Storm Season Page 6

  “What about J.D.?” I asked.

  Bessie had joined Violet at the door. “He took off on his bike after he heard the forecast. Said not to worry about him, that he’d take refuge somewhere.”

  “But we do worry about him.” Violet’s voice, usually firm and assertive, trembled, reflecting her fears and her advanced age. “We worry about everyone.”

  I understood her concern. After several hurricane seasons with the most numerous and intense storms on record, everyone in the state was suffering from hurricane fatigue and probably at least a mild form of post-traumatic stress disorder due to the constant battering from the life-threatening and unpredictable storms. And Pelican Bay, which hadn’t taken a direct hit, had merely endured the anxiety of close calls. I couldn’t begin to imagine what people in devastated areas had suffered. With Harriet lumbering our way like a doomsday machine, we all hoped for the best and prepared for the worst.

  For the elderly, like Violet and Bessie, who made up such a high percentage of the area’s population, the stress of evacuating and riding out even near misses had to take its toll.

  “I’ll check with you when the storm’s passed,” I said. “When this is all over, if you can locate something with J.D.’s fingerprints, I might be able to identify him for you.”

  If Harriet didn’t blow everything away.

  “If he comes back,” Bessie said.

  “I’m sure he’ll find a safe place to ride out the storm,” I said.

  Violet shook her head. “That’s not what Bessie means. J.D. said you’d talked with him. He was upset. We don’t know if he’ll come back at all.”

  Her tone was accusatory, as if I’d run him off.

  “For now,” I said, “you need to concentrate on taking care of yourselves. If J.D. doesn’t come back after the storm, I’ll try to find him.”

  But my promise was an empty one. If Harriet hit the Bay area with the force predicted, hundreds of thousands would be displaced and homeless, and finding J.D. would be the least of our worries.

  DARCY WAS BATTENING down the office when I arrived. Roger greeted me in a frenzy of barking, jumping and turning in circles. He’d picked up on our anxiety over the approaching storm.

  “Bill wanted to leave Roger here while he secured his boat.” Darcy took a stack of folders from her desk, shoved them into the nearest file cabinet and locked the drawer. She waved toward the other rooms with their tall sash windows overlooking Main Street. “Better take anything you don’t want to lose. Those windows have no shutters, and that wavy old glass will break the first time any wind-driven debris hits it.”

  “Will you ride this out at home?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “I’ll put up my shutters, then go to Mama’s. Her house is on higher ground, and I don’t want her alone during the storm. You’ll be with Bill at the new house?”

  I shook my head. “Adler asked me to stay with Sharon and Jessica. And I’ll take Kimberly Ross, our new client, with us. Go on home and secure your house. There’s nothing more to do here.”

  She opened her desk drawer, removed her purse and slung its strap over her shoulder. She wrote hurriedly on a desk pad, ripped off the sheet and handed it to me. “Here’s Mama’s address and phone, in case you need to reach me after the storm.”

  “You have Adler’s home number?”

  She nodded. Neither of us mentioned the probability that all phone service would be knocked out by the storm, even cell phones, whose towers would be demolished by high winds.

  Her dark eyes filled with worry. “Take care, Maggie.”

  “You, too.”

  She patted Roger, then hurried out.

  I went into my office, picked up the phone and dialed my mother’s house.

  Estelle, Mother’s elderly housekeeper, answered. “Your mama’s already gone.”

  “Where?”

  “She and Miss Caroline and Mr. Hunt flew to New York City earlier this morning. They’re going to shop for clothes for the Queen of Hearts ball next February.”

  I should have known. Shopping was my sister Caroline’s remedy for everything. And if she had to evacuate, what better place than the shopping mecca of Fifth Avenue?

  “You aren’t staying at the house?” I asked. The home where I’d grown up was a waterfront estate, susceptible to both strong winds and storm surge.

  “Don’t you worry ’bout me, Miss Margaret. My nephew, the doctor, is coming from Pasco County in a few minutes to take me home with him. I’ll be fine.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Where you gonna be?”

