Without a Grave Read online

  When Jim moved on to the ocean passage reports, Latitude Adjustment called in from the Whale where the waves could be high and the going pretty tough if the wind and the tide were against you. But there were no worries that day at the Whale. ‘Flat calm,’ the caller reported. ‘You could waterski through there.’

  ‘Guitarist Clint Sawyer at Curly Tails on Friday night,’ Jim announced, continuing with local events. ‘Come hear the “Music Man” and watch the sun go down.

  ‘Steak BBQ at the Jib Room on Saturday. Music and dancing to follow.

  ‘Sunday pig roast at Nippers Beach Bar and Grill, starting at 12:30!

  ‘Nightlife as usual in the Abacos.’

  I had moved away from the table and was busying myself with the breakfast dishes when an announcement on the Net caught my attention.

  ‘Here’s your invitation to an arts and crafts show and wine tasting this coming Saturday at Island Designs in Marsh Harbour. Starting at two thirty it continues till – well, until you’re done. Wine is provided courtesy of Brenda Claridge at Tupps, and Cassandra from the Cruise Inn and Conch Out is cooking up a storm, so bring along your appetites. You’ll find Island Designs near the turn-off to the Abaco Beach Resort, just down the road from Ziggy’s. No tickets required, just show up. US dollars, Bahamian dollars, or max out your credit cards. Be there or be square.’

  Paul read my mind. ‘That sounds like fun, Hannah. Want to go?’

  I shook out the dish towel and draped it over the oven door handle to dry. ‘You bet.’ The last event I’d attended in Marsh Harbour was a session at the Anglican Parish Hall on the predatory lionfish. It concluded (unexpectedly, at least for me) with a lesson on how to cook the critter without getting stung by its poisonous spines. Too much information, to my way of thinking.

  ‘A rubber dinghy lost somewhere between Hope Town and Matt Lowe’s Cay.

  ‘A boat seat cushion found floating at the entrance to Marsh Harbour.’

  And the Net, for that day, was done.

  Paul gathered up his papers and his laptop and headed off to the porch while I checked the water level in the cistern, the 30,000 gallon concrete tank that was under the front porch. This involved getting down on my hands and knees, lifting the two-by-two-foot hatch and peering into the dark, drippy depths where water bugs the size of mice were likely to play. Nearly full. So I washed a load of laundry and hung it out in the orchard to dry.

  While Paul worked, I spent the rest of the day lying in the hammock reading and feeling guilty. But not very. I’d had a bit of a hard-knock life, too. I gazed over the top of my book, past my bare toes and beyond to the porch railing where a curly tail crouched, puffing up his red throat to attract the attention of some invisible lady lizard. In the front yard, Daniel was raking, drawing lines and gentle swirls in the sand, like a Zen garden. It was therapeutic just to watch him. Past Daniel was the beach, and beyond it, the vast turquoise expanse of the sea.

  Yes, I thought, after all you’ve been through, you deserve a little time in paradise, Hannah.

  THREE

  HOW CHEERFULLY HE SEEMS TO GRIN,

  HOW NEATLY SPREADS HIS CLAWS,

  AND WELCOMES LITTLE FISHES IN

  WITH GENTLY SMILING JAWS!

  Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in

  Wonderland, 1865

  Saturday dawned sunny and warm, but the wind was piping up. With my morning coffee in hand, I stood on the porch and stared out at the white caps that were chasing from one shoreline to the other across the Sea of Abaco.

  ‘That’s a pretty good chop,’ Paul said behind me. ‘I don’t think we’ll be taking Pro Bono over to Marsh Harbour today.’

  I agreed. The thought of powering an eighteen-foot outboard into the teeth of the wind, slamming into the waves – thwack, thwack, thwack – taking spray across the bow until water was ankle deep in the cockpit, made me shudder.

  At eleven fifteen, Paul tuned to Channel 68 and hailed the ferry. We waited for the boat as usual at the end of Windswept’s dock.

  The Donnie X was bang on time, with Brent Albury at the wheel. We watched, marveling, as Brent reversed engines and backed the big vessel slowly up to the dock where it idled, gently kissing the pilings. We hopped aboard.

  I plopped down gratefully next to my husband on one of Donnie’s vinyl-covered benches, joining a group of passengers that swelled to thirteen as we stopped for pickups at Hawksbill and Man-O-War Cays. Brent went easy on the gas as he guided the vessel gingerly between the narrow cut that formed the entrance to Man-O-War, but juiced it up to full throttle when he reached the open sea. Donnie seemed to revel in the freedom; the boat reared up and roared through the channel between Sandy and Garden Cays, cutting through the chop like a hot knife through butter. Even the waves seemed to lie down before him.

