‘Who do you think is responsible?’
Henry’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. ‘Mueller, of course, or that free-loading son of his.’ He picked up the packet of handouts I’d set aside at the end of a pew and held them out to me. ‘Can’t think about it too much or it makes me crazy. Would you mind passing these out for me?’
I saw that the handout was a PowerPoint summary of his presentation, nine slides per page. In my experience with the corporate world it was best to save the handouts until after your talk, otherwise you’d be distracted by rattling pages all the while you were speaking, but this was Henry’s show, not mine, so I said, ‘Sure,’ and went to look for Molly.
I found her at the refreshments table near the entrance to the sanctuary arranging sugar cookies on paper plates. An orange and white Thermos the size of a barrel sat at one end of the table, surrounded by stacks of paper cups. ‘What’s in the Thermos?’ I asked.
‘Ice water. Want some?’
‘Maybe later. I’ve got these handouts. Want to help?’
Molly worked the right side of the aisle and I the left, the job taking longer than anticipated because we had to greet and chat with everyone along the way. I handed one to Gator Crockett personally. He had spruced up for the occasion, digging deep into his closet for olive-green Dockers and a pale-yellow polo shirt. ‘Hey, Gator. I nearly didn’t recognize you without your hat.’
‘Wouldn’t miss this meeting for all the world.’ He accepted the printout and scanned the top sheet quickly. ‘It’s a pity Frank Parker can’t be here. He didn’t turn up, did he?’
‘No,’ I said simply.
‘Is anybody filling in?’
‘Not that I know of.’
I met other people I recognized from the settlement, including Winnie looking extraordinarily pretty in pink, and her husband, Ted. The postmistress, a well-rounded woman of sturdy island stock, sat in the front row clutching an oversized tote bag to her bosom. From the way she stared straight ahead and scowled at the pulpit, I thought she might be carrying rotten tomatoes, in case the discussion turned ugly.
Troy Albury, freshly shaved and with his mustache neatly trimmed, hurried in, glanced around, then sat down next to Pattie Toler. The two had their heads together, talking earnestly. A few minutes later, Vernon Malone slipped into the end of the pew.
I didn’t see any Muellers until five minutes before show time when Gabriele wafted in, smiling and looking confident, dressed for success in a yellow and white sundress and high-heeled sandals. Her dark hair hung loose; tendrils caressing her collarbone. Without stopping to talk to anyone, she made a beeline for Henry Allen who stood behind the pulpit, arranging his papers. She extended her hand. ‘My father sends his regrets, Mr Allen, but he’s tied up in San Antonio.’
Swivel, turn, a dazzling smile for me. ‘One of the twins has appendicitis, Mrs Ives. I’m sure you understand.’
Step, turn, a hair flip for Henry. ‘But I’m here to represent the family, and I’ll be happy to address any of your concerns.’
‘Is your brother here?’ I asked. I was impervious to hair flips.
‘No. Just me.’
That was a relief. I watched as she coasted back down the aisle, taking a seat in the rear.
Henry, too, seemed relieved at the news that his meeting would proceed Jaime-less. He stood taller, straighter. Cool eyes appraising the audience. Acknowledging individuals with a nod, or a wave.
Paul had been saving a place for me, so I eased myself into the second row between him and Molly.
‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,’ Henry began. ‘Most of you know me. I’m Henry Allen, warden at Out Island Land and Sea Park. As you know, ever since we learned of El Mirador Land Corporation’s purchase of the old Island Fantasy property, we’ve been concerned about the impact their planned development will have on our island, our reef and our livelihoods.’
Henry aimed a remote at the laptop and clicked over to his first slide, a picture of two men climbing into an airplane, a bright-yellow, two-seater Savage Cub. ‘First, I want to show you how Hawksbill Cay looked two years ago, prior to the commencement of construction.’
I wasn’t surprised by the slides, which had been taken about the same time as the aerial photographs Paul and I had seen at the art show in Marsh Harbour. As Henry paged through the slides, Hawksbill’s small settlement stood out clearly over the wing of the airplane: a simple grid of narrow streets beaded with cottages, its marina and shipyard piers delicately fringing the water, with a scattering of pleasure boats moored like sequins in the harbor.
The northwestern end of the island stood out in jewel-like perfection, too, like a brooch of emerald green, trimmed with a brilliant strip of sand, all set in the translucent turquoise of the sea.
‘Before,’ Henry said simply. He aimed his remote and pressed the button. ‘Now we come to the “After.”’
As one slide transitioned to the next, there was a collective gasp as the audience gradually came to realize what they were seeing. I was prepared for the gash of the runway, of course; I’d seen it from Windswept. But the extent of the damage that construction had brought to the interior of Hawksbill Cay was astonishing.
From the raw end of the runway a long tongue of silt curled into the sea. ‘Where are the silt containment curtains we were assured would be used during all phases of construction?’ Henry asked. ‘Only in the El Mirador brochures, apparently.’
The next slide was even more alarming. The mangroves that had formerly grown thick along Tom’s Creek had been bulldozed and burned, the gently curving shoreline turned into mud flats, desolate as a moonscape. To one side of the photo a backhoe crouched, its bucket resting on the ground, looking almost apologetic for the damage it had caused.
‘I come from Kentucky,’ someone in the audience behind me shouted. ‘Our strip mines look better than that!’
Henry acknowledged the interruption with a nod, then clicked to the next slide. ‘This is where the condos are going to be built,’ he continued.
I realized I was staring at an aerial shot of what had once been a hillside leading down to a pristine creek. El Mirador’s hungry backhoes had scraped the earth bare, literally wounding the island, leaving ugly brown scabs. ‘This is not hard land,’ Henry continued, highlighting the hillside area with a wavering beam of a red laser pointer. ‘It is porous limestone directly connected to the wetlands. Destruction of our mangrove and sea grass nurseries will have a hugely negative impact on the reef communities that support our local populations of commercially important fish as well as our lobster and conch.’
‘I suppose this is what El Mirador meant when they advertised that all the bungalows will be nestled within a lovely mangrove forest,’ Molly grumbled.
Gabriele was on her feet. ‘Naturally we have to clear land if we are going to build houses,’ she said as she glided toward the front of the sanctuary, addressing the audience to the right and to the left of her as she made her way up the aisle. ‘But the impact on the ecosystem has been shown to be minimal. Our environmental impact statement is already on record and has been approved by BEST. As you may recall, we hired an independent researcher led by Adam Hardin, a top marine scientist.’
‘What’s BEST?’ I whispered to Molly.
‘Bahamian Environment, Science and Technology Commission,’ she whispered back. ‘They’re supposed to review environmental impact statements and coordinate between developers and the government. They’re supposed to be on our side.’
‘That’s a crock!’ someone wearing a red ball cap shouted. ‘Your so-called scientist is the son-in-law of one of El Mirador’s major investors!’