Hurricane House (19 page)

One day Franklin committed Nelly to a mental hospital, because she tried to kill him with a knife. He had the wounds to prove it.
In the hospital, Nelly was treated well, much better than when she lived with Franklin. Yet, she wanted her freedom and she asked Geneva for help. “You’re a newspaper reporter. Can’t you do something?”

Geneva met with Nelly’s psychiatrist Dr. Roper, who said she was sane and a good person, which Geneva already knew. Nelly had taught school for many years until Franklin forced her to quit. He’d threatened to kill her and her students if she didn’t stay home and stop working, Nelly said.

“How could this happen to you, an intelligent, well-adjusted woman?” Geneva asked her.

Nelly said she wanted to get married and have a family. Franklin seemed like a good guy, financially secure, retired army colonel, someone who’d make a devoted husband.
Yet, he turned out to be abusive, like Nelly’s father.

Somehow, Nelly endured. She held onto her sanity, even in an insane asylum. After she was released, she had the nerve to return to Franklin long enough to build a case against him. She planted hidden cameras in their house. Talk about reality television. No one had seen anything like Nelly’s footage.

What a strong woman. Geneva wanted Nelly’s strength. She needed it to survive a monster far worse than Franklin.

Chapter Thirty-five

Maeva

     As night fell on Paradise Isle, I braced myself for the unknown. At least the Tylenol had eased my pain. Onyx seemed content, looking like a fur blanket, sleeping peacefully on the semi-clean ceramic floor. I needed to take him outside to do his thing, but the thought of waking him felt rude, though I needed to pee bad enough to squat behind the oleander bush out back if Hurricane Donald hadn’t taken it.

I glanced outside at the foggy night and considered my options. I spotted the port-a-pot at the end of the street— compliments of the National Guard.

I hated making the trek alone, but at least the flood in the street had drained into isolated puddles, making the walk less yucky and hazardous. Regardless, I took a moment to bolster my courage.

I grabbed the flashlight from the kitchen for the necessary walk outside, hoping Onyx would wake from his doggy dreams to join me, but he didn’t. So I withdrew the Magnum from my backpack; then stuffed it inside my waist pouch. The gun made me feel a little safer.

When I stepped out onto the front porch, I smelled grilling food. Yum. I’d eaten only two nutrition bars that day, no substitute for the wonderful aroma invading my nostrils. However, my need to use the bathroom took priority over hunger.

I ran toward the port-a-pot, aiming my flashlight like a weapon. When I got there, the plastic door wouldn’t open. Assuming it must be occupied, I waited while listening to the roaring gulf. After a few moments of waiting, I knocked. No one responded.

I examined the slide lock with my flashlight. When I saw it wasn’t engaged, I gave the door a hard tug. The door popped open as a squawking blue heron flew over my head. The bird startled me, and I lost my balance and fell backwards on a piece of broken plywood. I almost wet my pants before I had the chance to use the rotten-smelling potty.

On the walk back, I saw lights flickering from Sean Redmond’s window, but other units on Blue Heron Way looked dark and deserted, as if Sean and I were the only people staying here. My truck was the only vehicle I saw.

I wished I had the lights on in my place. The flashlight batteries would soon die, and I didn’t want to spend the night in the dark after what had happened to Tara and Roxanne.

I remembered the generator I’d bought after Hurricane
Opal. It would be a hassle to get out of the back shed, I knew, but worth the effort to sleep with lights on.

Chapter Thirty-six

O
nyx barked as I walked inside the townhouse. “Way to watch.” I said, petting him. He licked my hand with his pink tongue. “You want to go outside?” He barked again, then ran to the French doors, leading to the back patio.

“Smart dog,” I said, opening the doors.

Onyx darted outside, and as I followed him, I noticed two filet mignons on Sean’s gas grill, which explained the delicious aroma. Onyx obviously thought they smelled delicious. He walked over and sniffed at the meat; then positioned his legs, like he was getting ready to pounce.

