Hurricane House (2 page)

“What do you do for a living?” the older officer asked.

“I’m a CAT, which is short for catastrophe investigator, and I have a private investigator’s license.” I thought mentioning the private eye license would give me more credibility.

The older officer squinted as if he didn’t believe me. “We’ll need a detailed statement from you. And we’ll need to see your I.D.”

Chapter Two

DeFuniak Springs, Florida. Ellen Langley

      Ellen glanced at her Mickey Mouse watch. What’s taking Kenny so long? She’d been waiting at the MacDonald’s for three hours with the dark sky pouring rain.

Her hair and clothes were soaked from going outside, looking for Kenny’s rig. That’s what I get for being a homeless hitchhiker and riding with truckers I don’t really know.

At 10:30 p.m., Ellen’s worry trumped her fear of thunder and lightning. She raced across four-lanes of traffic to use the pay phone outside the Shell station. Rain dripped from her fingers as she punched in the numbers of her calling card and Kenny’s cell-phone number.

His voice-mail answered, “Yo...” Why don’t you ever answer your phone, Kenny? Ellen waited for the beep before leaving a message. “Kenny, where the blue blazes are you? You said you’d pick me up at seven. Have you forgotten about me? They’ll be closing the MacDonald’s soon. Hurry, please, it’s raining elephants.”

Ellen slammed down the phone and ran back across the street, braving four lanes of traffic and the worst rain she could remember. By the time she reached the MacDonald’s, she was soaked through her underwear.

“You okay?” A man’s baritone voice asked.

Ellen stopped and turned toward the voice. “You talking to me?”

He nodded. The man wore one of those stylish stretch caps and she couldn’t see his hair, but his handsome face reminded her of the actor John Gavin—Janet Leigh’s lover in the old movie Psycho.

It was nice of him to roll down the window of his Hummer in this horrific rain to inquire about her. “I’m waiting for my ride.”

“Where’re you going?”

“Tallahassee.”

“I’m going there myself. You’re welcome to ride with me.” He reached across the seat of his pseudo-tank and opened the passenger door.

Why not? Ellen decided. This man was far from a bum, and what choice did she have? No telling when Kenny would get around to checking his messages and calling her back. He’d already proven he couldn’t be trusted. He’d promised to pick her up at the McDonald’s hours ago, but he never showed, and she needed to get to Geneva’s house before she left for the beach. Otherwise, Ellen wouldn’t have a clue what Geneva wanted her to do. It had been six years since she’d cleaned and organized Geneva’s place. Long enough for Geneva to marry a lawyer/politician and move into a house that, according to the photos, looked like something a Barbie doll would live in.

Thinking about Geneva, Ellen felt a wave of gratitude. No doubt that woman was heaven sent. No other way to explain why she’d interviewed her and wrote that “Singing Hitchhiker” article. Thanks to Geneva, Ellen could finally leave the road. No more risking her life and limb with strangers. Now she’d be safe and productive as a live-in housekeeper.

Ellen positioned the strap of her duffle bag over her shoulder and walked toward the Hummer. The bag contained everything a veteran hitchhiker would need, including a canister of pepper spray.

She wondered why anyone would want to drive a car as big and costly as a house. “Are you serious? Going all the way to Tallahassee?”

He smiled. “Sure am.”

“I’m soaked, might ruin your upholstery.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Ellen edged into the seat beside him and put her duffle on her lap. The Hummer looked clean, but contained a musty odor. A long fridge lay on its side in the back. “Thanks. You can drop me off at the nearest Tallahassee exit. I’ll take a cab from there.”

He grabbed the strap of Ellen’s bag. “Let me put this in the back for you.” “No, I’d rather hold it.” The nerve of him, trying to take my stuff. He flashed Ellen a movie star smile, perfect teeth. “You from Tallahassee?”

“No.” She told herself to stay calm as she reached inside the bag to locate the pepper spray.

He turned to face her. “Just visiting?”

“Don’t know, I may move there permanently.”

“Where’re you staying in Tallahassee?”

Ellen wanted to say none of your business, but she held her tongue for once. “With a friend.”

