Larry lived in a brick house a mile inland and three miles south of Mercer’s cottage. He spent the morning with his chain saw clearing limbs and debris from his front yard, then left in his pickup to explore. But it was hopeless. Trees were down everywhere and all streets were blocked. He returned home, loaded a backpack with food and water, and set out on foot to check on his properties. He looked after five of them, all vacation homes on the beach owned by old clients. The devastation was unlike any he’d seen in his fifty-plus years on the island. Trees were strewn across roofs, lawns, cars, and trucks. Trees that would take days to cut up and remove stretched across streets and roads. Entire subdivisions were isolated. It took two hours to get to Fernando Street, the main drag along the beach. There he found less damage, primarily because there were fewer trees. The dunes had served their purpose and held back the storm surge, but the homes and cottages had been battered by the wind.
He saw few people moving about, a good sign that most folks had fled. Helicopters and small planes buzzed about like menacing insects, so help was on the way. He passed a crew of Guardsmen clearing the road and stopped to chat with a sergeant. According to him, the northern end took the brunt of the storm. The Hilton was gutted. The body count was at eight and rising. The injured were being taken to Jacksonville. The bridge was now open to first responders, but the residents would be kept away for days.
At Mercer’s cottage, Larry found the front lawn covered with leaves, small branches, broken boards, and roofing shingles. He went inside and found no water damage, no leaks. The roof had held the place together nicely. On the deck facing the ocean he surveyed the cottage and was proud that his plywood sheets had protected all doors and windows. He would leave it boarded up for a few days. The boardwalk over the dunes was intact until the end, where the final platform and steps had been washed away by the surge. He looked up and down the beach and saw that both piers were gone. He sat on the boardwalk, hung his feet over the dunes, sipped a bottle of water, and watched the action. A mile away at a public beach a staging operation was getting organized. A Navy Seahawk chopper circled as another attempted to land on the beach. An amphibious landing craft approached from the sea. There were advantages to living close to the naval base in Jacksonville.
When he finished the bottle, he returned to the cottage, studying the roof as he walked. A few shingles were missing, but nothing major. Three houses down, the deck had been blown away and all windows were shattered.
He locked the cottage and returned to Fernando Street to head home. With no phone service there was nothing to report. He lived alone and had enough food and water for two weeks. He was relieved that he had been lucky. His home was not damaged. However, with no electricity conditions would not improve. He suspected that in a day or so he would be wishing he was in a nice, cool motel two hundred miles away.
Next time, he would probably evacuate with the sensible folks.
The cleanup effort at Bob’s lasted less than an hour. After ripping out the first-floor carpets and hauling out the ruined rugs, the three were soaked with sweat and exhausted.
During a break, Bob said, “You know, I really should wait until the insurance adjuster takes a look. Don’t you think?”
Bruce quickly replied, “Great idea. He’ll hire a crew to clean up, right?”
“It’s in the policy,” Bob said. “I pay six thousand a year for supplemental flood insurance, so I’m covered.”
Nick said, “Here’s a better idea. Let’s load up the food, water, and booze and get out of here. Take it all back to Bruce’s and set up camp.”
Bob said, “But my car took five feet of water. It won’t start. I’ve already tried.”
Nick said, “Okay, but Nelson’s BMW is high and dry. He won’t be using it. I’ve got the keys in my pocket.”
“You took his keys?”
“Sure. They were on the kitchen counter. House keys too.”
“What if the cops come back to investigate?” Bruce asked.
“I doubt if they’ll be back this week, and they can get in if they want.”
“You want to steal his car?” Bob asked.
“No, I want to borrow it. Downtown is at least three miles away, and through a minefield. It’s a disaster, Bob, every dog for himself. Different rules apply. I say we raid Nelson’s fridge and pantry and take the good stuff. It’s just going to rot anyway.”
Bruce said, “I like it. We take the food, borrow the car, bring it back when the roads are clear. The cops are far too busy elsewhere.”
“What if they stop us?”
“For doing what? They won’t know we’re driving a dead man’s car.”
“All right, all right.”
In his upstairs guest room, Bob emptied two large plastic containers filled with old clothes. They loaded them with four thawing steaks and a chicken from his freezer, some cold cuts and cheese, eight bottles of beer, three bottles of bourbon, and two bottles of vodka. Bob locked his condo and they set off, lugging their loot.
Bob said, “If the cops see us they’ll start shooting.”
“Do you see any cops?”
