Marcia Talley - Without a Grave

‘Thank you, that’s very generous,’ I said. ‘I’ll tell Molly to get in touch with you, then?’

‘Now that we know the boat’s owner, and where she lives, I’m sure my father will be calling on her personally.’

Gabriele rose from her chair. Crisis averted. Things to do. People to see. ‘Now, may I treat you to lunch?’

‘That’s very kind.’

Side by side, we walked down the hall. At the entrance to the dining room, I paused. ‘I have a question, Gabriele. While Molly and I were hunting for sand dollars, we noticed this big blue object tied up at the end of the pier. What on earth is it?’

‘That? It’s a little submarine. Another one of Papa’s projects. He bought it from a salvage dealer in Florida. Thought he’d install a glass window in the side so the children could ride around and look at fish. Can you imagine? My stepmother put a stop to that, I can tell you.’

Gabriele giggled, making it seem sultry rather than feather-brained. She picked up a menu from the podium and escorted me to a table. ‘Here by the window is nice, don’t you agree?’

I did. ‘It’s like dining in a rain forest.’

She pulled out my chair.

‘The grilled grouper is especially good today,’ she recommended as I sat down. ‘And Benicio is a magician with crème brulée.’ She raised her arm and snapped her fingers to attract the attention of one of the young servers. ‘Ice water please for Mrs Ives!’ Still holding the menu, she bent at the waist and whispered, as if she were divulging a secret recipe, ‘Today’s special is crème brulée à l’orange. He uses heavy cream and Grand Marnier.’

I moaned. She’d used the C.B. word. My diet was doomed.

I accepted the menu from Gabriele and opened it to the first page. While pretending to read the specials of the day I asked, ‘Is your brother here today, Gabriele?’

‘Jaime’s on the island somewhere, Hannah, but I really don’t have the time to keep up with him. He has his own projects. I’m too busy to get involved.’

I’ll bet. Gabriele was a smart cookie. If Jaime was up to what I think he was up to, she’d keep as much distance between herself and her brother as possible.

‘How about Alice?’ I glanced up from the menu to judge Gabriele’s reaction. ‘We had a chance to chat at the art show. She’s lovely.’

A cloud passed over her face. Was that a smirk? ‘Alice and Jaime share one of the cottages on Poinciana Point. She’s been a bit under the weather lately, sticking close to home. If I see her, I’ll tell her you asked.’

‘Please do.’

The Mueller family. All present and accounted for.

I closed the menu and handed it back to her with a smile that didn’t go beyond my face. ‘The grilled grouper will be fine.’

While I waited for my entrée I played with my banana bread, tearing off bite-size pieces with my fingers, putting them in my mouth and chewing thoughtfully. Gabriele had given me plausible answers to all my questions, except one.

No matter how you cut it, Jaime Mueller had lied about where he’d found Wanderer . Wanderer had never left Hawksbill Cay. And sadly, neither had Frank and Sally Parker.

WHILE A HURRICANE IS IN TROPICAL WATERS, IT IS INFLUENCED BY THE NORTH EAST TRADE WINDS AND MOVES TOWARD THE WEST OR WEST-NORTH WEST AT A SPEED OF ABOUT 10 TO 15 KNOTS, BUT IT IS DIFFICULT TO MAKE ACCURATE PREDICTIONS CONCERNING THE PATHS OF HURRICANES.Sallie Townsend, Boating Weather: How To Predict It And What To Do About It , p. 21

Sometime during the first week of August, 2008, Frank and Sally Parker had died of ligature strangulation. This information didn’t come to me from the authorities in Nassau, nor from the Marsh Harbour police. I found it out from Paul who had it from FBI Special Agent Amanda Crisp, whose supervisor contacted the office of the Bahamian Minister of Health, Hubert Minnis, and pressured a nervous office assistant, dazzled by being singled out for attention by the FBI, into divulging the results of the autopsy. On condition of anonymity, of course.

Due to the high-profile nature of the case, two pathologists had performed the procedure, Paul reported, a Bahamian doctor and one especially flown in from Florida. In a follow-up email to my iPhone, Paul wrote that the cause of death was listed as asphyxiation by a cord-like object partially circumferencing the victims’ necks, the pattern and dimensions of which were consistent with a three-strand twisted polyester rope, approximately five-eighths of an inch in diameter, commonly available.

Commonly available . Jeesh. Boat lines, dock lines, anchor lines, mooring lines, tow lines, halyards, sheets for main and jib. A properly rigged sailboat used dozens of lines. But presuming you could identify the specific rope that killed our friends among all that spaghetti, even Super Glue fuming couldn’t bring up fingerprints on it.

I rode across the harbor in Pro Bono to share what I knew about the autopsy with Gator.

‘Nice of them to let me know,’ Gator grumbled.

‘Paul tells me there’ll be an inquest. Will I have to testify?’

‘I will for sure.’ He picked up an air tank and strapped it into a rolling carrier. ‘Probably you and Molly, too, having been there when we found them.’ He grunted, hefted another tank into the carrier. ‘It’s the law. Once they set a date, you’ll get a summons.’

‘Are you telling me, don’t leave town?’

‘Something like that.’ Gator started up the dock toward his dive shack, dragging the air tanks, and motioned for me to follow. ‘Been meaning to tell you. You know that mini-sub you were talking about?’

‘Yeah?’

‘It’s gone. Towed out to sea and scuttled, according to Jaime Mueller.’

I glared, head cocked, fists on hips. ‘And you believe him, Gator?’

‘It’s not like I could check it out, Hannah. The bank drops off to twenty-five hundred meters out there.’ He waved vaguely in the direction of the Atlantic Ocean as if he thought I didn’t know where it was.

I watched Gator thread a dock line through an eye bolt screwed into the roof of his dive shack and secure it to a cleat set in the concrete. ‘Just as well it’s gone. Wouldn’t want something like that banging up against your dock with a hurricane coming.’

‘Hurricane? You’re kidding.’ Without Paul home to noodge me awake, I’d overslept and missed the Cruisers’ Net that morning, so this was news to me.

‘Tropical storm Helen for now, but they may upgrade her shortly. They’re predicting she’ll reach us Friday. Winds eighty to a hundred, they say.’

‘Is that bad?’

‘Seen worse.’ He stepped over Justice, picked up a dock line and threaded it through another eye bolt.

Gator’s strange activities had suddenly become clear. ‘So you’re tying stuff down.’

‘Lots to do.’ He bent down, picked up a coil of rope and tossed it to me. ‘Give me a hand?’

Our landlords used the side of the refrigerator like a bulletin board. Who to call if the propane tank runs out (Earl Sands). Where to report a power outage (BEC). What to do in the unlikely event of a hurricane (Pray). The first thing I did when I got home was consult it.

Bring porch furniture in, secure doors and windows… on and on and on I read. Dozens of bullet points about how to secure their property, but nothing about what I should do personally other than getting myself to the airport and flying the hell out. I’d have to talk to Molly.

My talk with Molly was delayed temporarily by a visit from a representative of the Royal Bahamas Police Force, Marsh Harbour Division. I had been fixing to go to Molly’s, when someone pulled up to the dock. I watched curiously from the living room window as he alighted from his Boston Whaler, ambled up the dock, tall and straight and proud, all decked out in his uniform – a light-blue short-sleeved, open-necked shirt tucked into navy-blue trousers with a wide, red stripe running up the side. His military-style hat, also navy-blue with a red stripe, was perched on his head at a rakish angle. He carried a clipboard, the pages flapping as he climbed the steps to the porch and rang our bell.