  Twenty minutes later, Brent eased the ferry into its regular slip at Crossing Beach just east of Marsh Harbour. We stepped off, strolled past the long line of cabs waiting for passengers and walked west on the main road, covering the half-mile or so to Island Designs in about ten minutes. Cars drive on the left in the Bahamas, so we walked to the right, facing traffic, taking advantage of the sidewalk – where there was one. When it inexplicably disappeared, we walked in the street, expertly dodging puddles and speeding cars as all the locals do.

  Behind the banana-yellow wooden building that housed Island Designs and two other shops, a huge tent had been erected. Paul and I followed a pod of camera-bearing, flip-flop-wearing, German-speaking tourists inside.

  Just to our left, Andy Albury’s hand-carved half-ship models were for sale, the natural beauty of their grain enhanced by what must have been hours of sanding and varnishing by hand. The booth next to Andy’s had been reserved by his daughter, Sonya, who was holding up one of her signature straw totes to give a customer a closer look. We passed up the artist who seemed to be specializing in celebrity portraits on black velvet – Puh-leeze! Will they never go out of fashion? – in favor of Kim Rody’s vibrant acrylic-on-canvas seascapes. Whether painting sea turtles, blue-striped grunts, angel fish or rock lobster, the Fishartista’s swirling brush strokes seemed to imitate the movement of water. Two booths down, I got distracted by a necklace to die for by Linda Schleif – an artist who lived on a boat in Hope Town marina – and when I looked up, Paul had gone. Promising Linda I’d return later, I went off in search of my husband.

  I caught up with Paul at a booth displaying large, sofa-sized aerial photographs of the Abaco islands. Smaller versions of the photos, the vendor’s samples, were encased in plastic sleeves and stored in notebooks, one for each island group. Paul was flipping through the one labeled Man-O-War. ‘Check this out,’ he said when he noticed me breathing down his neck.

  Sandwiched between Man-O-War Cay to the east and Scotland Cay to the west, little horseshoe-shaped Hawksbill Cay stood out like an emerald in a sapphire sea. Bonefish Cay, our island home, lay to the south-east, a half moon that formed a natural, protective barrier for Hawksbill’s harbor. If I squinted, I could make out our cottage on tiny Beulah Bay, and to the south of it, the speck of light blue that was my favorite swimming ground, Barracuda Reef.

  I ran my fingers over the plastic-covered image of our little piece of paradise. ‘Buy this for me?’

  Paul, bless him, produced his credit card and arranged to have a sixteen by twenty inch copy of the photograph packaged and shipped back home to Maryland where our godson was house-sitting for us.

  ‘Thank you!’ I gave him a peck on the cheek.

  ‘This is thirsty work,’ Paul said, as he tucked his credit card back into his wallet. ‘Do you think you can locate the bar?’

  It wasn’t hard. That was where the line was. When our turn came, Paul bought us each a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. We carried our glasses outside into the sunshine where another line had formed in front of a booth bearing the sign:

  Hors d’Oeuvres Compliments of

  ‘Cruise Inn and Conch Out’

  Visit Us on Hawksb
ill Cay

  We Monitor Channels 16 and 68

  www.cruiseinnconchout.com

  Paul and I were making do with pineapple and cheese on a toothpick, and engaging in idle chit-chat while waiting for the line to go down so we could get a crack at some of Cassandra’s amazing conch fritters when, behind me, somebody laughed.

  I turned to see a woman wearing a flowered, halter-top sundress and strappy sandals talking to a guy in a white polo shirt and chinos. The woman I recognized from a picture in The Abaconian, Pattie Toler, goddess of the Net. Her brown, shoulder-length hair glinted with red highlights in the sun, and she’d caught it back at the sides with tortoiseshell combs. I had no idea about the guy, except to say that he was tall, bronzed and drop-dead, be-still-my-heart gorgeous. Think James Bond, of the Sean Connery persuasion, except Hispanic.

  I elbowed Paul. ‘That’s Pattie Toler,’ I whispered. ‘I want to meet her.’

  I was insanely curious about the guy she was talking to, too, but I didn’t think it wise to mention it.