“I don’t see anyone.”
Minutes later, they arrived back at Nelson’s, all three panting and even more exhausted. They entered through the rear patio so they would not be seen, though there was no one to see them. Bruce went to the garage and tried to open the overhead door. It wouldn’t budge until he found the manual bypass switch next to the motor. He and Nick grunted and pulled until the door was open. They quickly filled the trunk with canned goods and boxes of pasta from the pantry, bacon, eggs, and cheese from the fridge. The freezer was empty except for two steaks and two frozen pizzas. Gluten free. They took them, then made a generous haul from Nelson’ s bar. He liked good Scotch and they helped themselves to it, along with every other bottle they could grab. Luckily, they found an entire case of imported sparkling water.
Since Bruce knew more cops than Bob or Nick, he was chosen as the driver. Nick lifted the yellow crime scene tape and Bruce eased the car under it. They were in the street, their borrowed car packed with loot, and headed toward downtown, certain they would be stopped and arrested. The fifteen-minute drive took two hours as they weaved around fallen trees, got blocked at almost every turn, negotiated through police barriers, and waited at unnecessary checkpoints. They passed a few residents cleaning up, all dazed and tired. They passed a few other cars. The police and Guardsmen were busy, stressed, suspicious, and of little help. They were in rescue mode and had no time for curious sightseers. One helpful policeman saved them with directions that led to a gravel road along a marsh.
They parked in Bruce’s driveway and immediately ran to the kitchen for a bottle of water. The generator was rattling away on the terrace and Bruce turned it off. He had less than five gallons of gasoline. All breakers were off except for the refrigerator, freezer, and a circuit that cooled and lit the kitchen and den. The rest of the house was hot and muggy.
They unloaded the car, stashed away the food and drinks, opened three bottles of cold beer, and sat in the den for a long rest. Bob, who had slept not a wink before, during, and after the storm, soon nodded off in his chair. Nick followed him on the sofa. Bruce needed a nap too but his mind was racing. He restarted the generator and set the thermostat on 80. Tomorrow’s priority would be gasoline.
He left his men to their slumbers and began walking. His bookstore was only four blocks away, and as tired as he was, he needed the exercise. The floodwaters had receded to a point about a block from the harbor. Two police cars were parked in the center of Main Street. Barricades kept away traffic that did not exist.
Bruce knew one of the officers and shook hands with both of them. They passed along the latest rumors: The phone company was hard at work on a temporary cell tower. Might have service as early as tomorrow. Ten dead now, with about a dozen missing but there was no way to know if they were really missing or in a motel somewhere. A tornado did some damage ten miles to the west, but no one was hurt. The bridge was open to rescue personnel, volunteers, and supplies, but not to residents. Not sure when the islanders would be allowed to return. Electricity was a priority but would take days. Crews were arriving from as far away as Orlando. Generators were pouring in. All stores were ordered closed until further notice. Except for Kroger, which had a large generator and was open for business. More Guard units were on the way.
Bruce walked to his store and unlocked the front door with great trepidation. One day before, he and his crew had managed to move ten thousand books to the second floor, where they were now safe and dry. As were the rugs and most of the shelving. On the first floor the heart pine floors were wet and muddy and probably ruined. Judging from the stains on the wall behind the cash register, the floodwaters reached a height of exactly four and a half feet before they receded.
Oh well. He had plenty of insurance and plenty of money. Everything could be repaired, and before long he would be back in business. It could’ve been far worse. He climbed the stairs and walked onto the balcony where he had shared many cappuccinos and lots of good wine with friends and touring writers. He had met Nelson there, not that many years ago.
The madness of the past twenty-four hours had muddled his brain and made clear thinking impossible. During the storm, his frightened thoughts had been on physical survival. Once it passed, he went into a panic phase as he desperately worried about damage to his home and store. And now, after seeing Nelson, he was on the verge of bewilderment. The murder theory was giving him headaches.
He breathed deeply and tried to imagine the phone call to Nelson’s parents. Surely the police had made contact by now, and surely his family was frantically trying to reach someone on the island who knew more. He felt an obligation to at least attempt to contact them. Not for the first time he contemplated loading up Bob and Nick and making a run for it. In his car, not Nelson’s. They could drive two hours, probably south, and find cell service and a motel. Bruce could call the Kerr family and also check in with Mercer, Myra and Leigh, and other friends. But once off the island it might be impossible to return.
