Hurricane House (6 page)

No question Roxanne had aged, crows feet around her eyes, looked much older than her thirty-one years and too thin. Her diamond-and-platinum wedding bands wobbled on her ring finger.

Geneva opened her mouth to confront Roxanne about her weight loss, but when a neon snake of lightning ripped through dark clouds, followed by a thunder boom, Geneva changed her mind. No time for a serious conversation. “Thunder doesn’t usually accompany hurricanes. A good sign, maybe?”

Roxanne massaged her eye sockets and swung her right leg, as if she had developed Geneva’s habit of jiggling her feet and legs. The silence between the two women grew, and Geneva couldn’t resist tearing into the envelope Roxanne had given her.

It turned out to be a three-page epistle from Dee Samson, the young woman who had verbally sucker punched Geneva four months ago while she was on deadline at the Tallahassee Reaper. Dee had her own breaking news to report: She and Loughton were lovers.

He’d hired Dee fresh out of college to do his “grunt work” in the Florida House, a seat he won last election. According to this letter, they had grunted together on
numerous occasions after Loughton had promised he would fire Dee for making false accusations.

Roxanne leaned close. “Bad news?”

“Same old, same old.” Geneva handed Roxanne the letter and said, “Bastard. Insufficient blood supply to the brain and you know what causes that?”

“Pecker gorge,” Roxanne said; then read the letter while shaking her head. “I’m sorry, Hon. You deserve better.” She hugged Geneva. “You want my advice? Get out now. He’ll never change. Mason says most women divorce their husbands because they don’t change.”

“He ought to know.”

“I shouldn’t quote him. I wish I’d never met the jerk. Bet you feel the same about Loughton.” Roxanne squinted at Geneva, as if perplexed. “How did y’all meet anyway? I don’t think you’ve ever told me.”

“I was covering one of his trials for the newspaper. He was D.A. at the time. After the trial ended, he asked me out. We had four dates, and he wanted to get married. I should have listened to Daddy.”

“Your dad didn’t want you to marry Loughton?”

“He thought we should wait, get to know each other before making a life-time leap. Unfortunately, I didn’t listen. I loved Loughton, so...here I am.”

“You tied the knot that’s strangling you.”

“Interesting way of putting it.”

“Was your Dad disappointed you didn’t wait?”

“He said he respected my decision.” Geneva choked, feeling the stabbing pain of losing her father. “But he didn’t get to walk me down the aisle. He died a month before the wedding.” In a comforting gesture, Roxanne stroked Geneva’s hands. “I’m so sorry, honey. I feel your heartache. I really do. It’s almost like we’re connected somehow.” Roxanne cradled Geneva’s chin. “I know it’s a cliché, but ‘life’s not fair.’ However, I want you to know you can always count on me to listen and help you out whenever and wherever.”

A flash flood followed another thunder boom. In seconds, water covered their ankles. “Let’s get inside,” Geneva said, opening the French doors.

Roxanne waved off the invitation. “I’ll see you later. I need a hot bath. Meanwhile, pull yourself together. Promise me you won’t let this Dee-and-Loughton stuff depress you.”

“I’ve passed that point.”

“Yeah, right,” Roxanne said, hugging Geneva. “Call me later.”

After Roxanne left, Geneva wandered aimlessly around the townhouse. Then changed into red sweats, thinking warm clothing would keep her from shivering, and provide a modicum of comfort, but no. She still felt cold, alone and depressed.

In an effort to break the pall, she called her landline in Tallahassee. After four rings and no answer, Loughton’s outgoing message came on.

Geneva said after the beep, “Ellen, it’s Geneva, I hope you made it in okay...pick up the phone if you’re there.
”Strange, no answer. Where’s Ellen?

