Storm Season Page 8

  “We can’t get close enough to tell,” I said, “but she’s still screaming her lungs out. I’m hoping that’s a good sign.”

  He nodded, returned to the curb and filled in the supervisor on the scene. With calm but amazing swiftness, the rescue team, armed with jacks, pulleys and chain saws, attacked the monster pine from outside the house. Another pair brought more equipment inside and headed to Jessica’s room.

  Carrying their gear, Joe and his partner, a young woman I’d never met, went inside and waited for the rescuers to clear access to Jessica.

  I went back inside, too, but Kimberly and I, knowing there was nothing we could do, stayed in the kitchen out of the way.

  The whine of chain saws joined the howl of the wind and drowned out Jessica’s cries. At least I hoped that was what had happened and that the little girl hadn’t fallen silent from injuries.

  “Your face is bleeding.” Kimberly pointed to my right cheek.

  I lifted my hand, sticky with sap, to my face, and it came away smeared with blood. “Must have been hit by a flying wood chip.”

  But the cut was inconsequential. All I cared about was what was happening in Jessica’s room. I picked up Roger to keep him from getting underfoot or bounding out the open front door where firefighters came and went, and I sat down next to Kimberly at the kitchen table.

  The firefighters were racing against both the approaching storm and the danger of the wind shifting the tree and causing it to fall and crush Jessica. I thought of Adler, protecting the citizens of Clearwater, unaware his only child was in mortal danger. I eyed Kimberly’s cell phone, but decided notifying Adler now would be cruel. He’d risk his own life if he tried to return home, and being away and unable to help would drive him crazy.

  In a strange juxtaposition of men and women working at full tilt to free Jessica, and the slow crawl of time, I waited. The high-pitched whine of chain saws ceased abruptly, voices shouted over the wind, and the floor of the house shook as the massive tree shifted and dropped.

  I closed my eyes, not knowing if they’d reached Jessica in time and dreading the pain Sharon and Adler faced if they hadn’t.

  The torture of the unknown was short-lived. A cheer went up in Jessica’s room, and a huge firefighter with tiny Jessica dwarfed in his burly arms strode into the family room with Sharon close behind.

  The fireman handed the bawling child to Joe, and the paramedic and his partner checked her out. Aside from a few scratches on her face and a throat most likely sore from overuse, the toddler was fine.

  Hearing the verdict, Sharon collapsed into a chair and Joe placed Jessica in her arms. The child gripped her mother around the neck in a choke hold, and Sharon smiled through tears.

  The paramedics packed up their gear, and the firefighter, Ferguson, according to the name on his turnout, announced, “We’re putting a tarp over the damaged roof, but you can’t stay here. The envelope of the house is compromised, and if the storm hits, the rest of the roof will go. We can move you to a shelter if we hurry.”

  I thought of the public shelters, already overcrowded, and weighed our options. “My house is two blocks over. Can you take us there?”

  He nodded. “Get whatever stuff you need, but make it snappy.”

  “Is that okay with you, Sharon?” I asked.

  “What?” She was still in shock, and my conversation with Ferguson hadn’t registered.

  I repeated what he’d said along with my suggestion to go to my house, and she nodded.

  “My bins are still packed,” I said.

  “Mine, too,” Kimberly said, “except for these boxes of letters.”

  “I’ll hold Jessica,” I offered to Sharon, “while you grab what you need. But we have to hurry.”

  Jessica came into my arms without protest. For some reason, the kid had always liked me from the day I’d met her at the party for her first birthday. Sharon disappeared down the hall to her bedroom and returned a few minutes later with a carryall.

  The firefighters, obviously weary from spending the past forty-eight hours moving the elderly, handicapped and special-needs citizens to shelters, helped take our bins and luggage to their truck. Kimberly toted the FedEx boxes, I picked up Roger and Sharon cradled Jessica in her arms. We dashed through the driving rain and fought against the wind to reach the rescue vehicles, where we all managed to squeeze inside. When we reached my house, I raced ahead of the others and banged on the front door.

