It’s my personal theory that if enough money is involved, certain Bahamian authorities can be convinced that the Gulf Stream flows from north to south and the sun rises in the west.
‘Pirates?’ I said. What bullshit, I thought. Pirates, drug-runners, desperate Haitians, teenagers partying late who need a ride home . . . they’d steal a go-fast or a cabin cruiser, or even a peppy little runabout before they’d saddle themselves with a sailboat that could make only seven knots per hour even with a twenty-five knot wind pushing on its sails.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he nodded sagely.
Wilbur opened the clip on his clipboard, released a sheet of paper and handed it to me. ‘There’s going to be an inquest on September 10 at the courtroom in Marsh Harbour. This is a summons requesting that you appear.’
I must have looked worried because he added, ‘Don’t worry. You’ll just tell the coroner and the jury what you told me today. There’ll be other witnesses, too. Then the jury will bring in a verdict.’ He stood, rearranged his papers under the clip, and extended his hand for me to shake.
‘But what about the storm? I hear there’s a big one coming.’
‘We cross that bridge when we come to it, ma’am. If the inquest is cancelled, we’ll be sure to let you know.’
‘Can you tell me how the Parkers died?’ I asked even though I already knew the answer.
‘No ma’am. Sorry. That’s for the pathologists to say.’ He checked his clipboard again. ‘Which dock belongs to a Mrs Molly Weston?’
I pointed to the path through the bushes. ‘You can leave your boat tied up here, Sergeant Wilbur. Her house is just through the trees.’
When the last blue speck of Wilbur’s uniform disappeared into the foliage, I powered up my laptop and Googled the police website. Little seemed to have been updated since 2006. Many of the links were ‘under construction,’ amateur clip art warred with text blocks sometimes overwriting them, and a click on ‘Abaco’ produced a 404 file not found error. I suspected that the link to ‘Police Most Wanted’ would return mug shots of thugs who had long ago escaped the short arm of the law, but decided not to test my theory.
I knew ten-year-olds who could build better websites. Didn’t do much to inspire confidence in the Royal Bahamian Police Force.
When I heard the rrrhumm of Wilbur’s departing Whaler, I popped next door.
I had to laugh. Molly had received Officer Wilbur wearing a 1950s-style cotton house dress and fuzzy-pink bunny slippers. Her hair stood out in erratic spikes like a victim of The Mad Mousser.
‘You get a summons, Molly?’ I asked.
‘Same as you.’
‘Did you hear we’ve got a tropical storm coming?’
‘Oh yes,’ she said wearily, pointing to her television where CNN was tracking the storm. ‘Believe it when I see it.’
‘I was thinking of evacuating, especially since Paul’s back in Maryland. But with this summons, I’m kind of stuck.’
‘I’m not leaving,’ she said. ‘This old place has survived every hurricane for the past fifty years, and that includes some humdingers like Floyd, Frances and Jeanne. The biggest danger is storm surge, and we’re high enough above sea level never to be bothered by that.’ Her eyes widened. ‘Tell me you’re not really leaving, Hannah?’
I paused to consider her question. Paul would have a fit and fall in it if I stayed. But he’d be worrying unnecessarily. I’d been through hurricanes before. Eloise, Floyd, even Isabel scored direct hits on Annapolis, but other than a foot of water in the basement, a few lost shingles and a twisted gutter, we’d lived to tell the tale. As long as I could hold out inside a sturdy, well-built house, I wasn’t particularly concerned. Windswept, like Southern Exposure, had been built by shipbuilders, men who knew how to confront, exploit and tame both wind and sea. We’d be just fine.
But I didn’t fancy riding out the storm alone, so I smiled at my friend and said, ‘Not if you aren’t.’
NINETEEN
TROPICAL AND GLOBAL FORECAST MODELS ARE IN GOOD AGREEMENT ON NEWLY FORMED TROPICAL STORM HELEN’S MOVEMENT. SHE’LL LIKELY APPROACH THE BAHAMAS, PROBABLY THE ABACOS FRIDAY SEPT 5. INTENSITY MODELS SUGGEST HELEN WILL BE A POTENT CATEGORY 2 OR 3 HURRICANE WITH WIND 80 KNOTS TO 100 KNOTS.