  I waited, watching for an opportunity to interrupt their conversation, twiddling my empty toothpick. Pattie pulled a cigarette from a pack in her purse, paused – presumably to ask the guy if he minded – before she put it between her lips and lit up. Pattie inhaled deeply, turned her head politely to the side to exhale, then continued talking.

  Meanwhile, I polished off two carrot sticks and a piece of celery. When Paul took my wine glass away for a refill, I muttered, ‘Screw the wait,’ and wandered closer to Pattie and her companion. I hovered silently, but conspicuously at her elbow.

  She acknowledged me immediately, almost as if she were glad for the interruption. ‘You look like you could use some champagne.’ She toasted me with her empty flute.

  ‘I could. Thanks.’

  Pattie glanced around the tent, raised her glass and, as if by magic, a server materialized, carrying a tray of champagne. Parking her cigarette between her index and middle fingers, Pattie set her empty flute on the tray and snagged two fresh ones. ‘Here,’ she smiled as she handed me one of the glasses. ‘I’m Pattie Toler. Blue Dolphin.’

  ‘I figured,’ I said, returning the smile. ‘I’m Hannah Ives. My husband and I . . .’

  I was about to add our particulars, but she already knew. Pattie Toler, moderator of the world’s largest party line, knew everything. ‘Windswept, on Bonefish. You’re the ones who found that stray dinghy last week, right?’

  ‘Guilty. It fetched up against our dock one morning. Belonged to one of the cruisers in Hawksbill Harbour who was very surprised to wake up and find himself stranded in the middle of the harbor with no way to get ashore.’

  ‘Except swim,’ drawled her companion.

  ‘There is that,’ I said, turning to study the speaker more closely. Movie-idol good looks, impossibly white teeth. The kind of mature guy who always gets the girl.

  Pattie slapped a hand to her forehead. ‘Where are my manners? Hannah, this is Rudolph Mueller. Rudy owns the Tamarind Tree Resort and Marina. Been gone for a few weeks. Flew in on Wednesday.’

  ‘Testing the runway,’ Rudy grinned. He took my hand in his cool dry one and gave it a gentle squeeze. ‘I hope we’ll have the pleasure of entertaining you at the Tamarind Tree some time.’

  ‘We’ve been meaning to . . .’ I sputtered, my knees suddenly turning to jelly as Rudy’s dark-chocolate eyes augured into mine. ‘My husband and I,’ I stammered. ‘Uh, maybe for our anniversary.’ I’d become a gibbering idiot. Had Rudy peered out his cockpit window and seen me naked? He certainly was giving me the impression he had.

  He still had hold of my hand. ‘We’re soon to open the restaurant, Hannah. May I call you Hannah?’

  I nodded stupidly.

  ‘We’ve gutted and completely remodeled the old Tamarind Tree. And I’ve hired the chef from El Conquistador in Fajardo.’

  ‘Fajardo?’

  ‘Puerto Rico.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘He starts on Emancipation Day.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘August first.’

  ‘Right.’ I couldn’t put two words together to make a sentence.

  ‘So we’re having a banquet,’ Rudy continued, finally releasing my hand. ‘Prix fixe. Forty dollars. Benicio . . .’ He paused, smiling. ‘Our chef, Benicio Escamilla Ávalos, perhaps you’ve heard of him?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Well, no matter. What’s important is that Benicio prepares the best crack conch you will get anywhere.’ He laid a hand on my shoulder.

  An electric charge, I swear, passed from his body into mine. And, damn the man, he knew it. ‘So we can count on you, then? And your husband, too?’ He raised an eloquent eyebrow that hinted at perhaps your husband will fall ill, or be lost at sea, or abducted by aliens, then fortunately we . . . ?

  Somehow I managed to breathe. ‘We’ll be delighted, I’m sure. And speaking of food,’ I rattled on, finding my voice at last, ‘the conch fritters here are to die for.’ I gestured toward the Cruise Inn and Conch Out’s booth where Cassandra and Albert Sands were scuttling about, catering to the ravenous hordes.

  ‘The competition,’ Rudy added, although from his tone, it was clear that he didn’t consider the Sands’ modest, home-style Bahamian restaurant any competition at all. Frankly, I’d take Cassie’s fried plantain over any highfalutin Paris-trained chef who whipped up the same dish and put it on the menu as banane frite, but I was polite enough not to say so.

