Without a Grave (19 page)

We were still downwind from the store when I stopped, breathing deeply. ‘Ohmahgawd, do you smell that?'

Molly grinned. ‘Coconut bread, I think.'

‘I hope we haven't missed the key lime pie.'

We followed our noses to Vernon's bakery, the Upper Crust, which was tacked to the side of his grocery almost like an afterthought. The door to the bakery stood open so we stuck our heads in, inhaling appreciatively. Key lime pies topped with mountains of golden-peaked meringue sat out on the table. Coconut pies, fresh from the oven, cooled on the windowsill.

I pressed my hand to my chest. ‘I think I'm hallucinating.'

The door to the grocery was behind us. Molly grabbed my hand and pulled me through it. ‘Quick, before you OD.'

Just inside, Vernon himself was ringing up a purchase on an elderly cash register. He glared at us over the tops of his eyeglasses. ‘In door's over there. That's the out.'

Since we were already inside the store, it seemed silly to leave, but I figured Vernon himself would stare us down forever until we did it his way. ‘Sorry.' I bowed my head and backed out the way I'd come.

Giggling, Molly and I scuttled around the bag ice machine, past a stack of boxes and empty water jugs and pulled open a front door that reflected our bemused faces back at us, like a mirror.

Vernon, a wiry man somewhere in his mid-sixties, was bagging groceries for another customer. ‘Afternoon, ladies.'

All was right with the world now that we'd mended our ways.

A sign hung at eye-level caught my eye as we entered the store:
If you're looking for Wal-Mart, it's 200 miles to the right.

More witticisms hand-written on pages torn from legal pads, four-by-five index cards, and even computer printouts labeled ‘Off the wall . . . at Vernon's,' kept us chuckling as we poked along the narrow aisles making our selections. Mr Vernon stocked more than groceries, apparently. He also stocked a wry sense of humor.

The weather is here. Wish you were beautiful!
as I reached for the M&Ms on the candy and mixed-nuts rack.

Dyslexics, Untie!
under the Hearth Club Custard Powder and next to a lone box of star anise.

If you're smoking in here, you'd better be on fire
over the cash register as Vernon totted up our purchases. I reintroduced myself and said, ‘Are you going to the Save Hawksbill Cay meeting tonight?'

‘Yup.'

The answer didn't surprise me. Grocer, baker, Justice of the Peace, lay preacher – Vernon Malone was deeply involved in the life of his community. It was probably genetic. From Wyannie Malone it was passed down the generations to Vernon, and from Vernon to his children. His daughter not only owned the liquor store, but coordinated weddings out of Da Finer Tings, and was a volunteer firefighter, too.

‘I'm just a second-home owner,' Molly added, ‘but I'm hoping I can make some small contribution.'

Vernon boxed our pies and eased them into plastic sacks. ‘Second-home owners are the bread and butter of this place, Ms Molly. Most of you've been breaking your butts for thirty years to afford to come here. We need to make sure the island stays worth coming to.'

Clearly, an ally. ‘Thanks, Vernon. See you tonight, then.'

The three of us decided on an early dinner at Cap'n Jack's, sitting on the deck overlooking Hope Town harbor where we munched on conch fritters washed down with Kalik. While Paul splurged on grilled grouper with macaroni and cheese – a spicy island version, light years away from Kraft in a box – Molly and I shared a Greek salad.

At five fifteen, we wandered up the road past the clinic and the post office to St James Methodist Church, a simple white, one-story structure built on a dune overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. The branches of a voluptuous cherry-red bougainvillea cascaded over the gate. We climbed the steps and went through the double doors into a cool sanctuary.

While Paul and Molly wandered off on errands of their own, I slipped into one of the dark wooden pews.

St Katherine's needs this view, I thought, feeling a twinge of homesickness, suddenly missing my friend, Pastor Eva, and her little Episcopal church in West Annapolis. With the exception of the altar hanging, the entire eastern wall of St James consisted of sliding glass doors that framed a spectacular view of the Atlantic Ocean. Who needs stained glass when you've got swaying palms, cottony clouds and the gently rolling sea? The sermons here could be boring as dirt, but the congregation would sit rapt. Guaranteed.