Chris Parker, Wx Update, Bahamas, Tue 2, 10a
Paul called on my iPhone, fully expecting that I’d have closed down the house by then, and be well on my way home. In Ft Lauderdale, perhaps, or West Palm. ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m standing in the Pink Store, buying supplies.’
‘I thought you were coming home!’
‘It’s a tropical storm, Paul, not a hurricane.’
‘I beg to differ. It’s a hurricane, Hannah. CNN just said so. And I want you to come home. Now.’
Milk and bread had long since disappeared from the Pink Store’s shelves, as well as toilet paper. As I tried to calm my husband down, I pushed the cart around the narrow aisles, dropping in napkins as a substitute for toilet paper, a package of Fig Newtons, a box of Ritz crackers and two jars of Skippy Super Chunk peanut butter.
‘I can’t, Paul. I’ve been summoned to the inquest in Marsh Harbour next week. If I don’t show up, they can arrest me.’ I glommed on to the last package of McVitie’s Hobnobs and tucked them into my basket, along with a four-ounce jar of instant coffee, although I really hated the stuff. ‘I don’t think I want to spend time in a Bahamian prison.’
‘I can make some phone calls.’
‘Please don’t muddy the water, Paul. As far as I know, they plan to go on with the inquest as scheduled. If the Bahamians aren’t too concerned about the weather, you shouldn’t be either.’
‘I don’t like what I see on CNN. They say Helen’s heading directly for the Abacos.’
‘Hurricanes can be very unpredictable. Look what happened with Jeanne.’ Molly had mentioned to us earlier that Jeanne had meandered around the Caribbean for ten days before steaming out into the empty Atlantic. Then she surprised everyone by making a two hundred and seventy degree turn and heading back toward land. Just like a woman. Unpredictable.
On the other end of the line Paul snorted. ‘May I remind you that Jeanne devastated the Abacos.’
‘Bad example,’ I said, picking up an apple and checking it for brown spots.
‘You must always assume a storm is going to turn in your direction and act accordingly, Hannah.’
‘That’s why the house is battened down and I’m in the Pink Store, buying groceries.’
By the time I reached Winnie and the checkout counter, I had promised Paul that if it looked like the hurricane was going to be a doozey, I’d hie myself to the airport and nip out of there, pronto.
Over the next two days, resorts emptied. An unbroken procession of golf carts, ferries and taxis transported grumbling guests and their belongings to the airport where they waited in long lines – sitting on their bags, sleeping at uncomfortable angles on plastic chairs – for the privilege of being packed into tiny planes and flown to safety on the mainland.
Safety. I had to smile. When Hurricane Helen finished with Abaco, she’d no doubt head straight for Florida, then where’d they be?
Rudolph Mueller joined the stream of evacuees, too, flying himself back to San Antonio where his young family awaited. He left his son, Jaime, in charge. Jaime, who nobody’d laid eyes on for weeks. Maybe he’d evacuated, too, and just forgot to tell anyone.
Cabin cruisers, motor yachts and fishing boats headed west in flotillas. Mega-yachts, too, just as quickly as crews could be flown in to drive them back to their owners in Jupiter, Palm Beach or Miami.
Meanwhile, cruising yachtsmen were jockeying for secure moorings in Hope Town, Man-O-War and Hawksbill Cay, all popular hurricane holes, or deciding to risk a mooring in Marsh Harbour or a tie-up at one of the marinas.
By the time it was certain that Helen would make landfall in the Abacos, the Parker inquest had been cancelled, Radio Abaco shut down all programming except for storm warnings an
d evacuation notices, and it was too late for me to leave the islands.
I got my ditch kit together: passport, money, prescription meds, my wallet containing my Blue Cross/Blue Shield card – and put it all in a wheely duffle along with enough drinking water and clothing for three days. I packed canned goods and unperishables in a canvas tote, and added a can opener. Manual. I found some long-life milk only two months past its sell-by date, so I chucked that into the bag, too. My sleeping bag topped everything off.
Over the last of Molly’s chicken and a casserole of green beans, Molly and I discussed what to do. There were no designated shelters on tiny Bonefish Cay. Two women riding out a hurricane alone on an otherwise deserted cay didn’t seem like a good idea to me, even if we were both able-bodied gals described by everyone who knew us as ‘spunky.’
