Storm Warnings

by Judi Lind

  Storm leaned back in the chair and drummed the arm with his fingers. “And you’re sure you’ve told me all you recall about the night Jay Morrow died?”

  “Yes. Except for one tiny thing.”

  He sat back up, suddenly intense. “What?”

  “Nothing that would help establish Heather’s motive, because I didn’t remember it until after she…she died. When I saw her on the floor, I was struck with the similarity between the way she was lying and the way Jay looked on the sidewalk. Suddenly I knew, really knew, that I’d seen his body that night.”

  “Are you certain it was a true recollection and not just your imagination?”

  “I’m positive. I can see every tiny detail, even down to the fact that he’d…he’d lost one shoe in the fall.”

  Steepling his fingers beneath his chin, Storm continued to watch her face. “I see. It’s my belief that if one clear memory resurfaced, there’s a good chance you can regain complete recall. If you’d seen something suspicious that night, something to do with Heather, surely that would give her ample reason to act first.”

  Elisa tossed her head, dismissing his theory. “But Heather left quite a while before I went into Jay’s office. Besides, what could possibly explain her being involved in his death?”

  “I don’t know. But suppose for just a moment that Jay was already dead before you even arrived. You told me he was on the phone for a very long time before you decided to interrupt. How did you know he was still talking?”

  A cold chill swept through her body, a portent of even more horror to come. Storm had posed a suggestive and abhorrent premise. If Jay had died before Elisa’s arrival, Heather’s involvement was ensured. Licking her suddenly dry lips, she whispered, “The red light was blinking on Heather’s console. Both when I came into the reception area and when I barged into his private office.”

  “Yet Jay obviously wasn’t still talking on the second occasion.”

  “No, of course not.”

  He eased off the chair and knelt before her. “It all works out, ’Leese—Heather must have played some part in his death.”

  Elisa glared at him, refusing to believe his theory. “There’s no way she could have pitched him out the window! And no one else was there.”

  “How do you know?” he asked. “You don’t remember anything past opening the door. So how can you be so certain that you didn’t see anyone else that night?”

  She raised her hands and covered her face, as if she could prevent the appalling words from soaking into her mind. Clinging to her notion that Heather had been physically incapable of throwing a grown man out of a fourteenthstory window against his will, she whispered, “I just don’t remember.”

  STORM HATED reopening her painful wound, but with this clear sign that her recollections of that night might return at any moment, it was imperative that they ferret out the entire story.

  It was somewhat unusual that the disassociated fragments of memory would start to cohere after this long, but certainly not unheard-of. In his career, Storm had treated two similar cases. In both, the patients had suffered a more severe trauma to the brain than had first been diagnosed. After their brain swelling started to subside, previously unresponsive neurons had no longer been short-circuited, and the memories began to resurface.

  It was his opinion that Elisa’s injuries fell into the same category. With time, she should regain a complete awareness of that lost time.

  But as wise King Solomon had once said, “With increased knowledge, comes increased pain.” And she was sure to face a lot more emotional pain.

  There was one other aspect of this situation that he was sure she hadn’t yet considered. Obviously, Jay Morrow’s “suicide” had been engineered by Heather, but he had no illusions that the woman had been acting alone.

  Heather had been a slender woman, one hundred and ten pounds at the most. Surely she’d had an accomplice, a strong man to help hoist the securities broker’s limp body out the window. It would have been a simple matter to accomplish.

  Her boss wouldn’t have been the least suspicious if Heather entered his office and wandered behind his back for some reason. She could have smashed him in the back of his head, rendering him unconscious—if not dead. Then she would have signaled to her accomplice to toss her boss out the window. Accomplice leaves, and Heather tidies up. She’d probably put his personal line on hold so that she wouldn’t be interrupted by incoming calls.

  That highly visible flashing red light would also deter anyone from unexpectedly entering his office.

  She walks out, sees Elisa and points to the phone light. Then she skips out the door, leaving Elisa to bear the brunt of suspicion.

