Hurricane House (18 page)

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.

Chapter Thirty-one

K
eith Harrigan pulled up in a police cruiser with Billy Blankenship, an investigator from the Sheriff’s department. Blankenship took pictures and dusted for prints, then stuffed Sandra’s blood-splattered sheets into a plastic bag.

Rather than watch, I jumped inside my truck and drove away. A block from the cottage, I pulled over. Then pounded the steering wheel and cried, “Should’ve, could’ve, but didn’t.” I should have taken Sandra and Lexie to Huberta’s. I had the chance to help her, but I didn’t. So now what? Where was Sandra?

I couldn’t let myself believe Sandra was dead. How could anyone hurt such a lovely young woman, such a sweet, wonderful mother? Who would do such a thing?

While pondering those questions, I felt sick, immobilized, in no condition to drive to my next appointment with Mr. Rogers, the Principal of Dolphin Elementary. The school’s
playground, built with car tires, flew in all directions when Hurricane Donald hit. One of the tires crashed through the home of a Niceville woman, knocking her unconscious. With that sad scenario, I didn’t think Mr. Rogers would understand my need to cancel the appointment, but I saw no alternative.

I punched in his phone number. Voice mail answered.

After the beep, I said, “Sorry to postpone our appointment, Mr. Rogers, but I’ve had an emergency. See you at three tomorrow afternoon. I hope that’s okay with you. If not, let me know, and we can reschedule.” I recited my cell phone number. Then another call beeped in.

“Hello, this is Maeva.”

“Ms. Larson, I’m Charles Puker with the Internal Revenue Service.”

“Oh, yes, thanks for getting back to me.” As I said this, I spotted John Peterson jogging along Gulf Drive where a sidewalk used to be before the hurricane destroyed it.

The crystal necklace warmed my chest. A definite warning, and I remembered what Peterson said to me earlier: “Sandra is history.”

Forgetting I had the I.R.S. guy on the phone, I said, “S.O.B.,” referring to Peterson, not Puker.

“What?” Puker said.

I don’t know how to explain what happened next. Except to say, I felt as though I’d stepped outside my body, watching my actions, rather than participating.

First, I disconnected Puker and focused on Peterson. I remember thinking, Peterson had some nerve, jogging and enjoying life while Sandra was missing and God knows where. No question, I blamed him. I wanted justice. I was angry, and my anger took control of my right foot. I floored the accelerator. The Silverado drove over a mountain of sand and headed for Peterson’s backside.

He seemed to sense the danger. He glanced over his shoulder and picked up his pace, as if he heard my truck, getting ready to plow him down.

I felt powerless to control my actions or my vehicle, but somewhere in this zone of no return, I spotted a black dog running alongside my truck. Like a flash, this dog darted out in front of me. I slammed on the brakes and turned the steering wheel to avoid hitting the animal. I missed the dog by inches and collided with a palm tree. My head hit the steering wheel but I remained conscious and the airbag didn’t explode in my face, though the impact should have activated it.

I heard my cell phone ring, glanced at the caller I.D. It was Puker. By then, I was shaking all over and couldn’t answer.

Strangely, the black Lab didn’t flee. He stood beside my truck, wagging his tail, even as I got out, inspected the damage, and saw the lopsided front fender. “Look what you made me do,” I said to the dog.

“I saw what happened, Maeva. Are you okay?”

I jumped at the voice and turned to see Victor Curry, looking handsome in blue jeans and a blue polo. “That dog shouldn’t be running around loose.”

“I agree,” I said.

The leash law and white sand ordinance prohibited dogs and their poop on the beach, meaning the owner of the black lab could be fined a thousand bucks. Of course, I didn’t plan to report the owner or the black lab. If not for the dog, I may have killed John Peterson and gotten charged with vehicular homicide. I guess you could say I owed this dog, but I didn’t expect him to jump inside my truck. ”Oh, no you don’t. You’ve caused me enough trouble today.” I tugged on the dog’s collar, trying to get him out.

He wouldn’t budge. In fact, he had the nerve to move into the passenger’s seat.

Victor jumped inside with the dog. “I’ll get him.”

The black lab snarled at Victor.

“Watch out, Victor. He’ll bite you.”

“Nah, he’s bluffing.”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “He reminds me of my dog Punjab. Punjab hated men, even bit my dad.”

Victor laughed. “Not smart of Punjab.”

“Dad eventually won him over, but like this dog, he chased after cars. One day, Punjab got run over and killed.” I bit my lip, trying not to cry.

Victor wrapped his arms around me.

I buried my nose in Victor’s chest hair. It tickled and smelled of soap and aftershave.

After a moment in that position, my neck and head throbbed. To relieve the pain and stiffness, I stepped away.

“Are you gonna be okay?” he asked while stroking my hair.

“I think so,” I lied and tilted my head from side to side. “I’m just wondering what I’m going to do with this dog who’s sitting in my truck as if he belongs there.” I leaned in to study the silver tag dangling from the dog collar. “This says his name is Onyx.” At the mention of his name, he licked me with his pink tongue. “And here’s a number to call.”

Victor said, “Let me handle that, Maeva. First, we need to get you checked out. The Emergency Center in Ft. Walton Beach might be open. I’ll drive you over.” I attempted a smile. “No, don’t bother. I’d rather get a chiropractor to adjust me.”

“Okay. I’ve heard Allen Toddy’s good. He’s a local chiropractor. May not be around today if he evacuated.”