Our designated shelter was the Hawksbill Cay All-Age School, but Molly taught poetry there from time to time, and wasn’t convinced it’d be any safer than staying at home on Bonefish. ‘Trust me when I tell you, Hannah, I’d rather ride out the storm in Pro Bono than in the Hawksbill All-Age School.’
An alternative was the St Frances de Sales Catholic Church in Marsh Harbour, but we didn’t know anybody there.
Then on the Cruisers’ Net that morning, a welcome announcement. Jaime Mueller (who claimed he never listened!) called in on open mike to say that the Tamarind Tree Resort and Marina could be used as an evacuation center.
‘He just wants to curry favor with the locals,’ Molly grumbled.
‘Curry away,’ I said, delighted. ‘Any port in a storm.’
‘Not quite any. My late husband was a builder,’ Molly told me. ‘Let’s check the Tamarind Tree out.’
‘What I really want to check out, is that shack in Kelchner’s Cove. Since we’ll have free access to the grounds, do you think . . . ?’
‘Snap out of it, Hannah! Hurricane? Remember?’
‘There’s a party pooper in every crowd.’
Twenty minutes later, it seemed odd to find the turnstile up and the gate to the exclusive resort unattended. When we found him, Lou, the gate attendant, was dragging pool furniture into the fitness center with the help of another staffer. Sitting on an empty planter ten feet away, watching, was Alice Madonna Robinson Mueller.
‘Hello, Alice,’ I said.
Her tears had dried, but they’d left tracks of blue-black mascara down her cheeks. I was going to ask her what was wrong when she said, ‘Oh, hi, Hannah. Who’s your friend?’
‘This is Molly Weston. She lives over on Bonefish Cay, too. We’re hoping to ride out the hurricane with you.’
‘Oh, goody! It’ll be nice to have a friend staying here.’
‘Looks like you’ve been crying. What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing, really. It’s just that Jaime can be such a stinker! I wanted to go home, begged him, but he said if he had to stay, I had to stay.’ She folded her arms across her bosom. ‘And now it’s too late.’
‘Well, if it’s any consolation, Alice, I’m stuck here, too. My husband’s back in Maryland, totally pissed off that I didn’t make it out in time.’
Alice hopped off the planter, seemingly cheered by this news. ‘Jaime says this place was built to withstand winds up to one hundred and eighty miles an hour. Can you imagine? I’ve already got my space picked out. Come and see.’ Like a camp counselor on a field trip, she led us into the dining room where I’d last eaten lunch after my talk with Gabriele, down a narrow corridor and into an elegant, mahogany-paneled club room decorated in British Colonial style, more reminiscent of the Raj than the West Indies. Small items that could easily become projectiles – silverware, glassware, vases – had been stored away, leaving only tables and chairs. Ceiling fans circled slowly overhead.
‘I’m behind the bar,’ Alice said. She pointed out her mattress, pillows and blanket; a pile of Vogue and People magazines; and something that made me want to take her in my arms and whisper there-there into her hair – a teddy bear so well loved he was nearly hairless.
‘What a lovely little nest you’ve made for yourself, Alice,’ said Molly.
‘I couldn’t bring everything, of course.’ She started to tear up again.
I picked up her hand, squeezed and held on to it. ‘We’re going back home to pick up our things now, but after we return and get settled in, let’s sit down and have a nice chat. Okay?’
Alice managed to dredge up a smile from somewhere and plant it on her face. ‘I’d like that a lot, Hannah.’
‘What a sad little creature,’ Molly said after Alice had scampered off to retrieve something else she’d forgotten from her cottage on the point. We were wandering around the club room, casing the joint. ‘Poured concrete floors,’ Molly said, testing the carpet with her toes. She laid a hand flat on the wall. ‘Solid concrete construction here, too.’ She leaned back, checking out the ceiling. ‘Reinforced trusses, two-by-six and not two-by-four, that’s good.’ She pointed. ‘And they’re nicely camouflaged, but can you see where they used hurricane straps to tie the roof to the walls? That should prevent lift-off!’
Even I could see that except for the picture window overlooking the pool, all the windows had been constructed, Bahamian-style, out of wood and high-quality plexiglass. They became their own hurricane shutters when lowered and dogged tightly down. ‘And another plus?’ Molly added. ‘The doors open out, and not in.’
As we strolled back toward the main gate, Molly pointed out that in a town where trees, telephone poles, boats, golf carts, air conditioners and even other buildings could rise up and fall down on you, the Tamarind Tree had an advantage. It sat practically alone.