I whistled for him. “Come back here.”

Onyx obeyed, but his sly look told me he might sneak back if I didn’t keep an eye on him.

“Those steaks aren’t yours. You’ve already eaten.” Onyx sat and tilted his head from side to side as if he understood.
I decided to trust him and focus on finding the generator in the dark shed, a rustic walk-in closet of shelves, stacked with too much junk. “It’s a mess in here, Onyx, but at least it’s dry.”

Onyx walked over and stuck his head through the opening while I waved the flashlight over paint cans, tool trays, Christmas decorations, dusty lamps and my racing bike. I’d forgotten how much stuff I’d stored in there.

It took me a while to locate the generator in its cardboard box. It was wedged in the far left corner.

“Here’s the deal,” I told Onyx. “I have to scoot this box away from the corner. It weighs more than I do.”

Onyx barked as I set the flashlight down. Maybe he was trying to warn me.

Too late, I felt a spider crawling on my arm. I screamed and jumped around in a frenzied dance, knocking over the tool tray. Wrenches, screwdrivers, nails and everything else inside the tray scattered all over the place.

Onyx barked and barked. He sounded like a scolding parent.

“Are you all right?” Sean Redmond asked, touching my arm. He wore black shorts, nothing else. In his right hand he held a two-pronged fork and a lantern.

Onyx bared his teeth and growled, as if trying to protect me. Dogs can be intuitive about people and I wondered if he sensed danger in Sean as I brushed the cobwebs from my arms.

Sean scratched the dog’s head. Onyx sniffed at Sean’s fingers, as if placated by the smell of food. “Are you hungry?”

“Don’t let him fool you. He’s already eaten two full bowls of Purina dog chow,” I said. Sean’s eyes sparkled in the lantern light. “I was talking to you, Maeva. Are you hungry? And would you care to join me?” He waved at the patio table, where he’d set a plate for himself with a fork, steak knife and napkin. Very tempting.

Without thinking, I answered, “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am hungry. I couldn’t bring myself to eat the dog chow.”

Sean laughed a deep, sexy chuckle. “Join me then. How do you like yours? He fanned the fork at the grilling steaks. “These are medium rare, but I can cook yours longer if you like.”

Before I thought better of it, I answered, “Medium rare is good, but...”

“Also I have salad. What kind of dressing do you like? Vinaigrette, Italian, oil and vinegar? The French is past the drop-dead date.”

“I prefer Vinaigrette, but I don’t know...if I should...” “There’s plenty, and I’d love your company.”

I took a breath and considered his invitation, which felt rushed and a little too spontaneous, giving me queasy butterflies in my stomach, but I didn’t have a legitimate excuse to refuse him until I remembered the generator. “Some other time, maybe, right now I’m trying to get this thing out and operating, but thanks for asking me.”

“Let me help you.” He placed the lantern and the large fork on the table before picking up the big box containing the generator.

I took that opportunity to get a good look at him. His arms, chest and legs were muscular with tight, six-pack abs, striated like a swimmer or a runner who lifts weights for strength. I’d never seen a more perfect male body.

Sean set the generator next to my French doors. “This okay? You shouldn’t run it inside.”
True. Last year, during hurricane season, several people died from carbon monoxide poisoning, because they ran their generators inside their homes. “Yes, I know. Thanks for helping me.”

Sean touched my shoulder. “You’re welcome. Now surely you can take a moment to eat.”

Prior to meeting Sean, I imagined him as the type of man who enjoyed expensive restaurants and fine wine, finer women and frequent partying, not the sort of guy who celebrated alone, fixing his own dinner, enjoying his own company with no one around to share it with him except me, a beach neighbor he’d met yesterday.

As if reading my mind, Sean said, “I do like going out to a nice restaurant. Maybe while you’re here, I can take you. If we can find one open. The hurricane seems to have chased everyone out.”

It sounded too much like a date, but not knowing for sure, I let it pass, grabbed Onyx’s collar, then touched my waist pouch to feel the Magnum.