Geneva needed to talk. She didn’t want to face a hurricane alone, but she couldn’t stand the thought of driving back to Tallahassee in the storm. If only she could forget about leaving here. She had no desire to see Loughton, ever again, and no desire to go back home.
Clutching the phone to her ear, Geneva wanted to invite Ellen to the beach, which wasn’t realistic at the moment, of course, with a hurricane in the gulf, but maybe in the near future. Ellen could work in Dolphin on Paradise Isle, cleaning and redecorating the beach place. Geneva hated the existing sterile-vanilla décor: white carpet, white couch, white recliner, white wicker dining-room table and chairs. Only two keepers, the maple entertainment center and the Monet print hanging on the wall. Everything else could go, even Loughton’s picture in the heart-shaped frame sitting on top of the white marble bar.

She studied the blond-haired, blue-eyed photo of her unfaithful husband. Roxanne was right. He’ll never change. Lord knows, she’d tried. She’d even attended a support group of women married to womanizers.

Womanizers, she learned, see women as the enemy. They think a real man must control, manipulate and deceive. Like the rapist, the womanizer seeks power and superiority. Many of these men had fathers who escaped their families through work, divorce, or alcohol.

The landline rang, drawing Geneva’s attention to the caller ID. It showed a Washington, D.C., area code. Rather than answer, Geneva slammed Loughton’s picture against the bar.

“Hi, Gen honey,” Loughton announced after the beep. He paused, as if waiting for her to answer. When she didn’t pick up, he pronounced her name in syllables as he often did when she displeased him. “Ge-nee-vah, keep an eye on that hurricane and call me. Everything is going great here. I can’t wait to tell you about it. I miss you. I love you.”

Geneva shot his voice a bird. Loughton was incapable
of loving anyone. No surprise, he often quoted a famous racecar driver: “If you’re feeling safe, you’re not going fast enough.”

Dee was his pit stop, an entertainer’s applause, sex without intimacy. Geneva was the home stretch, the cross necklace he wore, the spare tire in his trunk.

She heard her cell phone vibrate in her purse like a little mouse being electrocuted. She knew without looking Loughton was calling again. At the same time, someone knocked at her front door. She walked over, looked through the peephole, and saw a man in a hooded slicker.

Chapter Seven

Gerry, Alabama
, Maeva’s Home

I
scooped up the scattered mail from the floor, opened the door, and waved to mailman Bobby. “Thanks,” I yelled. In this rain, Bobby could have easily left the mail in the box at the curb. Instead, like a gentleman, he’d dropped it in the chute Mom had installed when Dad could no longer walk.

I opened the top letter.

Internal Revenue Service

Small Business and Self-Employed

Dear Maeva Larson:

Your federal income t
ax return for the year 2004 has been selected for examination...

I held my breath and reread the letter, thinking the IRS made a mistake. Then, I remembered what Adam once said, “You need to hire someone other than ‘deaf as a stumpkin Lumpkin’ to do your taxes.”

I knew I couldn’t rest until I checked the returns my eighty-year-old accountant Lawrence Lumpkin prepared against my own records. Mr. Lumpkin had been doing my family’s taxes since I could remember, and I trusted him.

I remembered I’d stored most of my receipts in the attic, but not the 2004 information, a tough year after Adam’s death. I’d left those inside the Silverado after writing everything down for Mr. Lumpkin and sending him my mileage log. I was on the road more than I was at home, and I thought it made sense to take the receipts with me. Good thing, I hadn’t given everything to Mr. Lumpkin. His home office burned to the ground last year. Soon after the fire, his son and daughter placed him in a retirement home.

It took me a while to wrap my mind around going through all those receipts. First I decided to do an Internet search to see if Tara Baxter’s death had any similarities to others in the Florida Panhandle. Adam had told me about a website that featured missing persons and mysterious deaths, and I decided to check it out. I needed to relieve my doubts and make sure Tara’s death didn’t involve foul play. The thought she might have been murdered had plagued me ever since I discovered her body. Call it intuition.

In surfing the web, I found what I suspected, but hated to see: two women from the Panhandle had mysteriously disappeared in the last few months.