It was a no-brainer.
On the way back to Bonefish Cay, we stopped at Hawksbill Hardware – ‘If we don’t have it, you don’t need it’ – and bought spare batteries for my flashlight and the last two cans of Sterno.
‘What’s CNN saying?’ I asked Molly on the VHF radio a bit later.
‘It’s coming, it’s bad, and it’s tomorrow. Over.’
‘I’ll come and help you, then we can secure Windswept. Over and out.’
When it was Windswept’s turn, everything that was outside had to come in. A flying coconut can do damage enough – I’d heard of people being killed by them – but a flying barbecue grill?
I disconnected the gutters from the cistern to prevent wind-driven waves of salt water from sweeping over the roof and contaminating our drinking water. With Molly’s help, I lowered all the windows and dogged them down tight while she hooked them to the window frames on the inside. I flipped all the breakers and turned off the power. And I hauled down the flag.
Molly went to fetch her ditch kit, but I had one last task to do.
Pets weren’t allowed in shelters, I’d heard, and I wanted to say goodbye.
The last time I’d seen Dickie had been that morning. I’d been sitting on the back steps doing kitty shiatsu along his spine, when he suddenly stiffened. The fur on his tail puffed out as if it’d been stuck into an electric socket, then he leapt from my arms and streaked off into the bushes, a coonskin cap on four legs.
‘Dickie!’ I called now, hoping he’d come back. ‘Here Dickie, Dickie, Dickie!’
I’m not sure why I was bothering to call as I’d never known the skittish animal to answer to his name. I filled a bowl with kibble and wandered around the back yard, rattling as I went. ‘Dickie!’ But he failed to appear.
I followed the path that led from my house to Molly’s and back again, rattling and calling, but the silly cat was AWOL. Still holding the bowl, I sat down on the steps and began to cry. ‘Damn you, cat,’ I sniffled. ‘Please come out!’
Did Dickie know a hurricane was coming? Did some electrical charge in the air tip him off? Was he off in some hurricane hole of his own?
Swiping at my eyes, I clumped back into the house and rummaged around in the cupboards until I found a couple of mixing bowls. I filled one with kibble and the other with water and crammed them in the crawl sp
ace under the house where Dickie liked to hide. He’d survived more than one hurricane, and I hoped he’d survive this one, too.
Finally, I locked up.
As I clicked the great big padlock in place on the front door of our home away from home, I felt an overwhelming sadness. I was abandoning this friendly house to the mercy of the wind, and I wondered if I’d ever see it again.
With tears still in my eyes, I plodded down to the end of the dock to wait for Molly.
Looking out over the water, I began to worry. It was still sunny, but the Sea of Abaco was kicking up; the wind blew whitecaps off the tops of the waves like heads of foam off beer. We’d left it too long.
‘Here, put this on,’ I said, handing Molly a life jacket. While she strapped herself in, I put one on, too. Michelin Man and the Pillsbury Doughboy, we bumbled down the dock and scrambled aboard Pro Bono. As an extra precaution, we threaded lines through our life jackets and tied ourselves to cleats just in case Pro Bono decided to throw us.
‘Hold on!’ I shouted, pulling back on the throttle.
‘Wheee!’ Molly hollered. ‘Hi ho, Silver!’
Pro Bono roared out of its slip, reared up and took the reins in its teeth, thrump-thrump-thrumping over the tops of the waves, getting us to Hawksbill Cay in one piece, but leaving us feeling bruised and battered.
Once inside the harbor, the wind abated. Gator had suggested I tie the boat in a thicket of mangrove near the island’s dump, so after dropping Molly off on the dock with all our gear, I headed for the dump. I aimed Pro Bono into the mangroves, revved up the engine and rammed her in, head first, as far as she would go. Then I tied her off to the thickest branches with every rope I’d been able to find.
When I finished, Pro Bono looked like something out of a bondage fantasy. To be on the safe side, though, I dropped an anchor off the stern and tied it on tight. Just as I was finishing up, Gator came alongside in his dinghy and ferried me back to the government dock.
When we got back, Molly had already loaded our gear on to the back seat of Gator’s golf cart. She perched on top of the pile, flexing her muscles like Superwoman and singing into the stiffening breeze, I am strong, I am invincible, I am woman!
Without a Grave Page 20