My eyes strayed to the cross, and as people began to fill the pews in front and behind me, I said a prayer for Frank and Sally Parker, wherever they might be.

I had gone in search of Paul, when Henry Allen barged through the swinging doors at the rear of the church struggling with a notebook, a pile of printouts, and a canvas bag containing an LCD projector and a laptop computer. Cables dangled from the mouth of the bag like a tangle of black and white spaghetti.

I met him halfway down the aisle, relieving him of the notebook and printouts. ‘I'm sorry we didn't get over to see your video, Henry, but with the wildfire on the preserve, things have been a little hectic.'

‘That's OK. I'm showing it tonight anyway.' He glanced around the sanctuary. ‘There's supposed to be a screen here, somewhere. Oh, there it is!'

‘Need help getting set up?'

‘That'd be great. Thanks.'

A table had been centered about halfway up the aisle, so I set Henry's LCD projector down on it while he went off in search of an extension cord. When everything was plugged in, we aimed the projector at the screen, hooked up his laptop and powered on all the equipment.

Henry watched the screen apprehensively, worry changing to relief when the familiar Windows icons finally appeared. He launched his PowerPoint program and soon the screen was filled with the title page of his presentation, ‘Hawksbill Cay Development: a Case Study of a Coastal Ecosystem' superimposed over a swirly blue background that I recognized as the ‘Calm Sea' theme.

‘Appropriate template,' I said.

Henry smiled. ‘It's the one I always use. Some of the other templates sound appropriate, like “Starfish,” but they make my eyes hurt.'

Henry clicked through the first few slides of his presentation, grunted in approval, then clicked back to his title page which included the URL for his website. I was reminded that I'd forgotten to ask him about the imposter website that linked to teen porn.

When I mentioned it, he scowled darkly. ‘Know who did it, but can't prove it. Got an attorney trying to get the Internet provider to pull the plug, but nobody's breaking any laws. Should have registered all variations of that domain name ourselves, of course, but . . .' He shrugged. ‘Frustrating.'

‘Who do you think is responsible?'

Henry's eyebrows shot up in surprise. ‘Mueller, of course, or that free-loading son of his.' He picked up the packet of handouts I'd set aside at the end of a pew and held them out to me. ‘Can't think about it too much or it makes me crazy. Would you mind passing these out for me?'

I saw that the handout was a PowerPoint summary of his presentation, nine slides per page. In my experience with the corporate world it was best to save the handouts until after your talk, otherwise you'd be distracted by rattling pages all the while you were speaking, but this was Henry's show, not mine, so I said, ‘Sure,' and went to look for Molly.

I found her at the refreshments table near the entrance to the sanctuary arranging sugar cookies on paper plates. An orange and white Thermos the size of a barrel sat at one end of the table, surrounded by stacks of paper cups. ‘What's in the Thermos?' I asked.

‘Ice water. Want some?'

‘Maybe later. I've got these handouts. Want to help?'

Molly worked the right side of the aisle and I the left, the job taking longer than anticipated because we had to greet and chat with everyone along the way. I handed one to Gator Crockett personally. He had spruced up for the occasion, digging deep into his closet for olive-green Dockers and a pale-yellow polo shirt. ‘Hey, Gator. I nearly didn't recognize you without your hat.'

‘Wouldn't miss this meeting for all the world.' He accepted the printout and scanned the top sheet quickly. ‘It's a pity Frank Parker can't be here. He didn't turn up, did he?'

‘No,' I said simply.

‘Is anybody filling in?'

‘Not that I know of.'

I met other people I recognized from the settlement, including Winnie looking extraordinarily pretty in pink, and her husband, Ted. The postmistress, a well-rounded woman of sturdy island stock, sat in the front row clutching an oversized tote bag to her bosom. From the way she stared straight ahead and scowled at the pulpit, I thought she might be carrying rotten tomatoes, in case the discussion turned ugly.

Troy Albury, freshly shaved and with his mustache neatly trimmed, hurried in, glanced around, then sat down next to Pattie Toler. The two had their heads together, talking earnestly. A few minutes later, Vernon Malone slipped into the end of the pew.