  Bill answered, and surprise registered on his face when he saw me and glanced past me to the fire truck.

  “Is there any room at the inn?” I asked.

  BILL’S SURPRISE HADN’T affected his reflexes. In a few short seconds, he’d assessed the situation and leaped into action to help the firefighters unload their passengers and baggage. As soon as we were safely inside, the fire and rescue personnel piled onto their trucks and headed back to the station to ride out the storm or answer the next call, whichever came first.

  Roger, delighted to be in familiar surroundings, raced through the living room straight to the sofa where Trish still slept and licked her face. Trish, lost in margaritaville throughout our arrival, awoke with a shriek and smacked Roger across the nose. The pug, who’d never had a voice or hand raised against him, yelped and retreated to the kitchen.

  “You hit my dog again,” I told her, “and you’ll be weathering this storm outside.”

  “Do I know you?” Trish peered at me through bleary eyes, and her words were slurred.

  “Maggie Skerritt, the other owner of this house.”

  I was being territorial, but I couldn’t help it. After all we’d been through, I had one nerve left, and Trish was getting on it.

  Ever the peacemaker, Bill jumped into what threatened to become a fray. “Why don’t I take Trish to the guest room so she can go back to sleep? The rest of you make yourselves at home.”

  Bill helped the tipsy Trish to her feet. She looked as if she’d just crawled over forty miles of bad road. Her clothes were disheveled, her aging face blotched and puffy, her makeup smeared and her tangled red hair showed two inches of gray roots. In my mind’s eye, I’d pictured Trish as she’d been twenty-three years ago, vibrant and beautiful. I’d have felt pity for the wreck before me now—if she hadn’t hit my dog.

  While Bill half-carried Trish to the guest room, I went into the kitchen and coaxed Roger from beneath the table with a bone marrow treat from the box we kept in the cabinet by the sink. The pooch was trembling from his ordeal, and I petted him and offered consoling words before carrying him back into the living room.

  Bill had returned with an armload of blankets and pillows for Sharon. “We can make Jessica a pallet on the floor, if you like.”

  Sharon nodded. “I want to keep her close.”

  I filled Bill in on the tree’s crashing through Jessica’s room and causing our evacuation, and set Roger in his bed next to Jessica’s pallet.

  Bill caught my attention. “I closed the door to the guest room, so Roger can’t get to Trish.”

  “Lucky for her.” I was still angry at the woman who had struck a small, helpless animal. Drunkenness was no excuse. Trish’s life had taken a bad turn, but I wouldn’t allow her to take out her frustration on my dog.

  Our house was a cozy oasis in the storm. The hardwood floors of the sixty-year-old Cape Cod gleamed, the perfect backdrop for the mission-style furniture Bill had inherited from his parents. In winter, the fireplace with its oak mantel would be a cheerful gathering point.

  Only then did I notice that the lights, air-conditioning and television were working. “We still have power.”

  “So far,” Bill said with a satisfied grin.

  But my words had been a jinx. No sooner had Bill acknowledged them than the house plunged into darkness.

  CHAPTER 12

  Bill turned on a battery-operated lantern on the mantel, and the huge mirror hanging above it reflected its light back into the room.

  Kimberly reached for the lantern she
’d brought with her, but I shook my head. “Better save it. We could be days without power.”

  Bill hadn’t drawn the curtains on the sash windows, unshuttered since they were impact-resistant glass, but the blackness of the storm prevented us from seeing what was happening outside.

  Probably just as well. We were all shaken from Jessica’s close call and the damage to the Adler house and all too aware that those incidents could be only the beginning of a series of events that would turn even more deadly as the storm drew nearer.

  Bill disappeared down the hall and returned a few minutes later with a tiny battery-powered TV. He set it on the mantel beside the lantern and turned it on.

  We watched and listened as Paul Dellegatto from Channel 13 gave Harriet’s latest coordinates and projected path. Once the meteorologist’s words sank in, we clapped and cheered.

  “This calls for a celebration,” Bill said. “Anyone for margaritas?”

