which means residents without a business purpose can’t return to homes they’ve evacuated until those homes have been inspected and secured.”

He laughed, as if I’d told him a joke. “I didn’t evacuate.” I sighed, thinking he must be an adrenalin junkie. “In that case you need to know there’s a curfew.”

“I already know about it. I can’t leave my house between 7 p.m. and 7 a.m.”

“I can’t believe you stayed on Paradise Isle last night, Mr. Redmond. You must have been scared out of your wits.”

“Please call me Sean.” He flashed his dimples and showed more of his white teeth. The man had to be aware of his charisma. “See that wall?” he asked, pointing toward the five-foot barrier at the end of Blue Heron Way.
“It was built after Opal,” I said, remembering. “A dune grew in front of it, but I see it didn’t survive.”

“That heroic dune and that wall acted like a funnel and protected our places.”

I nodded and pulled at my pixie hairdo, a nervous habit, although I’ve read it’s considered a primping gesture. I didn’t want Sean Redmond to get the wrong idea. So I clasped my hands behind my back. “You, and everyone who failed to evacuate and survived, are very, very lucky.”

Sean frowned, as if I’d given him a calculus problem to solve. “Luckier than I deserve to be perhaps.”

“I don’t know about that, but I’ve worked too many hurricanes not to know how fortunate you are.” I waved a finger, more in fun than to scold. “You could have been killed.”

Sean opened his front door, smiled and waved me through. “I just finished mopping up the mess.”

I hesitated for a moment when I saw the blue slate floor. It looked clean. I didn’t want my feet tracking mud. “Let me remove my rubber boots,” I said, tugging them off.

Once inside, I noticed primitive oil paintings of American Indians on the foyer wall facing me. “Nice,” I said.

“What do you mean you’ve ‘worked too many hurricanes’?” Sean asked, ignoring my interest in his paintings.

“I’m a CAT. It means catastrophe adjuster.”

He squinted, bowed his head and perched his long fingers on his hips. “You’re a storm trooper?”

“No, I’m just a plain ole insurance adjuster who works disasters, CAT for short.”

His eyes roved over me. I felt my body blush from the examination. “There’s nothing plain and old about you. Anyone ever tell you, you look like Debra Kerr in her heyday?” He smiled, showing those dimples again.

Adam used to say I looked like a skinny redheaded Marilyn Monroe when I wore makeup. Without makeup, I’m more Little Orphan Annie. “Are you trying to flatter me?”

Sean’s blue eyes caught mine. “I don’t flatter. It’s not necessary.”

Well, alrighty then, I thought as I followed Sean past his kitchen. A flame under a fondue pot cooked something that smelled yummy. A hurricane lamp burned on the counter beside the pot.

“I’d like to hear about your CAT work, might prove useful in the book I’m writing.”

“As I said before, I’m in a rush today, maybe some other time.” I didn’t trust myself with this man. Talking to him made my knees wobble.

“I don’t mean now, but soon. I’m working toward deadline, but I can’t seem to get any writing done today. I’m worried about my vehicle. This mechanic I know, named Benny, is storing it at his place, but I haven’t been able to get in touch with him.”

Sean leaned against the wall in a casual way, as if he had plenty of time to chat despite the pending deadline he mentioned. “I must admit there were moments last night when I questioned my decision to stay. I’ve survived a couple of bad earthquakes in California. And I figured I’d get through this hurricane if it happened. But when I saw the gulf rising, I had my doubts. Benny said I’d drown for sure if I stayed on what he called a sliver of land that should’ve been an island if the Army Corps of Engineers hadn’t made it a peninsula.”
“Smart mechanic,” I said, smiling. “Wish I had more time to talk, Sean, and I don’t mean to be rude, but I really must get back to work.”

“I’ll just be a sec. I have a hard-cover of Savage Murder and my second book Tribal Revenge upstairs.”

I watched Sean take the stairs two at a time. A graceful man, no question.

While waiting for him to return with the books, I walked around, checking out his place. Two hurricane lanterns, similar to the one in the kitchen, glowed on top of an oak armoire. The armoire held a stereo system.

Built-in shelves stood beside the armoire. On the shelves, I saw collections of William Shakespeare, Tennessee Williams, Tony Hillerman, Margaret Coel, Sue Grafton, John Grisham, Elmore Leonard, Stephen King, Mary Higgins Clark, Sue Monk Kidd.

There was a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird and White Oleander beside The Holy Bible and two shelves of historical nonfiction—mainly American Indian culture—and several dictionaries.

One shelf held a tray of arrowheads and clay pots near a framed portrait of a young boy. The boy resembled Sean, though this boy had a large head, wide forehead, a “special” child. The Serenity Prayer in a silver frame stood next to the photo.

On an adjacent wall, behind the sofa, I saw an assortment of Samurai swords and Native American art. In front of the sofa sat two hand-carved tables with stainless steel legs on top of a hand-knotted rug, tribal pattern. The French doors, as in our units, led to the back patio, offering a lovely view of the gulf.
Sean jogged down the stairs, carrying two books and a Montblanc pen, platinum and black with gold tip. “How should I autograph these?”

I rolled my eyes, thinking. “Oh, I don’t know, whatever you want, you’re the writer.”