  Yes, it all made sense, if a second party had been involved. But who? More important, would Elisa’s returning memory also make her a threat to him?

  Even worse, this tight knot deep in his gut told Storm that the other murderer was on this island right now. Perhaps in this very hotel.

  Chapter Thirteen

  After a subdued breakfast from which Carey Howard was conspicuously absent, Elisa and Betty offered to help tote the emergency supplies and foodstuffs back up from the basement. Storm, Hank and David had a murmured conversation in the corner and drifted back toward the dining room. Elisa assumed they were going to finish pulling off the window coverings. She had to admit it would be wonderful to live in natural light again.

  With Miriam’s explicit directives to guide them, the women completed the tiring task by midmorning. They’d just settled at the table for a refreshing glass of iced teawith ice, since the generator had been humming for several hours—when Hank poked his gaunt neck through the doorway. “Hey, old woman. Come here a minute.”

  Miriam raised a meaty fist. “No, you listen, old man. You want to talk with me, you march your skinny behind in here.”

  He cast a sharp glance at the table and shook his head. “No, we need you out here.”

  Muttering under her breath, Miriam trailed behind him.

  Although she was baffled as to why Hank had summoned his wife, Elisa knew instinctively that it had to do with her. Tired of keeping her head stuck in the sand, she drained her glass and hurried to the door. She was fed up with being a mousy little victim. That certainly hadn’t been her style before the accident, and she’d liked the old Elisa better.

  It was time to start reclaiming control over her own life.

  Stalking into the dining room, she pursued the sound of Miriam’s obstreperous voice. She paused just before the archway leading to the hall.

  Miriam’s broad backside was blocking the doorway, as she gave someone, probably Hank, the benefit of her organizational skills. “There’s no way you’re going to get that down those narrow back stairs,” she insisted.

  “Then you empty out the kitchen, so’s we can lug it down the front way,” Hank complacently countered.

  Miriam’s silver curls bounced furiously as she shook her head. “I don’t like it. Hank, it doesn’t seem right. Unsanitary, if not downright disrespectful.”

  While Hank argued that respectability would have to wait, Storm stepped into the fray. Elisa could see the top of his burnished hair over Miriam’s. “You two can argue about this all day, but I guarantee that by tomorrow, Miriam, you’re going to be sorry you didn’t let us do it.”

  Overcome by curiosity, Elisa tapped the older woman on the shoulder. “Excuse me. Can I come through?”

  Miriam stepped aside, and an ominous silence greeted Elisa as she stepped through the doorway. Besides the three people she’d already recognized by their voices, David Welton was leaning against the banister.

  Forcing confidence into her stride, she sailed into the entry hall. The first difference she noted was that the protective plywood covering had been removed from the glass panels set into the front door. Beautiful, blessed sunlight spread its glory on the hardwood floor.

  Then she caught sight of the other change in the foyer and felt the color leach from her skin. Shro
uded in white cloth like an Egyptian mummy, Heather’s lifeless body was lying at her feet.

  The room began to sway, and she felt Storm’s hand reach out and grab her upper arm. “Steady, Princess. Why don’t you go back into the kitchen?”

  She jerked away. Anger rapidly replaced the brief moment of shock. “And why don’t you stop treating me like a mental patient, or an emotional cripple? I was startled, that’s all. Now what is it you were trying to do behind my back?”

  Having the grace to look embarrassed, Storm lowered his eyes. “We, uh, need to move the body to the basement. No one was trying to patronize or belittle you. Since you’d been through so much, we were trying not to upset you.”

  Elisa knew they meant well, and under other circumstances, she might have appreciated their tactfulness. But she was already “upset.” Only the passage of time would bring back her emotional equilibrium.

  “Thank you, but I’m…fine. So why are you taking the…uh, Heather to the basement.”

  Storm looked away and spoke to the carved wooden pineapple that adorned the newel post. “We need to get her into the walk-in cooler.”