“Who’s your friend? I know several people in Tallahassee. May know him.”

Ellen studied the stranger. His red polo shirt looked soiled, and he wore black gloves. A bad sign. “Not a him, a her.”

“Oh, sorry, but maybe I know her? I have several friends in Tallahassee.” He shrugged and winked. “I might know your friend.”

Ellen didn’t like his wink and she was growing wary of his questions. They felt wrong, even though this guy was obviously no bum and nice enough to give her a ride. “I suppose it’s possible you know her. She’s Geneva VanSant, a well-known journalist. Her articles have appeared in newspapers all over the country.”

The stranger’s jaw dropped as if he’d heard something shocking.

Ellen thought he may have seen Geneva’s by-line or met her at some celebrity bash. “Do you know her?”

The stranger pulled his Hummer onto Interstate 10. “The name sounds familiar and I’m thinking I’ve seen her somewhere. I’m not sure. Maybe it will come to me.”

He smiled and pointed to the seatbelt, “Be safe, buckle up.”

Ellen smoothed her Clairol-blond pixie, thinking no way she’d trap herself in this tank with a strange man. “I don’t think so. I hate seatbelts.”

“You ride with me, you’ll wear yours.”

Ellen’s neck hairs bristled. “Maybe you’d better take me back to MacDonald’s or drop me off here.” She inched toward the door and held onto the pepper spray in her bag.

“In this rain?” He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “You’re feisty I’ll give you that. Why else would a fine woman like you catch a ride with God knows who?”

Ellen’s heart hammered, warning her. She’d made a bad choice. She’d accepted a ride with a strange man, who drove like a maniac, seventy-five in a flash flood. “Name’s Ellen. What’s yours?”

“John.” He offered his right, gloved hand. His left hand gripped the steering wheel.

She couldn’t make herself shake hands with that glove. Better to stare at the windshield wipers battling the rain. How could anyone see to drive in this stuff? She certainly couldn’t, though she had no problem seeing the way John gave her the once over as if she were a sexy model, not a fifty-year-old woman, forty pounds overweight. He needed to watch the road, not give her the eye.

“What’s your story, Ellen? Where are you from originally?”

Ellen stared at the stranger, trying to memorize every detail in case she needed to remember later. “Born in New York City, lived there for thirty years.”

“But not now?”

“Right.”

“Got tired of the Big Apple? Can’t say as I blame you.”

“Oh, no, I love New York. The city so nice they named it twice. I miss living in the city. I miss the Broadway shows, especially the opera, everything, even the rude taxi drivers.”

He laughed. “Don’t know as I agree with you, or David Letterman, on that one. Why’d you leave?”

“Lost my job.”

“What kind of work do you do?” John squinted at Ellen, and she thought his eyelids looked heavy, sleepy. Could she trust him not to fall asleep at the wheel?

“We’re talking twenty years since I worked full-time. I was a switchboard operator on Wall Street for many years.” “What do you do now?”

“Clean trucks and houses.”

“I’m sure there’s a demand for that.”

“I’m good at it, too, but if I had my druthers, I’d sing for a living.”

He laughed. “You mean sing for your supper?”

Not funny, Ellen wanted to say when the Hummer hydroplaned, skidding across I-10. They almost hit a trucker in front of them. She screamed and gripped the arm rest. God help me. “Slow down,” she yelled. “Keep your eyes on the road.”

He slowed to sixty-five. “I have a heavy foot, sorry.” He took his right hand off the wheel and patted her shoulder. “Now what were we talking about? Oh, yeah, something about your singing? You said you’d like to sing for a living. Did you ever sing professionally?”

Ellen moved away from his hand. “I studied with Luciano Pavarotti’s coach. Was second choice for ‘Aida’ once.” Ellen didn’t expect John, or whatever his name was, to believe her, though she never lied.

He cocked one eyebrow. “Why give that up?”

Ellen felt trapped, similar to the time she got stuck in the Empire State Building elevator. “Polyps on my vocal cords. Lost my job, then my apartment.”

“What about family? Couldn’t they help you out?”