Chapter Thirty-seven

Ellen Langley
, Tallahassee

    
Geneva’s hubby gave Ellen a zombie stare and sat with his hands clutching his knees. He reminded her of a statue, trapping her, with no possible way to get away and call Geneva until much later than the designated time.

He’d requested tacos. Ellen knew they’d be easy to make from the instructions on the box.

She’s found everything she needed in the kitchen: Twelve taco shells and sauce. Ground beef was in the freezer. All she had to do was thaw the meat in the microwave, brown it in the skillet. Add spices. Then warm the taco shells.

However, she saw a problem: The packet of taco spices contained, “Monosodium Glutamate.”
“The spices for the tacos have MSG,” she told Loughton VanSant, who sat at the dining table, as if waiting to be fed. “What?”

“The taco spices have Monosodium Glutamate, which causes brain damage in rats and gives me headaches. Are you allergic?”

“Are you comparing yourself to a rat?”

This man has the social skills of an orangutan. “Heavens no, I’m just saying, I’ll leave the spices out. Add something better, a little salt. Maybe some red and black pepper if that’s okay with you.”

He nodded, as if in agreement.

Instead of the MSG, Ellen added red pepper, salt and a little curry powder to the cooked ground beef. Then she
chopped up some lettuce, a tomato and a slice of onion. Next, she grated a cup of cheese and placed everything on the table in front of VanSant.

He didn’t waste any time stuffing a taco shell with all the fixings. In fact, he consumed half of the taco in one bite. “Good,” he said, with his mouth full.

“I’m glad you like it,” she said. “Will you excuse me for a moment?”

Van
Sant nodded.

Ellen walked back to her suite and dialed Geneva’s cell phone. It was 8:25 p.m., almost two hours past the agreed upon time.

Ellen wasn’t surprised when Geneva didn’t answer. “Hi Geneva,” Ellen said after the beep. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you at 6:30 as promised, but your husband was here. I didn’t have a private moment. Also, reporters have been calling all day. Your mother has called a zillion times, but I didn’t talk to her. I’ll send you e-mail tonight. Please reply when you get a chance. I received the address you gave me for our get together. Don’t worry. I’ll make it there somehow.”

After Ellen hung up the phone, the doorbell chimed. She raced down the hall toward the front of the house to answer it.

Loughton VanSant had opened the door before Ellen got there. They faced a barrage of reporters with flashing cameras and microphones.

While waving at the commotion, VanSant turned to Ellen and said, “You stay in here. I need to make an appearance. Might help us locate Geneva.”

Chapter Thirty-eight

Maeva, Paradise Isle

     
I finger-combed my pixie doll do, that’s what Jeffrey, my hairdresser, called this particular style when he chopped off my hair. When Adam was alive, I wore my carrot-red locks below my shoulders to please him, because he liked long hair.

After he was murdered, Jeffrey at Cut up and Barber talked me into the pixie. “Maintenance free and draws attention to your fabulous face and eyes,” he claimed.

I wasn’t convinced of the fabulous part, but I had to agree the style was easy to maintain. I could wash, finger comb and go.

As if Sean could read my thoughts, he said, “I love the way you wear your hair. It’s very becoming.”
I doubted his compliment. I hadn’t checked myself in the mirror since early that morning. No idea what I must look like after my horrible day, but I could imagine. It wasn’t pretty.

“Would you like a glass of wine?” Sean offered.

“Might as well. Thank you.”

Sean grabbed a bottle of Merlot, uncorked it and poured me a glass.

I swirled the red liquid as I’d learned to do when Adam and I went on that wine-tasting trip to Napa Valley. “Lovely,” I said, after tasting it.

Sean plopped a filet on my plate, then went inside to get a bowl of tossed salad and the vinaigrette dressing. From where I sat, I could see him in the kitchen arranging the food on a tray. He poured a glass of water for himself from a gallon jug.