Sean sat on the leather sofa and turned to the title page of Savage Murder. His eyes questioned me and I realized I hadn’t officially introduced myself. “Oh, I’m sorry. You don’t know me, do you? I’m Maeva Lawson, spelled M-A-E-V-A.”

He smiled and wrote:

“To Maeva ,

My Beach neighbor and lovely new friend, I’m glad you enjoyed my book. Let’s celebrate surviving Donald. Sean R.” Redmond printed the date beside his signature, then blew on what he’d written before he closed the book and handed it to me.

Inside the title page of Tribal Revenge he wrote:

“To Maeva,

Let me know what you think of my latest effort, Sean R.” “I’d like to pay you for these,” I said.

He waved away my offer. “Nonsense, your company is payment enough. Stay for lunch. I’m having crab and corn soup, an old family recipe.”

I knew I couldn’t handle lunch with hunky Sean, a man who seemed unaccustomed to no. “Sorry, can’t. I wish I had time, though I must say, I’m amazed at your ingenuity, cooking without electricity.” I smiled. “Let me take a rain check.” When I realized my poor choice of words, I said, “I need to get busy with my assignments or else I’ll get the boot.” “I understand. Maybe tomorrow or the next day. Anytime,” he said.

I glanced at his wall clock: 10:50 a.m. “Okay, thanks so much.” I walked toward the front door and heard knocking.

Sean frowned and shrugged his shoulders before he started for the door. His frown deepened when Paula Weardon walked in uninvited. She wore scuba boots with white shorts, a sleeveless v-neck sweater and binoculars around her neck.

I had never seen Paula without the binoculars. She wore them like a badge of honor, which seemed unusual for a retired schoolteacher, widow and trophy-winning body builder who looked much younger than her fifty years.

Paula raked back her platinum pageboy like a diva. “Ahoy there, you two.”

Sean didn’t answer, but continued to frown. I understood why. Paula made a habit of walking in unannounced. Last summer, I awoke from a nap to find her standing over me. Since then, I’ve been careful to bolt my doors.

“Lot of activity out there,” Paula pointed at the ceiling. “Helicopters, you name it.”

We walked to Sean’s front porch and saw a brown copter land near what used to be Roxanne and Mason Trawler’s beach house. Despite the aircraft’s “military” look, two men dressed in slacks and polo shirts jumped out.

The shorter of the two men paced back and forth and then walked in a circle. He looked familiar, as did the taller, younger man who stared up at the walkway, suspended in mid-air like a giant’s crooked finger.

Before Hurricane Donald hit, the walkway connected the Trawler mansion and other places along Paradise Isle
to the recreational area. It could be accessed from the attic if neighbors hadn’t locked their attic doors. The architect and the contractor who created the walkway were called geniuses, but that was when Paradise Isle was considered safe.

“The tanned, gray-haired guy is Roxanne’s husband,” Paula said, with the binoculars pressed against her eyes. “The tall blond man is Loughton VanSant, Geneva’s hubby. He’s running for the U.S. Senate.”

The VanSants owned unit nine. I’d never met the husband, but I’d seen his picture in the newspaper and on television. They bought the townhouse a year ago, Geneva said the day she threw the party for Tara.

I’d been assigned the claim on Geneva and Loughton VanSant’s townhome. Lucky for me, Loughton Vansant walked briskly in my direction, meaning I could inspect his place without delay.

I walked over and extended my hand as soon as he reached his townhouse. “Hi, I’m Maeva Larson. I’m your beach neighbor, and I’m also the insurance adjuster for your flood and wind claims. We’ve never met, but I know Geneva.”

VanSant shook my hand. “Loughton VanSant, nice to meet you.” he dug into his pants pocket, withdrawing a ball of keys. “I’m surprised you’re already here. I haven’t even called my insurance company yet.”

“Someone must have contacted them, or I wouldn’t have your claim.”

VanSant exhaled through his teeth, making a hissing sound like a quackless duck. “I’m guessing my secretary. She didn’t think this place would be standing.” He cocked his head sideways. “And you say we’re beach neighbors, too?”
“Next door neighbors here. My sister and I own five and seven.”

The corners of his lips turned up showing even, white teeth. “We were fortunate, weren’t we? Not like Roxanne and Mason.” He nodded toward Trawler, who was squatting over his ruins. “I feel terrible for them.” VanSant shot a look at Sean who stood with his muscular arms folded over his chest in a guarded pose. “You’re the author, aren’t you?”

Sean offered his hand to VanSant.

“I know your name as well as my own...uh...” VanSant began.

“Sean Redmond.”

“My wife read one your books, loved it. Good to see y’all. Wish it could have been under better circumstances.” VanSant stroked the golden hair on his arms and exhaled through his teeth again. “I’m worried sick about Geneva. Haven’t heard from her, not a word since the storm. She hasn’t even called her mother, which is strange.” VanSant raked his hair and nodded toward Trawler, who was burying his head in his arms. “I hope to God Geneva and Roxanne weren’t over there together. Have y’all seen them?”

“Not today, not even yesterday, I left Paradise Isle early,” Paula said, “I stayed with a friend.”

I wondered how Paula managed to return to Paradise Isle after she’d evacuated. I started to ask when VanSant pulled out his wallet. He flipped to a photo of Geneva with long black hair. She reminded me of a young Liz Taylor. “Geneva is five-seven, green eyes, beautiful, like this picture.”