Ellen bit her lip in fear. She needed to make a move, get out of this Hummer, but how? “My parents were abusive drunks.”

John shook his head. “Life sucks sometimes.” He glanced through sleepy eyes.

Ellen thought he might be on drugs. What if he fell asleep at the wheel? “I moved in with my boyfriend. He was an alcoholic and abusive, just like my folks. So I left him and caught a bus to Seattle but couldn’t find a job there.”

“Why couldn’t you find a job?”

“I don’t have enough sense to keep my mouth shut. Whatever I’m thinking comes out, but that’s okay. Now I’m glad I didn’t get a job in Seattle. It rained every day I was there, very depressing. Two people in my homeless shelter killed themselves.”

John pointed to his dashboard. “Need to stop for gas.” He turned off at an exit where a BP station adjoined a rest area. “So, you gave up on your singing.”

“No, I still sing. I just haven’t performed in a theater for twenty years.”

“I’d like to hear you.” He smiled at her.

Ellen thought, why not? She loved to sing, and it might keep him awake until she could get away from him. “Okay, I’ll sing some of Aida in Act IV when Aida and her lover Radamès are buried alive in a crypt.” Ellen transformed herself into the part.

When she began to sing, John said, “Wow, you have a spectacular voice.”

Ellen continued to sing, though she noticed he’d passed up the BP station and headed toward the rest area. Get ready to jump, she told herself.

Chapter Three

Maeva Larson, Gerry, Alabama

    
The radar showed Hurricane Donald spinning in the Gulf of Mexico as a blond meteorologist reported, “...Category Five, expected to make landfall along Florida’s Panhandle. Warnings in effect for Panama City all the way west to Pensacola Beach...”

Upset by the weather report, I ignored the ringing landline until I glanced at the Caller ID and saw Kari Ann’s number. “Hi, sis. What’s up?”

“I’m seeing the Perfect Storm on Doppler. Edie’s in the Atlantic and Donald’s in the Gulf, fixing to mate and form a super ‘cane. We’ll have to board up the townhouses for sure.”

We?” As if my sister out in Idaho would magically appear for the occasion. “I’ll call Jim. I refuse to drive to Dolphin in this storm.”

“I don’t blame you. You must be exhausted.”

I had no time for a therapy session from my psychotherapist sister. “I don’t mean to cut you off, sis, but I need to catch Jim in time to board up our places. Let me call you later. Love you.”

Kari Ann and I hired Jim Grayson after we fired Prestige Rentals, a company that rented to the teenagers who trashed our two townhouses. Jim could fix anything. He had good references, plenty of leasing experience, three rentals of his own on Paradise Isle, meaning he kept a close eye on incoming storms. Most importantly, he meticulously screened every renter and refused teenagers unaccompanied by adults.

We paid him twenty percent for his trouble, extra for handyman chores. This time I was prepared to pay him double the usual if he’d help me out. Regardless, I had no intention of driving down to Dolphin in this storm. I’d been away from home too much lately and I had a long list of chores I needed to do. The basket in the washer/dryer room overflowed with my dirty clothes. A clean pile of laundry, that needed folding, covered the beige sofa in the living room, where my ever-expanding rock collection dwarfed the coffee table.

My obsession with stones began when Adam gave me the two Amethysts. (Wedged together, they formed a heart.) I’m now somewhat of an expert on stone power.

The bloodstones (heliotropes) are among my favorites. The most famous member of the jasper family, they have
the power to heal, according to legend. Heliotropes were formed during the crucifixion of Jesus Christ. His blood spilled on the earth, turning the earth to bloodstone. Hence the definition: “the healing stone.” Sadly, none of my rocks cured my heartache after Adam was killed.

I shook my head to dislodge the memory as I surveyed my jumbled mass of gems. If my parents were alive, they would feel embarrassed for me.

They had taken such pride in their home. My dad—Eric Larson—designed and built the four-bedroom split on six acres of farmland and pines. It offered a tranquil view of Lake Gerry, three miles outside a town where seven thousand people still believed in the golden rule. I could not imagine living anywhere else.