Marcia Talley - Without a Grave

I came out, all smiles. ‘How can I help you, officer?’

He consulted his clipboard. ‘Good morning, ma’am. I’m Sergeant Wilbur. Are you Hannah Miles?’

‘It’s Ives, officer. I-V-E-S. Ives. Would you care to sit down?’ I indicated one of the wicker chairs. He sat in one and I took the other. I folded my hands primly and waited.

Sergeant Wilbur eased a pen from his breast pocket, scribbled something on his papers – presumably changing ‘Miles’ to ‘Ives,’ ascertained that I was, indeed, one of the people aboard Deep Magic when the bodies of Frank and Sally Parker were discovered, and asked me to tell him about it.

While I was talking, he took notes.

When I wound down, he asked, ‘I understand that you knew the deceased.’

I explained the Naval Academy connection. ‘But I hadn’t seen the Parkers for several years,’ I added quickly, ‘and I certainly didn’t know Frank had been invited to Hawksbill Cay. I wish I had. Things might have turned out differently.’

Suspicion flashed in his dark eyes.

‘What I mean,’ I blathered on, ‘is if we had known they were coming, they might have stayed with us here at Windswept and not been in Poinciana Cove at all.’

‘Why do you think they were in Poinciana Cove?’

‘I heard it from someone on the Cruisers’ Net,’ I said, tap-dancing as fast as I could.

His eyes began a slow roll, which he checked almost at once. It was abundantly clear that Sergeant Wilbur considered the Cruisers’ Net a bunch of unreliable nosey-parkers. ‘We have credible information that their boat was found near Eleuthera.’

I didn’t comment. What was the point? From that single statement, I knew he’d talked to Jaime Mueller and had taken what the creep told him seriously. I’d believe the word of a cruising sailor over that of a spoiled-rotten daddy’s boy any day.

‘We theorize that the Parkers were attacked somewhere near where their bodies were discovered,’ he continued. ‘Then their boat was taken to Eleuthera where it was stripped and abandoned by the thieves.’

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.’

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.’