Without a Grave

by Marcia Talley

  ‘If you can find the owners,’ I added grimly.

  I hung on to the canopy to keep from being dumped into the casuarinas when Gator made a hard right. He center-lined the wheel and turned his head to look at me. ‘I know the bastard stole that boat, but what I can’t figure out is why. He’s got more money than God. Or at least his Papa has.’

  ‘Guys like Jaime learn early on that rules apply only to other people,’ I said. I thought about the special treatment recruited athletes get, even at the Naval Academy where sports weren’t supposed to be as big a deal as they were in the Big Ten. Cocky jocks whose performance on the field was so important to mankind that it couldn’t be interrupted by anything so mundane as class work or exams. Or, if one really got into trouble, jail time. ‘Maybe Papa keeps his little boy on a short leash,’ I added.

  Suddenly, the wheels on my side of the cart wobbled off the pavement and dipped into the sand. I made a grab for the wheel, shouting, ‘Eyes on the road!’

  Seconds before we might have gone crashing ignominiously into a poisonwood tree, Gator regained control.

  When we were safely on the road again, I said, ‘Wanderer might have been abandoned for some reason I don’t even want to contemplate, but barring some dramatic shift in the tectonic plates of the time-space continuum, there’s no way in hell she was all the way down in Eleuthera, not if that cruiser who reported seeing her up in Great Sale a few days ago was right.’

  ‘Bermuda Triangle?’ Gator snorted at his own joke and gunned the accelerator.

  Back in Hawksbill settlement, Gator eased his golf cart into a vacant parking spot near the Pink Grocery and walked back with me to the dock where I’d tied Pro Bono. As I climbed down the ladder and jumped into my boat, he said, ‘I’ll contact the Marsh Harbour police and make sure they know that the Wanderer’s been found.’

  ‘Thanks, Gator.’

  He untied the painter and after I’d started the motor, dropped the rope down to me. ‘Meanwhile, see if you can rustle up anyone on the Net who actually saw Wanderer with the Parkers aboard between Great Sale and here.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘And, Hannah?’

  I looked up, way up, into Gator’s worried, suntanned face. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Remember what I told you. This is the Bahamas, not Maryland USA. Leave it to the locals. Don’t get involved.’

  I pushed Pro Bono away from the piling and pointed her out into the harbor. ‘I’ll try, Gator,’ I shouted to his diminishing figure. ‘It’s not in my nature, but I’ll honestly try.’

  THIRTEEN

  I’N’I BUILD A CABIN, I’N’I PLANT THE CORN;

  DIDN’T MY PEOPLE BEFORE ME SLAVE FOR THIS COUNTRY?

  NOW YOU LOOK ME WITH THAT SCORN, THEN YOU EAT UP ALL MY CORN.

  WE GONNA CHASE THOSE CRAZY, CHASE THEM CRAZY,

  CHASE THOSE CRAZY BALDHEADS OUT OF TOWN!

  Bob Marley, Crazy Baldheads

  The next morning on open mike, I asked listeners if anyone had seen Wanderer. My question was met with depressing silence.

  The next day it was much the same. Breaking Wind called in to report seeing a vessel named Wanderer anchored in Black Sound up Green Turtle Cay way, but it turned out to be a Hunter, not a Reliant.

  On Friday, my last official day as moderator of the Net, my open mike call was returned by an Ericson 38 just returning to radio range after a cruise to Allen’s Pensacola, an uninhabited island to the north and west of us.

  ‘Windswept, Windswept, this is Northern Star.’

  ‘Come in, Northern Star.’

  ‘You’re looking for a boat called Wanderer? A Reliant for- . . . ?’

  I was so excited that I stepped on his transmission, depressing the talk button before he had finished. ‘That sounds like the boat, Captain. Over.’

  ‘About ten days ago, Wanderer was anchored in Poinciana Cove behind Hawksbill Cay. My wife and I dinghied over to invite the owners for cocktails.’

  ‘Frank and Sally Parker?’

  ‘Roger. They joined us on Northern Star, stayed for dinner. Frank told me about the work he was doing on behalf of Save Hawksbill Cay. Said he was going to do a couple of night dives. You can’t get a full picture of the health of a reef unless you can see it at night. What fish are out. What they’re eating. Yada yada.’