  While the three of us chatted, a young, twenty-something beauty showed up at Rudy’s side, hovering proprietorially. Trophy wife? She was dressed in an ankle-length floral skirt and a bright-yellow tank top that complimented her lightly bronzed skin. Voluptuous raven curls were twisted into a knot at the crown of her head and held in place with a tortoiseshell claw. When the conversation wound down, she touched Rudy’s arm and said, ‘Papa?’ neatly trashing my trophy-wife theory.

  ‘Qué quieres, mi pequeña joya?’

  ‘I’ve got a prospective buyer, Papa. I could use your help.’

  Rudy took his daughter’s hand, tucked it under his arm, then turned to Pattie and me, bowing slightly. ‘Duty calls. You’ll excuse us, then, ladies?’

  Pattie answered for both of us. ‘Of course.’

  I took a deep breath and let it out. ‘Who is she?’ I asked when father and daughter had disappeared into the tent.

  ‘That’s Gabriele Mueller, Rudy’s daughter, as I’m sure you gathered. He’s got a son living on Hawksbill, too. Rudy’s wife . . .’ She lowered her voice. ‘Wife number two. She stays back in San Antonio with the twins. They must be four or five years old by now. And if they weren’t enough of a handful, I hear they’re adopting an infant from Columbia.’

  ‘Speaking of adoption, how did it go with the potcake puppies?’

  ‘Super! Both potcakes were adopted by a couple in West Palm Beach. Funny little sausages. The dogs, I mean. Terrier and collie with a smidge of dachshund thrown in.’

  I chuckled at the image. ‘We missed you on the Net the other day.’

  She waved her champagne flute. ‘Someone had to accompany the pups. It’s difficult to fly them out commercial, so we chartered a flight with Cherokee.’ Pattie raised an eyebrow. ‘Say, how long are you here for?’

  I was puzzled by the non sequitur. ‘Six months,’ I told her. ‘Paul’s writing a book and he hopes to finish by December. Then we’ll have the family down at Christmas time.’ I managed a weak grin. ‘Alas, Paul has to go back to teaching in early January.’

  Pattie tapped out the months on her fingers. ‘I have to go Stateside on family business in a couple of weeks and I need someone to anchor the Net while I’m away. You always seem at ease on the radio, Hannah.’

  I pressed a hand to my chest. ‘Me? You’re kidding, right? How about that doctor on Knot on Call?’ I paused, trying to remember the captain’s name. ‘Uh, Jim. He did a great job this morning.’

  Pattie shook her head. ‘Jim’s starting back to Virgi
nia Beach around the first. He says he can’t afford the hurricane insurance for Knot on Call, and he’s already pushed his luck by overstaying six weeks.’

  ‘Surely there’s somebody . . .’ I began.

  ‘It’s a piece of cake,’ she insisted. ‘Really. I give you the script, you fill in for a couple of days just to get in some practice, and then . . . voila!’

  I felt myself weakening. ‘How long are you going to be gone?’

  ‘Just two weeks.’ Her cinnamon eyes locked on mine. Her neatly groomed eyebrows arched expectantly. A friendly smile played across her lips.

  I was doomed.

  ‘Sure,’ I told my new friend. ‘Why ever not.’

  Pattie raised her empty glass and clinked it against mine. ‘I think that calls for a toast, don’t you?’ And with a friendly ‘Don’t go away!’ Pattie Toler went off in search of more champagne.

  A few minutes later, Pattie got cornered by a sunburned vacationer who wanted to pick her brains about ATM locations, so I took the opportunity to slip away and look for Paul. I found him back inside the tent, standing in front of a booth where the main attraction was a meticulously constructed scale model protected from curious fingers by a Plexiglass dome. A banner in the colors of the Bahamian flag – turquoise with yellow lettering shadowed in black – announced that this was the booth sponsored by the Tamarind Tree Resort and Marina.

  I’d read about the controversial development in The Abaconian like everyone else. And I’d seen the clubhouse, too . . . through binoculars. But seeing the master plan laid out before me in all its ambitious and arrogant splendor was an eye-opener.

  The miles of pristine sand beach were still there, but where acres of mangrove and rare Abaconian pines had once stood, there was a marina, and condos, and single-family homes, and vacation cottages, laid out on a series of man-made canals. Next to me, Paul leaned over the case and tapped the glass. ‘That represents the clubhouse,’ he said, ‘and the swimming pool. They’re mocked up in color, because they’re already complete. These others here,’ he added, indicating the housing complex, the tennis courts and the eighteen-hole golf course, ‘are in gray, as they’re still under development.’