  It finally sank in. “Oh” was all she could say. But she was embarrassed and ashamed. In her zeal to regain her independent spirit, she’d marched right over their well-meaning efforts to share her burden. Before the “accident,” she hadn’t been too proud to accept help when it was needed. Why was she so harsh and defensive now?

  Elisa nodded briefly, her cheeks flaming with shame. “What can you say when you just discovered you’re acting like a horse’s patoot—except ’I’m sorry’?”

  A chorus of chuckles at her weak joke zapped the tension from the atmosphere. Storm beamed like a proud father at the way she’d defused the situation. “Why don’t you wait in the parlor? This won’t take but a few minutes, then I’ve got a proposition for you.”

  Her hackles rose for a brief moment at being told where to wait, but she was too intrigued by his “proposition” to be truly miffed. “Sure.” Giving Heather’s inert form a last sorrowful glance, she headed for the parlor.

  Ten minutes later, she was placidly flipping pages in a year-old issue of Newsweek when Storm returned, swiping perspiration from his face with his forearm. “Hi, Princess”

  She tossed the magazine aside. “Hi yourself.”

  Grinning like a naughty boy, he crossed the room. “We’ve done all our chores. Wanna go outside and play?”

  Her eyebrows lifted. “Is it safe? To go outside, I mean.”

  “Should be. Electricity’s been off a couple of days, so the downed power lines shouldn’t be a problem, although we’ll steer clear of them in case they still have reserved juice.”

  She was still hesitant. This hotel had become a haven of sorts, and she didn’t know if she was ready to face the big, bad world. Although with Heather’s death, the threat to her own life was gone. She no longer had any reason to fear.

  Nor could she deny the jolt of excitement coursing through her veins at the thought of spending time alone with Storm.

  The jolt easily won out. “Then what are we waiting for? Fresh air sounds wonderful. I was beginning to think I’d have to kill for a breath—” She stopped abruptly, appalled by her choice of words.

  Storm reached down, grasped her upper arms and pulled her from the chair. Holding her face only inches from his, he said quietly, “It’s just an expression. Don’t go feeling guilty because you chose a phrase you’ve been using your whole life. You have to go on, Princess. Don’t censure yourself, and don’t start taking on guilt you don’t deserve. Otherwise you’re going to end up in intensive therapy. Trust me.”

  He always seemed to do the right thing, to know the perfect words to dispel the darkness that so often overcame her. It was hard to believe he’d been a part of her life for only a few short days. And in a couple more days, she’d be gone, leaving him behind.

  Forcing a smile, she said, “Good advice, Doc. Now let’s get going.”

  They still didn’t leave the hotel for another twenty minutes. Storm insisted she change into slacks and sturdy shoes, because they would surely encounter mud and sharp debris. Knowing he was right, she trudged upstairs to don more sensible clothing.

  When he finally unlocked the front door and they stepped out onto the verandah, she caught her breath. The wide street that ran in front of the hotel was literally hidden beneath the storm’s detritus. Across the street, where the bait shop and souvenir store had been, it looked as if a giant had been playing pick-up-sticks. The collapsed buildings were reduced to chunks of wood, plaster and rubble.

  Instinctively taking Storm’s hand, they silently descended the wide steps, too appalled by the destruction that greeted them to speak. The entire block looked like a war zone.

  AS THEY STROLLED through the deserted village, stopping occasionally to pull debris off the road, Storm was surprised and pleased by another of the many layers of Elisa’s personality. When he first met her, she’d been like a chrysanthemum bud, tiny, fragile in appearance, but tightly closed and defensive. Then she’d started blooming, opening up a bit, exposing layers of delightful petals. By turns, she was defensive, haughty, frightened, sexy, funny, charming, independent, willful, and even sexier. He couldn’t wait to see what other hidden facets were exposed when she was in full bloom.

  The Elisa he thought he knew, the graceful, sophisticated prima ballerina, would have tiptoed around the mud, refusing to dirty her feet. The real woman didn’t hesitate to wade in and haul grubby branches off the road. Within ten minutes, her glistening white athletic shoes were coated with filth and mud. In more ways than one, the worldfamous ballet star was a trouper.