  “At the Adlers, friends who live over a mile from the waterfront.”

  My throat closed with unwanted emotion. With a storm threatening, my own mother hadn’t bothered to check with me to make sure I’d be safe. But I shouldn’t have expected her concern. As a continual embarrassment and disappointment to my social-climbing parent, I was certain the less she thought about me, the happier she was.

  “You and your Mr. Malcolm take care of each other, you hear?” Estelle had been more of a mother to me than my own. I could hear the love in her voice, which made me feel better.

  “We will. You stay safe, Estelle.”

  I returned the receiver to its cradle and scanned the office. The only thing of irreplaceable value was Roger, so I hooked his leash to his collar, led him out and locked the door, not knowing if the building, a block from St. Joseph Sound, would still be standing once the storm had passed.

  I HAD ONE STOP to make before returning to my condo. Unable to handle my ambivalent feelings about the return of Trish, I’d been avoiding Bill. But with disaster looming, I had to see him, to tell him I loved him.

  When I reached his boat slip, the Ten-Ninety-Eight was already secured with extra lines and bumpers. Having gone through this drill before, I knew the precautions would protect the boat in a near miss, but a direct hit would wash boats, docks and everything else in its path inland. Some hearty mariners rode out storms onboard, and some even lived to tell about it, but Bill was more cautious, for which I was thankful. He could buy a new boat, but I could never replace him.

  With a packed duffel bag slung over his shoulder, he was locking the slider to his cabin when I approached.

  “Looking for a good time, sailor?”

  He sprang from the deck to the dock, dropped the duffel and picked me up in a bear hug that almost crushed my ribs.

  “God, I’ve missed you.”

  “It hasn’t been that long,” I protested, but his enthusiasm was reassuring. And Trish was nowhere in sight.

  “Are you packed?” he asked when he released me.

  “In a manner of speaking. My emergency gear is ready to put in the car.”

  “Good. Then I’ll meet you at the house?”

  I shook my head. “Adler asked me to stay with Sharon and Jessica. He doesn’t want them alone during the storm.”

  He nodded and, to my relief, seemed obviously disappointed.

  “Will you and Trish be okay?” I said.

  “It’s going to be a long haul.” He frowned. “On top of her breakup, this storm is sending Trish over the edge. She won’t stop crying.”

  In my experience, female histrionics did one of two things to a man: sent him running in the opposite direction or evoked a comforting response. As empathetic as Bill was, he’d try to ease Trish’s pain. And I didn’t want to picture where that might lead. For a moment I wanted to go with Bill to act as a buffer between him and the emotional tug of his ex-wife. But I’d promised Adler, and I also had to trust Bill. If his love wasn’t strong enough to weather this temptation, I needed to know before I married him.

  “At least you’ll only be a couple of blocks away,” he said. “That’s good to know. I’ll come and check on you when the worst is over.”

  When the worst was over.

  But no one really knew how bad it was going to be.

  CHAPTER 9

  Mackley was pacing in my living room when I arriv
ed at the condo. Kimberly stood at the sliding glass door, watching the waters of the bay, which were almost as smooth as glass.

  The calm before the storm is a cliché but also a truth. The approaching monster Harriet had sucked the moisture from the air, leaving the sky a flawless, cloudless blue, the temperature pleasant and the air amazingly dry for a tropical summer day. Not a single cloud or any other hint of the coming fury dotted the horizon.

  “I’ve got to leave, Maggie,” Mackley said when I entered the room. “The damned thing’s been upgraded to a Category Three, moving toward us at twenty miles an hour. The National Hurricane Center thinks it will be a Cat Five by the time it hits.”

  “I’ll take over here,” I said. “Be careful, Abe. Check in after this passes and let us know that you’re all right.”

  He hurried out, and Kimberly turned from the sliders. I’d kept Roger on his leash.

  “I hope you like dogs,” I said.

  She smiled. “Love ’em, but the condo association won’t let us have pets.”