  ‘Anyone else in the cove with you?’

  ‘Nope. Just the two boats. Even for hurricane season, it was pretty empty.’

  ‘When did they leave?’ I asked with growing dread.

  ‘They were still there the next morning when we weighed anchor. I don’t think they had any intention of leaving. Frank told me he was planning to testify at a meeting over in Hope . . .’

  ‘Sea Wolf, Sea Wolf, Sea Wolf. Come back to Happy Hooker.’

  Some fisherman with a more powerful radio and no sense of netiquette was overriding our signal. I waited for Happy Hooker to finish impressing Sea Wolf with the sixty-pound amberjack he’d wrestled aboard his Hatteras, then hailed Northern Star again.

  But, Northern Star couldn’t add anything to what he’d already told me. Frank and Sally had been anchored in Poinciana Cove off Hawksbill Cay at the end of July. By the beginning of August they had vanished. It was looking very bleak for my friends.

  Had Frank stumbled on something during his dive, something that Jaime Mueller, or someone else in the Mueller family wanted to keep secret?

  I thought about all the laws the government of the Bahamas had put in place to control fishing and boating as well as the construction industry, regulations that were sometimes just for show, that could be bypassed if the right amount of money reached the right bank account of the right government official at the right time.

  El Mirador Land Corporation had dotted all their I’s and crossed all their T’s. They’d been given a clean bill of health by the big shots in Nassau. As long as they didn’t deviate from their plans and permits, they would be untouchable.

  Was El Mirador up to something else, then?

  Something worth killing for?

  It was clear to everyone involved in the meeting that Frank M. Parker, BS, PhD, SERC Senior Scientist (Retired), cruising sailor, husband and friend, would not be testifying for Save Hawksbill Cay in Hope Town on Wednesday evening. Callers to the Net that morning had wondered if the meeting was still on. Henry Allen, Warden of the Abaco Land and Sea Park, representing himself as well as the Bahamas National Trust, assured everyone that it was. Five thirty. St James Methodist Church. Be there or be square.

  The day of the meeting dawned hot, humid and virtually windless, the only breeze ruffling our hair being generated by Pro Bono itself as Paul, Molly and I skimmed along the Sea of Abaco from Bonefish to Elbow Cay.

  By day, Hope Town’s signature candy-striped lighthouse served as a landmark, welcoming boaters in; by night, its beacon (which can be seen for seventeen miles) warned them away from a dangerous reef where eighteenth-century locals had supplemented their income by ‘wrecking.’ The village probably looked a lot then as it does today – a quaint, pastel-colored New England fishing village.

  Paul successfully negotiated the busy channel at the harbor’s narrow entrance, and managed to snag a prime ‘parking spot’ at the Hope Town dinghy dock well inside the snug, protected harbor.

  While Paul made Pro Bono secure, I rooted through my fanny pack. ‘Who has the shopping list?’

  ‘I do,’ he said. ‘First stop, Lighthouse Liquors. Seems we’ve been running through the Sauvignon Blanc at a fairly fast clip.’

  ‘Guilty,’ I said. I stole a glance at Molly. ‘Not making any excuses for the bottle I drank last night, practically single-handed, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.’

  Molly wrapped an arm around my waist, hugged me close. ‘I know you’re worried about the Parkers, sugar, but you shouldn’t let it get to you. Worrying yourself to death isn’t going to help anyone, least of all the Parkers.’

  Angry tears pricked my eyes. ‘If Jaime Mueller is at the meet
ing, you might have to hold me back, Molly.’

  ‘Come on.’ She looped her arm through mine as we turned left and walked ‘Down Along,’ one of only two principal streets on the island, both so narrow that not even golf carts were allowed to drive on them. Where ‘Down Along’ split we took the right fork and headed up the hill, carefully negotiating the cracks in the concrete. We left Paul at Lighthouse Liquors to restock our modest liquor cabinet as he saw fit, and continued on to Vernon’s Grocery, a concrete, practically windowless building on Back Street. Its owner, Vernon Malone – Mr Vernon to you – was an island institution. His seven-times great grandmother, Wyannie Malone, had founded Hope Town settlement in 1785.

  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, b
ut 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.’