Chapter Eight

Paradise Isle, The Pink Palace

R
oxanne Trawler adjusted the showerhead and grabbed the Mane shampoo. The same brand she’d used on her beloved Beagle, Mesha, who died last year. Everyone teased Roxanne about the Mane. In fact, Tara had teased Roxanne about the shampoo the day they’d driven down to Dolphin for that tragic Fourth of July weekend. “You’re silly, shampooing with dog and pony stuff,” Tara had said.

Roxanne lathered her hair and reflected on the ill-fated trip to Paradise Isle. She drove her Porsche. They listened to Fleetwood Mac—a gift from Tara’s mother—on the CD player. They stopped several times along the way, because
Tara said she had to “pee.” Then made one final stop at the Dolphin Super Wal-Mart where they bought groceries.

“Beautiful day,” Tara had said. “A cloudless sky the color of your eyes.”

The trip turned sour when Roxanne confronted Tara about her drinking. “Too early to start bending your elbow, isn’t it?”

Tara feigned surprise. “What are you talking about? “That flask you carry in your purse, your frequent trips to the Ladies Room. And I can smell it on you.”

“Oh, come on, Rox, don’t spoil everything. Drinking is what people do on vacation.”

“Your daddy drank himself to death, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to allow you do the same thing. You have a great future. Don’t screw it up.”

“What great future?”

“Your dancing. And the Miss America Pageant, to name two.”

“Rox, you need to start paying more attention to your own life instead of trying to control mine. In case you haven’t noticed, Mason is as horny as the day is long. You need to give him some poontang before it’s too late, Ice Princess.”

Tara’s cheap shot hurt worse than a torn cartilage. “Ice Princess” indeed, Roxanne had worn every sexy frock Victoria’s Secret sold to keep Mason from coming home late and falling asleep in front of the television. “Did Mason tell you that, Tara?”

“Pretty much.”

Roxanne’s face burned with anger. “First of all, Mason is the one rejecting me these days, and second, I’m disgusted to know my husband told my cousin—and best friend—he’s
not getting any sex from me.” Roxanne slammed her foot on the brake to keep from hitting the car in front of her. “Kindly explain when and how often you and Mason have discussed our sex life.”

Tara’s tears streaked her cheeks. “I guess I do drink too much and say things I shouldn’t.” She touched Roxanne shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

Roxanne brushed Tara’s hand away. “Answer my question.”

Tara sobbed, “We didn’t. I lied.”

Roxanne scraped the fender of her Porsche while barreling into the garage.

Tara jumped out of the car, slammed the door shut, stormed into the house and grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels from the bar. “I’m going for a walk.”

Roxanne spent the rest of the day on her third-floor deck, watching the ocean and fighting back tears with a gigantic lump in her stomach. At dusk she’d spotted Tara talking to a man too far off to recognize.

Roxanne wished now she’d gone down there after Tara, but at that time, she was still fuming over their argument. If Tara wanted to get drunk and be a slut with every man she picked up, then fine, Roxanne remembered thinking. But when Tara didn’t come back that night or the next morning, Roxanne had walked out on the beach calling her name. Later she’d called police to report Tara was missing and told them about the man she’d seen Tara talking to, although she didn’t really have a good description of him. The police officer seemed unconcerned. “Too early to file a missing persons’ report,” he’d said.

The pounding rain and whistling wind outside brought Roxanne back to the moment. Her painful memories, along with the hot shower, made her feel weak and disoriented.

She plopped down on the Falorni Marni toilet and stared aimlessly at the stack of magazines on the shelf in front of her. A House Beautiful Magazine sat on top of the pile of Mason’s law journals. He was so proud of the two-page spread featuring the Pink Palace he’d given the magazine top billing over his precious law journals. He’d even underlined “A sanctuary of art with a feeling of early Rome, the master bathroom commands the second floor.”

“I prefer a smaller space, less like a Roman temple,” Roxanne had told him, but he ignored her.

The landline rang and she knew, without picking up the phone, it was Mason. Why not ignore him? He’d ignored her.

Roxanne searched through her CDs and selected Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake. She bowed deeply to her imaginary audience and transformed herself into a dying swan queen. Her bathroom archway became the backstage entrance.