  “Good idea,” I said, thinking of Trish, oblivious in the guest room. “Then we can all get some sleep.”

  HURRICANES ARE FICKLE and unpredictable, which must be why they’re named after people. Harriet, after threatening and terrifying the population of Tampa Bay and initiating the most massive evacuation in the area’s history, abruptly veered west off Sanibel, did a loop in the Gulf and headed for the coast of Mexico.

  After a margarita-induced sleep, we awoke late the next morning, in shock from our near miss, with our moods swinging from elation to pangs of guilt that the catastrophe that had been meant for us would wreak havoc elsewhere.

  Later that morning, after the worst of the wind had blown by, Sharon and Jessica returned to their damaged home, and Kimberly and I to my condo. Tens of thousands of other evacuees also headed home. They jammed roadways, caught in gridlock, and grumbled that they wouldn’t leave next time because the storms never hit where predicted. They conveniently forgot that this same attitude had doomed thousands in New Orleans and along the Mississippi and Alabama coasts a few years earlier.

  Shutters came down, power company trucks streamed into neighborhoods to restore blown transformers and downed lines and yard cleanups began. An unfortunate few, like the Adlers, whose homes had sustained damage, met with insurance adjusters and contractors for repair estimates.

  A volunteer crew of off-duty officers from the Clearwater PD arrived at the Adlers that afternoon, armed with chain saws to remove the massive pine from Jessica’s room and the side yard. Within hours, a stack of pine logs stood by the curb, awaiting removal by the city’s sanitation trucks. A blue tarp was tacked firmly over the gaping hole in the roof. Adler moved Jessica’s crib into the master bedroom until the roof was repaired and her room restored.

  Rather than return to her Sand Key condo, Kimberly remained with me. Until we’d sorted out whether Sister Mary Theresa’s killer had mistaken his victim, Kimberly no longer felt safe in her own home. With her computer, fax machine and forwarded phone lines, she settled into my spare room and resumed dispensing advice to millions of faithful readers.

  At my insistence, not even her staff were told her new location. All mail and packages were sent in care of my office. With our new precautions in place, Kimberly felt safe enough to stay alone during the day with Roger as watchdog and companion, while I worked with Adler and Porter to sort out the mystery of the nun’s death.

  Bill usually helped on an investigation of this scope but, after a day of clearing Spanish moss and tree debris from the lawn of our house, he had been occupied with chauffeuring Trish to look at apartments and apply for jobs. Although we’d talked on the phone, I hadn’t seen him in the week since the evacuation had ended. We met at the Dock of the Bay for dinner, and he sat across from me in our favorite booth.

  “Where’s your ball and chain?” I should have felt contrite for sounding petty, but I resented Trish’s intrusion into our lives. Dealing with unpredictable hurricanes was bad enough. Ex-wives were an added annoyance.

  “She’s having dinner with old friends from Tampa,” Bill said. “They picked her up at the house an hour ago.”

  The waitress came to take our drink orders.

  “Draft beer,” Bill said.

  “I’ll have the house water.”

  The waitress left and Bill cocked an eyebrow. “You on the wagon?”

  “I’m still detoxing from your post-hurricane-party margaritas. What did you put in those things, knockout drops?”

  He grinned. “They did the trick, didn’t they? You, Sharon and Kimberly were wound tighter than a cheap watch when the firefighters dropped you off. But, thanks to a few stiff drinks, you all had a good night’s sleep.”

  Trish, who’d consumed more of the power-punch than the rest of us, had still been sleeping when we’d left that morning. She’d been so blotto, I doubted she remembered my threats from the night before after she’d slapped Roger. Bill had suggested the three of us have dinner two nights ago, but I’d had no desire to make nice with the woman. The sooner she was out of our lives, the better.

  “Any luck finding Trish an apartment?” I said.

  “God knows, I’ve tried. The ones she likes, she can’t afford. The ones she can afford she claims she’s afraid to live in.”

  “Afraid?”