I remembered what Paula said. She went to Toddy once a week. Sean Redmond filled in for him on occasion. “One of our neighbors is a chiropractor. Did you know that?”

Victor frowned. “Really? Who?”

“Sean Redmond, the mystery writer. You know, next door to me, lives in the tall townhouse.”

Victor smirked. “You’d trust a man who writes about murder to pop your neck?”

Chapter Thirty-two

Ellen Langley, Tallahassee, Florida

     
At 6:30 p.m. Ellen Langley began punching in Geneva VanSant’s cell phone number. She stopped when she heard footsteps in the hallway, followed by a rap, rap, rap on her bedroom door. Ellen knew it was Loughton VanSant, even before he walked inside her room.

“Ellen, I’m sorry to bother you. Do you have a minute?” “I just need to make a quick phone call,” Ellen said. The nerve of him walking in here without being invited.

“Can’t it wait?” he asked, giving her no choice in the matter.

She didn’t know what to say. The man looked terrible. He wore the same clothes he had on in the television interview
about his missing wife, only she wasn’t missing, and Ellen didn’t feel like being cross-examined on the subject. She glanced at her watch, 6:32. I hate keeping her waiting.

VanSant plopped like dead weight in the beige lounge chair.

Ellen sat in her desk chair, not knowing what to say to this deflated man, who propped his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands. “Geneva thought very highly of you, Ellen.”

“Why are you speaking in the past tense?”
Loughton frowned. “What?”

“You’re referring to Geneva in the past tense. You said she ‘thought very highly of me,’ instead of she thinks very highly of me.”

Loughton cleared his throat and squinted at Ellen. “What’s wrong with your voice? Geneva said you were a singer.”

“I have laryngitis.”

“Oh, sorry. Uh, right, I didn’t mean to imply that Geneva is no longer with us. I pray to God she is.”

“I heard your television interview today and the sad news about Geneva’s friend Roxanne.”

“A great tragedy.”

“I believe Geneva is alive.”

“I pray you’re right, but what makes you say that? Have you heard from her?”

Ellen stared at the ceiling. She hated to lie. She’d always tried to tell the truth, no matter what. “No, not talked to her, but I just have a feeling. That’s all.”

“I hope to God you’re right. Also, I hope you know you’re welcome to stay here. That’s what Geneva would...” He sobbed in his hands. Ellen wanted to feel sorry for him, but she couldn’t. She didn’t know why exactly, except he didn’t seem real to her, as if he were incapable of human emotion, sort of like Arnold Schwarzenegger in The Terminator.

Ellen glanced at her watch, wondering when she’d be able to call Geneva without Loughton VanSant hovering.

Chapter Thirty-three

Paradise Isle, Maeva

     
I stroked Onyx’s head while he gobbled up the Purina Dog Chow. Petting him felt good, though I didn’t want to admit how much I missed having an animal around. Mine was a vagabond life, always on the road, no time for a dog.

I stopped petting Onyx to call the number on his tag. I kept getting busy signals. I guessed from a landline, not working due to the storm. One more obstacle on top of my problematic day, but I didn’t want to worry about that while stroking the white hairs on Onyx’s chin.

“You stopped me from killing John Peterson. Did you know that, Onyx?” He barked an answer, and I decided this was no ordinary dog. His eyes were similar to the red eyes you get in a bad photo.

I stared into those eyes until my aching head and neck forced me to take two Tylenol. An ice pack would help, I knew, but I’d forgotten to get ice after driving halfway to Pensacola to find an open grocery store to buy dog food, bottled water and two nutrition bars.

Oh, well, if I’d remembered the ice, it would have melted while I waited in line for gas. I wanted to choke the guy in the Hummer who tried to nose ahead of me, but I set him straight. “No way I’m going to let you butt in front of me and the rest of these cars,” I pointed to the three-block-long line waiting for gas.

After filling up, I drove back to Paradise Isle with the windows down. Onyx stuck his head out of the passenger window.

At the townhouse, he wolfed down a bowl of dog chow and begged for a refill. I watched him eat. Then found a bucket to mop up the storm crud. I used a mixture of bottled water, Pine Sol and bleach. In the process, I wondered where I’d sleep that night. Huberta had invited me to stay in the Canary Room again.

I knew I couldn’t bring Onyx without getting Huberta’s permission. In another five minutes, I wouldn’t be able to go to Huberta’s due to the 7:00 p.m. curfew on Paradise Isle. Oh, well, I told myself not to worry. Onyx had proven himself to be a good watchdog, and with the .357 Magnum, we were a fearsome duo.

Though I hated guns, I knew how to use one. Adam had taken me to the shooting range several times. Then he made me promise to keep the gun loaded when I traveled by myself or stayed at home alone.

“Aim for the belt buckle,” he used to say. “And fire ‘til he falls.”

I remember laughing and telling him I felt more comfortable with Jiujutsu. At that time, I’d earned my blue belt.

Chapter Thirty-four

Geneva Vansant

      Geneva’s heart raced, though she’d taken deep breaths and tried to concentrate on her breathing and meditate. Nothing seemed to drive the panic from her mind. To make matters worse, she kept thinking of all the victimized women she’d known, like Nelly Muffalatto, one of her Tallahassee neighbors.

Nelly’s husband Franklin turned out to be a monster. He locked Nelly up in the cellar of their antebellum home. No one except Geneva believed Franklin would do such a thing.

Franklin seemed friendly enough, a successful businessman. He gave money to the schools and United Way.