Without a Grave (25 page)

I reset all the clocks, stunned to discover that it was not yet noon.

When I finally plugged my iPhone in to its cradle, there were three voice messages from Paul, each increasingly more frantic. He'd heard about the Parkers on the news and was home in Annapolis, awaiting my call.

But he wasn't. When I called, I got the machine. He wasn't at Emily's either, but I had a nice chat with my daughter and her family – skipping all the scary bits – then called Paul back, leaving a message that I was fine, and not to worry.

Then I brewed myself a cup of hot tea, and thought about what I would do next.

If it hadn't been for Molly's ruined boat, I could half convince myself that the previous night had been a dream. As I sipped my tea, a phantom Paul perched on my shoulder asking for a rational explanation, so I tried to give him one.

First, the airplane. Could be Rudy Mueller, running late, returning to his resort.

How about the packages we'd seen? Nothing more than luggage. Or supplies in bulk.

I still didn't know what to make of the mini-sub. It looked old, decrepit. I knew they sank old ships to make artificial reefs. Maybe that's what Mueller had planned for the sub.

There was one way to find out, though. Ask.

I changed into white jeans and a flowered top, found my boat shoes under the bed, and drove
Pro Bono
over to the settlement. I had to eat lunch somewhere, I reasoned, and it might as well be at the Tamarind Tree. Even though I didn't own a golf cart, it was an easy, half-mile stroll down a paved path to the entrance of the resort where Lou was on duty at the gate. Amazingly, he recognized me. Maybe my picture was posted inside the gatehouse: BOLO, Hannah Ives, Troublemaker.

‘Good to see you again, Mrs Ives.'

‘You, too, Lou. Are they serving lunch today?'

‘They are. Go on in.'

I skirted the gate and ambled up the path.

At the Tamarind Tree restaurant, I stood at the wooden podium. My fingers traced the intricately carved decorations – geckos chasing each other's tails – while I waited for the hostess to seat me. To my surprise, the woman who crossed the room to greet me like her best friend from college was Gabriele Mueller.

‘How lovely to see you, Hannah. I was wondering when we'd have the pleasure of entertaining you and your husband.' Her eyes flicked right and left, checking the empty air behind me. ‘Is Paul with you today?'

Mind like a steel trap, our Gabriele. Met us only once and had our names down pat. My brain, on the other hand, remained largely untrained in spite of taking Kevin Trudeau's Mega Memory course. If I remembered a name for more than five minutes, it was a miracle.

‘Sadly, he's gone back to Baltimore on business. So it's just me!' I chirped.

I was starving, and the aroma of fresh seafood wafting my way from the direction of the outdoor grill was making me swoon. But I knew I'd not enjoy a single bite if some questions weren't answered to my satisfaction. ‘Is your father here, Gabriele?'

‘He is. He came in late last night. I absolutely hate it when he flies in after dark. One day he's going to kill himself, and then where will we be?'

Answer to question number one. Onward and upward. ‘Is he here now? I'd like to talk to him.'

‘Sorry, no. He took the launch to Marsh Harbour on business. Is there something I can help you with?'

‘Do you expect him soon?'

‘Later this afternoon, perhaps. It's always hard to say with Papa.'

‘Perhaps you
can
help me, then, Gabriele. I hate to interrupt you while you're working, but is there someplace private we can talk?'

‘Oh, that's not a problem! I just play at being hostess from time to time, remind everyone who's boss.' She waved her arm to attract the attention of a lovely young Bahamian dressed in the ladies' version of the TTR uniform: a polo shirt identical to the men, but with a khaki skirt instead of pants.

‘Thanks, Lucy.' Gabriele handed the girl the stack of menus she was carrying, then motioned for me to follow her.

‘We can use my father's office. I'm sure he won't mind.'

Gabriele led me down a long hallway, open to the outside world at both ends. Grass cloth covered the walls above a dark wooden chair rail, and small parsons tables had been placed here and there along the way. On each table, an oriental vase held arrangements of tropical flowers. I touched one of the hibiscus as I went by. It was real.

Rudy Mueller's desk was huge, a block of walnut the size of a Volkswagen, with carvings of pineapples and palm leaves snaking along its sides. Gabriele showed me to one of two chintz-covered armchairs that flanked a gas fireplace, then sat down in the one opposite.

‘Can I get you anything, Mrs Ives. Coffee, tea? It's no trouble, really.'

‘No thank you. I'm here to lodge a serious complaint, actually, one that you'll probably hear about in due course as I had no alternative but to report the incident to the police.'

Cool as a cucumber, Gabriele sat at attention, hands folded, eyes locked on mine as if every word that fell from my mouth was a tiny, polished diamond. When she didn't respond, I went on. ‘This morning, my neighbor and I, an elderly woman who lives on Bonefish Cay, Molly Weston, perhaps you know her?'

Gabriele shook her head.

‘Molly and I had heard that Poinciana Point was a fabulous place for collecting sand dollars,' I continued, ‘so we came over in Molly's Zodiac and . . .'

Gabriele's hand shot out across the fireplace screen and grabbed mine. ‘
You
were on that Zodiac? Oh, Mrs Ives, I'm so incredibly sorry. I had no idea. When Kyle reported what had happened, I sent someone after you. When we found the boat . . . well, we knew you'd made it safely to shore. Since then, I've been trying to find the Zodiac's owner. That's one of the things Papa's looking into right now.

‘I don't know what got into Kyle!' she babbled on. ‘He's only worked for us a couple of months, but we'd never had any reason to question his reliability.' Gabriele blinked, massaged her temples with her fingers. ‘The man was drunk, I'm afraid. I could smell the booze on him. A
gun
!' She pressed a perfectly manicured hand to her chest. ‘We don't permit our people to carry weapons. How he even got it into the country, what with Nine-Eleven and all the airline restrictions, I'll never know.'

‘He tried to kill us, Gabriele.'

‘Kyle claims he was simply trying to scare you off. Papa's instructions were to keep people off that beach. Kyle was a bit over-zealous, I'm afraid.' She crossed one beautifully tanned leg over the other and rested a wrist on her knee. ‘But he won't trouble you any more. The man's been sacked. Papa took care of that.

‘And
please
,' she rushed on, ‘tell Mrs Weston we will replace her Zodiac with a brand-new boat of exactly the same model. It will take a few days to get here – Papa will have to order it from Florida. In the meantime, we'll arrange a rental from Water Ways in Man-O-War, so hopefully Mrs Weston won't be inconvenienced any further.'

I didn't know what to say.

We'd been shot at, but nobody died.

Molly's dinghy was totaled, but it was being replaced.

The man responsible had been fired.

Gabriele Mueller had clearly aced her course in Hospitality Management 101.

I'd filed a complaint with the Bahamian authorities, so I'd just have to let them worry about nailing Kyle's ass to the wall for possession and use of a handgun. I personally wanted to tie him to a plank and set him adrift off Antarctica, but he could get ten years in a Bahamian prison. From what I'd read about Fox Hill, he'd probably prefer the Antarctic.

‘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.

EIGHTEEN

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

S
ometime 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.