  “She says they’re filled with lowlifes and criminals.” He shook his head. “Apparently, living with Harvey honed her expensive taste. She has no idea what a lowlife, crime-ridden complex is like. The ones we’ve looked at are cream puffs in comparison.”

  A niggling little suspicion flowered in my brain. “Does she know about your inheritance?”

  “When I told her Dad had passed away, she asked what would happen to his orange groves.”

  When Trish and Bill had been married, he’d earned only a cop’s salary and his dad had been barely eking a living out of his groves. Now Bill owned real estate worth millions and no longer hit the streets to serve and protect every day. Combine that with his good looks and great personality, and what woman wouldn’t want him? I wouldn’t put it past Trish to try to win him back.

  “How much longer will she be in our house?” I knew I sounded petulant, but didn’t care. I wanted the woman gone. Yesterday.

  “Why, Margaret—” His blue eyes twinkled. “I think you’re jealous.”

  “I miss you.”

  “I miss you, too,” he said. “When will your house guest be leaving?”

  “Not any time soon. I met with Adler and Porter this afternoon. Porter spent the past two days in Boston, checking out Sister Mary Theresa’s background. No one in the diocese knew of any threats against her. Everyone he spoke with said that she was well-loved and respected.”

  “But she was an activist?”

  I nodded. “But apparently, a very peaceful and civilized one. The protesters she led were always nonconfrontational, obeyed the rules and never harassed anyone. Porter says he doubts the column in the newspaper the shooter left in the hotel room is related to the nun.”

  “Which leaves the ex-con whose wife left him on Wynona Wisdom’s advice.”

  “Unless,” I said, not entirely joking, “someone died from the meat loaf recipe.”

  The waitress arrived with our drinks, and I took a sip before continuing.

  “We have a stack of threatening letters to Ms. Wisdom from inmates and ex-cons. Adler, Porter and I are working through them now, hoping to turn up a suspect.”

  “Any chance you could take next weekend off?”

  “Maybe. If I can get Abe to stay nights at my condo with Kimberly. She’s okay during the day, but freaks out when the sun sets. What do you have in mind?”

  “Some R & R on the boat, a little cruise on the Intracoastal, a bit of fine dining, a lot of fooling around.”

  The prospect was enticing, especially the fooling around part. “What will you do with Trish?”

  “I’m hoping she’ll have found her own place by then.”

  “She’ll need a car.”

  “I’ll buy her a used one.�
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  After the way Trish had taken Bill to the cleaners in their divorce settlement and deprived him of participating in his daughter’s growing up, she didn’t deserve such kind and generous treatment. But if Bill hadn’t reached out to her as he had, he wouldn’t be the man I’d come to love, so I kept my objections to myself.

  “And what about a job?” I added.

  “She reads the classifieds every day.”

  “But has she made any calls, scheduled any interviews?”

  He shook his head. “She’s either not qualified or not interested in any openings she’s found.”

  Why should she be interested? my dark side muttered. She’d fallen into hog heaven, living in Bill’s house with him carting her around, paying her bills, and providing for her every need.

  “You can’t support her forever,” I said, in spite of my good intentions not to complain.

  “She needs time.”

  “She needs to be self-sufficient. You’re not helping by letting her go from dependency on Harvey to dependency on you.”

  “That’s a bit harsh.”

  “It’s a harsh world. As ex-cops, we know that better than most people.”

  “So what harm does it do,” he asked with irritating logic, “to make life easier for someone?”

  Feeling whiny and small in light of Bill’s generous nature, I shrugged. “None, I suppose.”

  The waitress returned to take our order, but my appetite had disappeared. I gave myself a silent pep talk, promising that by this time next week, Trish would be out of our lives, Bill and I would have our weekend and all would be right with the world.

  I should have known better.

  EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, remembering my promise to the Lassiter sisters, I drove to their house. Piles of tree branches and trash cans overflowing with leaves and Spanish moss lined the curb, but their yard was immaculate. I wondered if J.D. had returned for cleanup duty or if Mr. Moore next door had helped the elderly women. Their house showed no signs of damage from the storm’s near miss.