  She stopped suddenly, eyeing a small bungalow whose roof had completely vanished and whose porch drooped ominously. “Oh, look, Storm. That house is completely destroyed. How terrible, to lose your home like that.”

  He pulled her close. He had no doubt that her home in New York had been a luxurious ten-room apartment. Yet her empathy for the owners of this small dwelling was heartfelt and sincere. “If it’ll make you feel any better, that place was owned by old Doc Otis. He passed away about six months ago.”

  She stepped away and whirled, taking in the two blocks they’d traversed. “But what about all these other places? So much destruction.”

  “Actually, there’s far less damage than I’d imagined.”

  Elisa’s eyebrows rose. “This is awful!”

  “Everything’s relative, Princess. According to the news report we picked up while we were tackling the windows, Jake finally touched land a couple hundred miles up the coast. Major damage. Millions of dollars.”

  “What could be worse than this?” she insisted.

  “Look around. Other than those two cheaply built stores across from the hotel, everything is still pretty much standing. Of course, the vacation houses that were unoccupied probably took the brunt. With no one to board them up, I’m sure there’s plenty of water damage. And we lost trees, light poles, sheds, even a couple cars. But since the hurricane only skimmed the island, looks like we got off pretty lucky.”

  Her gaze fluttered over a side road that was completely impassable for the debris. “It’ll take months to clean this up.”

  Storm chuckled. “You’ve obviously never lived in a small town. Once the ferry’s running and all the locals return, they won’t lose a minute organizing work crews. They’ll bring provisions and water with them. It’ll be like a giant posthurricane party—a work party.”

  They continued to walk, clearing a path before them. Elisa finally said, “In New York and Los Angeles, everyone waits for the city crews to clean everything up.”

  “With the wreckage on the mainland? We’d be waiting this time next year. No, small-town people, especially when they’re isolated like this, help each other.”

  Once they left the village proper behind them, the road wasn’t nearly so littered. Storm explained that since they weren’t in a housing area, there hadn’t bee
n much to come down except trees and shrubbery.

  They strolled for another half hour in companionable quiet. Occasionally they would comment on a small bush or a tiny flower that had miraculously survived the tempest. Mostly they just enjoyed the freedom of being outdoors again.

  He had to admit that this trek was far more pleasurable in the company of a sweet-scented woman. Elisa spied something and ran ahead, allowing him to truly appreciate those fetching purple stretch pants she wore. Not too loose, not too tight. Perfect for showing off her firm little backside.

  Storm felt his blood pressure start to rise. Now that they were out of danger, he couldn’t seem to get his mind off the delectable possibilities she brought to mind. Every mundane movement she made caused heat to pool in his groin. Like now. Bending over to pluck that purple flower. Didn’t she know she was driving him crazy? Of course, in his present condition, he’d found it titillating watching her haul slimy trash off the road.

  Storm cursed his suddenly hyperactive libido. He wasn’t a schoolboy who’d just found his father’s stash of girlie magazines; he was an adult. A doctor. Besides, the middle of a muddy road would hardly be considered the optimum location for a tryst. Unless he could interest her in a little playful mud-wrestling.

  To take his mind off his enticing companion, he set about naming all twenty-six bones in the human foot. It had been a long time since med school, and memorization hadn’t been his strong suit back then. Let’s see, there’s the…uh, longitudinal arch, and the transverse or mediotarsal arch, as it’s sometimes called.

  He glanced at her narrow foot and suddenly couldn’t remember any of the smaller bones. His gaze trailed upward, to where her purple stretch pants disappeared into her sneaker. That was right about ankle-level.

  Even with the angry red scar, she sure had trim, sexy ankles. But he was getting off course again. Ankle, uh, tarsus.

  Ankles curved up into glorious, muscular calves. That led to lush thighs that…

  Giving up on that avenue of distraction, he went back to studying the littered pavement, occasionally kicking aside a piece of trash.