  “Mine didn’t, either, until I petitioned for an exception. It was granted only because I’ll be moving out soon. In the meantime, Roger makes one false move and we’re both evicted.”

  I unhooked his lead and he bounded to greet our guest. Weeks of training had paid off, because Roger didn’t go for her legs. His humping habit had finally been broken. Kimberly kneeled and scooped him into her arms. He reciprocated by washing her face with his tongue.

  “Sorry,” I said, “Roger can’t hold his licker.”

  “Don’t worry. No matter how bad things are, a dog can always make me feel better.”

  “Any trouble leaving the condo?”

  She set Roger down and shook her head. “We were lost in the shuffle. Residents were loading their cars, preparing to evacuate. And Abe had me dress in the extra set of clothes he’d brought with him and stuff my hair under a ball cap. Since we left in Abe’s car, even if the shooter was watching, he wouldn’t have spotted me.”

  I glanced back to the hall, where Kimberly’s boxes and luggage were piled.

  “I brought my own hurricane kit,” she said, “with extra water and food.”

  Knowing Kimberly’s propensity to chow down when anxious, I was glad for the additional supplies. Before Harriet was through with us, anxiety was only the initial stage of an emotional scale that ran all the way past oh-my-God to scared spitless.

  She jerked her thumb toward the water behind her. “We’re not staying here?”

  “We’re sheltering with the Adlers, a mile or so east of here.”

  “Adler, the detective?”

  “His wife and daughter. Dave has to work.”

  “On finding Sister Mary Theresa’s killer, I hope?”

  “Not until the storm blows over. The entire department will be tied up with evacuations and emergency calls. And after that?” I shrugged. Who knew what any of us would face once Harriet was through with us. “You brought the hate mail?”

  She pointed toward two FedEx cartons stacked in the hall.

  “We’ll take them with us,” I said. “Sharon, Dave’s wife, will help us go through them.”

  I didn’t add that having work was a good thing, to keep us from going crazy as the storm approached.

  FOR THE NEXT FIVE hours, we were too busy to be worried. Kimberly helped load her supplies and mine, along with Roger’s doggie lounger, into my Volvo. Protecting the windows and sliders on my condo involved no more than the flip of switches, and the electrically powered shutters lowered and locked.

  When we reached the Adler house, preparations became more complicated and more frenzied. Sharon, a short, slender dynamo with light brown hair and a frazzled look in her hazel eyes, had thawed and was cooking most of the food from her freezer in anticipation of power outages. Jessica, sensing the tension, missing her daddy and upset by her altered routine, cried and clung to her mother’s legs. Not even Roger’s playful presence consoled her.

  While Sharon juggled toddler and roasted beef, Kimberly and I shifted lawn furniture and trash cans into the garage before tackling the window coverings.

  The neighborhood was strangely deserted. Most people were either already cloistered in their shuttered homes or had taken a chance on avoiding gridlock and evacuated, even though the EOC had repeatedly begged that those not in actual evacuation zones ride out the storm at home to avoid being snarled in traffic when Harriet hit. Only a few last-minute souls, like us, were clearing loose objects from their patios and lawns and rushing to put up window protection.

  I could hear the sound of hammering down the street. Someone was nailing plywood to window openings. He might as well have covered his glass with plastic wrap. One good tug of wind would rip nails out of a building and turn sheets of plywood into deadly flying missiles. Lots of long screws at frequent intervals to hold the wood were the best insurance against the wind breaching the inside of a house. For months, newspapers and television news reports had carried computerized models that showed roofs lifting and walls collapsing once hurricane winds entered buildings through improperly secured windows or garage doors. The possibilities for disaster were endless and terrifying. No wonder so many had hit the road to try to outrun the storm.

  At the Adler house, the coverings for the French doors across the back of the family room, like my condo shutters, were electronic. As long as we lowered them before losing power, we could take advantage of the daylight and save ourselves a few hours of claustrophobia. The rest of the house had sash windows with permanently installed tracks and bolts for mounting corrugated aluminum shutters and fastening them in place with wing nuts.

