‘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.’
NINETEEN
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.’
‘I don’t like what I see on CNN. They say Helen’s heading directly for the Abacos.’
‘Hurricanes can be very unpredictable. Look what happened with Jeanne.’ Molly had mentioned to us earlier that Jeanne had meandered around the Caribbean for ten days before steaming out into the empty Atlantic. Then she surprised everyone by making a two hundred and seventy degree turn and heading back toward land. Just like a woman. Unpredictable.
On the other end of the line Paul snorted. ‘May I remind you that Jeanne devastated the Abacos.’
‘Bad example,’ I said, picking up an apple and checking it for brown spots.
‘You must always assume a storm is going to turn in your direction and act accordingly, Hannah.’
‘That’s why the house is battened down and I’m in the Pink Store, buying groceries.’
By the time I reached Winnie and the checkout counter, I had promised Paul that if it looked like the hurricane was going to be a doozey, I’d hie myself to the airport and nip out of there, pronto.
Over the next two days, resorts emptied. An unbroken procession of golf carts, ferries and taxis transported grumbling guests and their belongings to the airport where they waited in long lines – sitting on their bags, sleeping at uncomfortable angles on plastic chairs – for the privilege of being packed into tiny planes and flown to safety on the mainland.
Safety. I had to smile. When Hurricane Helen finished with Abaco, she’d no doubt head straight for Florida, then where’d they be?
Rudolph Mueller joined the stream of evacuees, too, flying himself back to San Antonio where his young family awaited. He left his son, Jaime, in charge. Jaime, who nobody’d laid eyes on for weeks. Maybe he’d evacuated, too, and just forgot to tell anyone.
Cabin cruisers, motor yachts and fishing boats headed west in flotillas. Mega-yachts, too, just as quickly as crews could be flown in to drive them back to their owners in Jupiter, Palm Beach or Miami.
Meanwhile, cruising yachtsmen were jockeying for secure moorings in Hope Town, Man-O-War and Hawksbill Cay, all popular hurricane holes, or deciding to risk a mooring in Marsh Harbour or a tie-up at one of the marinas.
By the time it was certain that Helen would make landfall in the Abacos, the Parker inquest had been cancelled, Radio Abaco shut down all programming except for storm warnings and evacuation notices, and it was too late for me to leave the islands.
I got my ditch kit together: passport, money, prescription meds, my wallet containing my Blue Cross/Blue Shield card – and put it all in a wheely duffle along with enough drinking water and clothing for three days. I packed canned goods and unperishables in a canvas tote, and added a can opener. Manual. I found some long-life milk only two months past its sell-by date, so I chucked that into the bag, too. My sleeping bag topped everything off.