I didn't see any Muellers until five minutes before show time when Gabriele wafted in, smiling and looking confident, dressed for success in a yellow and white sundress and high-heeled sandals. Her dark hair hung loose; tendrils caressing her collarbone. Without stopping to talk to anyone, she made a beeline for Henry Allen who stood behind the pulpit, arranging his papers. She extended her hand. ‘My father sends his regrets, Mr Allen, but he's tied up in San Antonio.'

Swivel, turn, a dazzling smile for me. ‘One of the twins has appendicitis, Mrs Ives. I'm sure you understand.'

Step, turn, a hair flip for Henry. ‘But I'm here to represent the family, and I'll be happy to address any of your concerns.'

‘Is your brother here?' I asked. I was impervious to hair flips.

‘No. Just me.'

That was a relief. I watched as she coasted back down the aisle, taking a seat in the rear.

Henry, too, seemed relieved at the news that his meeting would proceed Jaime-less. He stood taller, straighter. Cool eyes appraising the audience. Acknowledging individuals with a nod, or a wave.

Paul had been saving a place for me, so I eased myself into the second row between him and Molly.

‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,' Henry began. ‘Most of you know me. I'm Henry Allen, warden at Out Island Land and Sea Park. As you know, ever since we learned of El Mirador Land Corporation's purchase of the old Island Fantasy property, we've been concerned about the impact their planned development will have on our island, our reef and our livelihoods.'

Henry aimed a remote at the laptop and clicked over to his first slide, a picture of two men climbing into an airplane, a bright-yellow, two-seater Savage Cub. ‘First, I want to show you how Hawksbill Cay looked two years ago, prior to the commencement of construction.'

I wasn't surprised by the slides, which had been taken about the same time as the aerial photographs Paul and I had seen at the art show in Marsh Harbour. As Henry paged through the slides, Hawksbill's small settlement stood out clearly over the wing of the airplane: a simple grid of narrow streets beaded with cottages, its marina and shipyard piers delicately fringing the water, with a scattering of pleasure boats moored like sequins in the harbor.

The northwestern end of the island stood out in jewel-like perfection, too, like a brooch of emerald green, trimmed with a brilliant strip of sand, all set in the translucent turquoise of the sea.

‘Before,' Henry said simply. He aimed his remote and pressed the button. ‘Now we come to the “After.”'

As one slide transitioned to the next, there was a collective gasp as the audience gradually came to realize what they were seeing. I was prepared for the gash of the runway, of course; I'd seen it from
Windswept
. But the extent of the damage that construction had brought to the interior of Hawksbill Cay was astonishing.

From the raw end of the runway a long tongue of silt curled into the sea. ‘Where are the silt containment curtains we were assured would be used during all phases of construction?' Henry asked. ‘Only in the El Mirador brochures, apparently.'

The next slide was even more alarming. The mangroves that had formerly grown thick along Tom's Creek had been bulldozed and burned, the gently curving shoreline turned into mud flats, desolate as a moonscape. To one side of the photo a backhoe crouched, its bucket resting on the ground, looking almost apologetic for the damage it had caused.

‘I come from Kentucky,' someone in the audience behind me shouted. ‘Our strip mines look better than that!'

Henry acknowledged the interruption with a nod, then clicked to the next slide. ‘This is where the condos are going to be built,' he continued.

I realized I was staring at an aerial shot of what had once been a hillside leading down to a pristine creek. El Mirador's hungry backhoes had scraped the earth bare, literally wounding the island, leaving ugly brown scabs. ‘This is not hard land,' Henry continued, highlighting the hillside area with a wavering beam of a red laser pointer. ‘It is porous limestone directly connected to the wetlands. Destruction of our mangrove and sea grass nurseries will have a hugely negative impact on the reef communities that support our local populations of commercially important fish as well as our lobster and conch.'

‘I suppose this is what El Mirador meant when they advertised that all the bungalows will be nestled within a lovely mangrove forest,' Molly grumbled.

Gabriele was on her feet. ‘Naturally we have to clear land if we are going to build houses,' she said as she glided toward the front of the sanctuary, addressing the audience to the right and to the left of her as she made her way up the aisle. ‘But the impact on the ecosystem has been shown to be minimal. Our environmental impact statement is already on record and has been approved by BEST. As you may recall, we hired an independent researcher led by Adam Hardin, a top marine scientist.'