And where was Nelson’s dog? And how many pets were lost in the storm?
The breathing helped little and his nerves were still frayed. He walked up a narrow stairway to his old apartment on the third floor and found a bottle of single malt. The air was thick and musty so he returned to the balcony and poured a strong one. After a few sips he felt himself relax, and soon he was able to hold on to one thought at a time.
He assumed the state crime lab would conduct a proper autopsy. The storm had caused other fatalities and the lab might get stressed somewhat, but for a murder it would certainly take its time. If the autopsy confirmed Nick’s theory, then what was the next step? Trusting Hoppy Durden to get to the bottom of things seemed like a joke. He seemed to have little interest in a possible homicide. Who would inform Nelson’s parents that he was not only dead but had been murdered? It was entirely plausible that Hoppy and his bosses would show little sympathy for some clown venturing outdoors in a Cat 4 and getting hit by falling limbs. Faced with what appeared to be an unsolvable crime, they could easily decide to embrace the theory that there was no crime at all, just an accident. Nelson was new to the island, kept to himself and had few friends, and he was a writer anyway and those folks are known to be odd. Blame it on flying debris and close the file.
Bruce finished his drink, returned the bottle to the apartment, and left Bay Books. He walked to Noelle’s shop to assess the damage.
There was enough charcoal to fill the grill, and Bruce built a raging fire. He cooked Nelson’s steaks first, for their dinner, then grilled sausages, hot dogs, pork chops, and everything else in the freezer, which was running at one-quarter speed. When the coals were perfect, he put on two whole chickens.
They ate on the veranda, in fading sunlight, and washed down the steaks with a bottle of Syrah. When they finished, Bruce cleared the table and poured more wine.
Bob suddenly stood, cracked his knuckles, and said, “Okay, boys, I have to get this off my chest. I’m not sure I’ll tell the cops. I don’t know what to do so I want your advice.” He was suddenly fidgety and nervous, and began pacing back and forth. “I had a woman with me last night, said her name was Ingrid. Met her on Friday at the bar in the Hilton. A real looker, probably forty years old, with a body like you’ve never seen. Said she had a black belt and lived in the gym. Said she was staying at the hotel for a few days of beach time. I took her home, she spent the night, and man she was something. A real handful, all muscle and tone. She hung around. We had lunch with Nelson on Saturday and he couldn’t take his eyes off her. She stayed over that night too, couldn’t get enough. She almost killed me. I’m fifty-four, you know, and my stamina ain’t bad, a lot of practice, but I couldn’t keep up. I thought about bringing her to dinner Sunday at your place to meet Mercer, and of course to show off, but thought better of it. When the storm turned our way, she was planning to leave, at first. Then she decided to stay, which was okay with me. If I could ride out the storm, then so could she. When it hit, though, she panicked, I mean really freaked out and wanted to go back to the hotel. I was worried about the flood surge because my street is lower than the others, and when I said I thought we might get some water she went nuts on me. We had a fight, nothing physical, I figured she could snap my neck if she wanted to, but there was a lot of yelling and cussing. She bolted, just after dark. I mean she ran out of my condo into the storm with me yelling at her the whole time. She went crazy, slap-ass crazy. And I let her go. I mean, hell, she was just a hookup, you know. Nothing serious. I figured if she wanted to disappear into wind strong enough to roll over a car, then so be it. My last image was her disappearing down the street, leaning sideways into the wind, struggling to keep her feet.”
Bob sat down and gulped his wine. They waited, and finally Bruce asked, “Is that the end of it?”
“No. A few minutes later, Nelson called. The last call before we lost service. He told me she was at his place and acting really bizarre. What was going on? I said I didn’t know. He said he would try to take care of her.”
Another pause, and Bruce asked, “Okay, anything else?”
“No. That’s all.”
For a long time nothing was said. Bob had settled down but was breathing heavily, his eyes drooping, defeated. “I don’t know how to handle this,” he mumbled.
Bruce said, “Well, you have to tell the police, that’s for certain.”
“I suppose, but I really don’t want to get involved. After meeting Officer Hoppy I don’t have much faith in these cops. Hell, he’ll probably suspect me and I don’t need that.”
“How can he suspect you?”
“I have a record.”
“Come on. That’s history. You can’t be a suspect.”
“Stranger things have happened.”
“Did you get her last name?” Nick asked.
“Murphy. Ingrid Murphy, from Atlanta. But I doubt if any of that is true.”