  I learned the hard way that the shutters had jagged cutting edges, but once I’d applied a few Band-Aids and borrowed a pair of Adler’s work gloves, I was in business. Kimberly and I formed an assembly line. I inserted a shutter panel into the track and she provided the wing nuts to lock them.

  She handed me one of the shiny fasteners.

  “Not the kind of nuts you usually work with,” I said.

  I hoped some humor would alleviate the strain that was visibly building inside her. In spite of the sticky heat, her face had lost its color, and her fingers, when she passed me a fastener, trembled. She’d been through the wringer the past two days, shocked by Sister Mary Theresa’s murder, fearful she’d been the intended target, knowing that her condo stood like a huge bull’seye in the path of a killer storm and that she remained in the hurricane’s crosshairs, as well. I wasn’t big on medication, but I was beginning to wish I had a stash of Xanax to help Kimberly make it through the night. If my favorite meteorologists were on the money, our situation was only going to get a whole lot worse.

  On the other hand, Sharon was cooking enough food to feed a platoon, so Kimberly just might have enough culinary anesthesia.

  “You ladies need some help?” a familiar voice sounded behind me.

  I shoved the aluminum panel I was holding on to the protruding bolts and turned around. “Kimberly, meet Bill Malcolm, my partner in Pelican Bay Investigations.”

  “Hi,” Kimberly said. “Have you come to stay with us?”

  Bill shook his head. “Our house is two blocks over. I’ll be keeping an eye on it during the storm.” He took the bag of wing nuts from her. “Why don’t you get something cold to drink? You’ll dehydrate fast in this heat.”

  Kimberly, smart enough to sense that Bill wanted to talk to me alone, went inside.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “Besides Trish’s hysteria?” Bill made a face. “She’s in bad shape. She was already an emotional wreck from Harvey’s desertion. Now she’s blaming me for putting her in harm’s way.”

  “That’s the Trish I remember.” I felt guilty satisfaction at her irrational behavior, which was setting Bill’s teeth on edge. Her bad, my gain.

  “She wants to evacuate to Georgia,” he added.

  “You might have time to make it out of the county before the bridges close.”


  “And leave you here? I’d be a basket case, worrying about you.” His expression turned grim. “This could be really bad, Margaret.”

  “I know.” I’d seen the devastation of previous storms with killer surges that had scoured the earth inland for a mile and a half. And if Harriet came at us from a certain angle, we’d face not only an assault of towering water from the Gulf but from Tampa Bay, as well, an aquatic pincer move.

  Bill reached to the tree beside him, hefted an ax he’d leaned there and handed it to me. “Adler has a pull-down ladder to his attic. If the water rises, you can use this to hack through the roof.”

  I felt the blood drain from my face.

  “Just think of it as extra backup that you probably won’t need,” he said with a reassuring smile.

  “If I have your ax, what will you do?”

  “I have a gasoline-powered chain saw, but I’m hoping I don’t have to cut a hole in our new roof before we’ve even moved in.”

  I nodded.

  “Now,” his voice was all business, “you handle the wing nuts while I get the rest of these panels mounted.”

  “Will Trish be okay alone for now?”

  “She’ll have to be. Besides, you need some help, and I had to get away. Once we’re buttoned down as the storm approaches, I can’t escape. I don’t want to prolong the agony of enduring her complaints.”

  FOR THE NEXT HOUR, Bill and I worked in companionable silence. By the time the aluminum shutters covered all the Adlers’ windows, the sky had turned a leaden gray and the breeze had stiffened. Suddenly rain spattered, and we dashed to the front porch, now empty of its welcoming swing and chairs, pots of geraniums and Jessica’s toys.

  Bill gazed at the sky. “The first of the feeder bands has arrived. I’d better go.”

  He gathered me in his arms and kissed me until I couldn’t breathe, then released me and sprinted down the walk. At the front gate, he turned, rain streaming down his face and shouted, “I love you, Margaret.”