“The hotel will have records,” Bruce said.
“Maybe. Right now the hotel is about to tilt over. You saw it today. They’ll probably condemn it.”
Nick said, “I doubt if she was staying there.”
Both looked at him, confused. “What are you talking about?” Bruce asked.
“If she is the last person known to be with Nelson before he was bludgeoned to death, then let’s assume she is the killer. Indulge me here, okay? I honestly doubt the same tree hit him four times. Someone took a blunt weapon and cracked his skull, right? Given her physical attributes that Bob has so nicely described, she has the capability.”
“So, what’s the motive?” Bruce asked.
“There is none. How did she meet Nelson?” Nick asked Bob.
Bob replied, “Like I said, we had lunch.”
“Was it her idea?”
Bob scratched his chin, thought for a moment, and said, “Well, sort of. She claimed to be a big reader, liked my books and all, and we talked about other writers on the island. When I said Nelson was a friend, she got excited. Clicked off all his titles, seemed to know them inside and out.”
“Odd,” Nick said. “Not exactly girl stuff.”
“I thought the same thing.”
Nick said, “Ingrid just met Nelson and then she killed him, but it wasn’t random. She came here for that purpose. The motive was money, because she was paid to do the job. Where did you have lunch?”
“At the Shack, down under the bridge.”
“Where I’ll bet they don’t have cameras,” Nick said.
“Herman probably doesn’t lock the door at night,” Bruce said.
“Who suggested the Shack?” Nick asked.
“So you’re still the detective, huh?”
“I’ll bet it was her idea.”
Bob scratched his chin more, tried to remember. “Matter of fact, it was her idea. She said she had read about the place and wanted to try it. This sounded true because it gets its share of reviews. Travel magazines and stuff. Keep going, Sherlock. I want to hear your theory.”
“She set you up. She managed to catch your eye around the hotel bar, where you’re known to prowl. She got you in the sack, surprise surprise, and you led her to Nelson, the target. She got lucky when the storm took aim at us and provided the perfect setting. A murder in the middle of a hurricane. She’s a pro, fearless, tough, and waited until the storm had passed and daylight was coming and made her getaway. She’ll probably never be found. I’ll bet you a hundred dollars, which I don’t have, that she was not registered at the Hilton.”
Bruce appeared dumbfounded. “Anything else?”
“Just speculating, of course. But I’ll bet she had a team with her. Probably rented a condo for a week or two. Had plenty of backup and they knew how to get off the island about the time that Leo was leaving. Don’t ask me how.”
“So what was the murder weapon?” Bob asked.
“We may never know, but it could’ve been Nelson’s seven iron. I looked at his clubs this morning when you two were sitting on the patio. There’s a stain and some matter on the seven iron. Could be blood, I don’t know. I didn’t touch anything. When swung properly, a seven iron, or any iron for that matter, can do some real damage to a skull.”
Bruce asked Bob, “And she was strong enough to move his body?”
“Oh sure. I weigh two hundred pounds and she really bounced me around. Of course I wasn’t resisting, mind you. Nelson weighs, weighed, a buck-seventy at most.”
Bruce said, “But there was no electricity. How could she find his golf clubs with no lights?”
“He had at least two flashlights. We used one this morning. Maybe she had been there before. Maybe someone else scoped the place when Nelson wasn’t home.”
“A lot of maybes,” Bob said. “You got quite an imagination.”
“I do. Let’s hear your theory.”
“I don’t have one and I’m not thinking too clearly right now. Hell, we don’t even know if it’s a murder. I say we wait till the autopsy.”
They sat in the darkness and listened to the distant sounds of their battered island. A gas-engine generator was rattling a street or two over. A helicopter was making a night run in the direction of the beach. A siren wailed far away. But none of the usual languid nighttime sounds—neighbors laughing on their porches, music emanating from stereos, dogs barking, cars easing down the street, the distant horn of a shrimp boat entering the harbor.
Bruce slapped a mosquito on his neck and said, “That’s it. Let’s go inside.” He started his generator, closed the terrace door, and they regrouped in the den where the air was a bit cooler. All lights were off but for a small table lamp by the television. Bruce set it on a card table and said, “How about some poker?”
He poured a round of single malt from Nelson’s collection and they toasted their late friend. The alcohol mixed with the fatigue and the poker was cut short. Bob slept on one sofa; Nick on another. Bruce stretched out in his recliner and soon fell asleep to the rickety hum of his generator.