Without a Grave (5 page)

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.'

‘Eighteen holes? You've got to be kidding.'

Paul gave me a sideways-through-the-eyelashes look. ‘It's supposed to be eco-friendly. Paspalum grass, run-off management, natural methods of pest control. Gabriele has been filling me in.'

‘Gabriele?' So, Rudy's daughter had been a busy little bee. My husband must have been the ‘hot prospect' she'd dragged her father off to see.

Paul straightened and hooked his thumbs in his back pockets. ‘She's managing the project for her father, the developer, a guy by the name of Rudolph Mueller.'

‘I've just met Rudy. Pattie Toler introduced us.'

Now it was Paul's turn to act surprised. ‘Rudy, huh? First name basis already?'

I grinned. ‘It's the i'lans, mon.' I lowered my voice to a whisper. ‘I'm actually working myself up to hate the guy after all I've read about the evils of his development.'

Paul flashed me a crooked grin. ‘Give the guy a break, Hannah. He's complied with every restriction the Bahamian government has placed on construction, and then some. It's a prime piece of property in one of the most beautiful locations in the world. Development is inevitable, and not necessarily by somebody so sensitive to the environment as this Mueller fellow seems to be.' Paul rested his hand for a moment on the Plexiglass dome. ‘It's better than some alternatives I can think of.'

I scowled at my husband. ‘I see you've been brainwashed.'

‘Hannah, Paul. Now that you've had time to talk it over, I wonder if you have any questions?' The voice came from behind me, rich and smooth as a shot of Southern Comfort, taken neat.

I felt my face grow hot. Damn! How did Mueller sneak up on me like that? Why didn't he cough discreetly or wear squeaky shoes like everyone else? ‘Paul's just been filling me in on your project here, Mr Mueller.'

Mueller held up an index finger. ‘Rudy!' he reminded me.

Paul grinned sheepishly. ‘Rudy's invited us to tour the Hawksbill resort, Hannah. See for ourselves what they're up to over there.'

I tried to dredge up a smile, but couldn't, thinking of the destruction of habitat, the pollution, the chemical run-off from his freaking golf course that marine experts agreed would kill the fragile barrier reef in less than three years.

I must not have hidden these thoughts very well because Mueller said, ‘I have a feeling you've been listening to our critics, Hannah.' He shuffled through a pile of glossy brochures that were fanned out on the table and selected one. He unfolded it to a color picture of a hawksbill turtle swimming free in the crystal-blue sea. Poor turtle, I thought, as I took the brochure from Mueller's fingers. Where will you lay your eggs when the dune buggies take over the beach?

While I leafed through the brochure, not really reading it, Mueller rattled on about reverse osmosis water plants and sophisticated sewage treatment systems. When he paused to take a breath, I said, ‘Frankly, I can't see how your development differs all that much from the one up at Baker's Bay on Guana Cay and that has been an ecological nightmare.'

That disarming smile again. ‘I hear what you're saying, Hannah, but we're much smaller scale than Baker's Bay.' He tapped the Plexiglass dome. ‘For example, we've reduced the size of the golf course from eighteen holes to nine. The land we save will be set aside as a nature preserve.'

When I didn't comment, he went on, ‘And you've heard about our nursery?'

Oh, yes. I'd heard about the nursery, the centerpiece of Mueller's so-called preservation efforts. According to something I'd read on the Internet, it worked like this: Before ordering his bulldozers out to level one of the last surviving barrier-island forests in existence, Mueller, or one of his cronies, dispatched workers to the muddy edge of the construction zone where they pried the orchids and bromeliads off trees that were about to be felled. Rare, air-breathing plants, those shooting stars of the forest that explode into bloom like Fourth of July fireworks in red, white, purple, and orange, end up in a greenhouse.

‘It seems to me, uh, Rudy, that rare plants should remain in their natural habitat, not a plant zoo.'

That patronizing smile again. ‘We'll be replanting them after construction is complete, of course.'

‘Of course,' I scoffed. To pass the time until I could politely excuse myself, I pretended to be fascinated by a pie chart showing how many Bahamians would be employed by the El Mirador Land Corporation on Hawksbill Cay. Meanwhile, Mueller zeroed in on Paul. The next thing I knew, the love of my life had agreed to a tour.

I reached around Paul's back and pinched him, hard.

‘When do you suggest?' Paul asked, unfazed by my primitive torture technique.

‘Anytime.' Mueller handed Paul his business card. ‘The number's right there. Call and we'll pop over in the launch and pick you up.'

I'd seen a picture of the launch in the brochure. A thirty-six foot Hinckley picnic boat that I knew cost half a million, easy. I refolded the brochure into a neat accordion and handed it back. ‘We'll certainly think about it . . . Rudy.'

‘How about next Friday?' Gabriele Mueller had crept up on little cat feet, picking up the conversation exactly where her father had left off, almost as if she'd been eavesdropping. ‘We're collecting a group at Mangoes and could easily swing by Bonefish Cay.' While my eyes engaged Paul's in a silent battle, Gabriele turned to her father, lowered her voice and said, ‘Papa, that reminds me. You need to speak to high me about that.'

Mueller bowed. ‘If you'll excuse me, then?' and hurried off to do Gabriele's bidding.

‘High me?' I whispered to Paul.

To my embarrassment, Gabriele overheard. Or maybe she read lips. ‘J-A-I-M-E,' she spelled, ‘pronounced High-me. My brother hates it. When he was in high school, he wanted to be called “Duke.”'

Her laugh was infectious, as effervescent and intoxicating as champagne. Not the Nobile sparkling wine from Argentina that Tupps was serving that evening, oh no. Something high-end, I thought, like Veuve Cliquot.

‘Jaime is the Spanish equivalent of James. A perfectly fine name, if you ask me. But you didn't, did you?' That laugh again.

‘Is your brother here today?' I inquired.

‘He's over there.' Gabriele waved a heavily ringed hand. ‘Next to the bar. That woman with him? That's Alice. Jaime's wife.'

Wife?
I drew a breath. The fragile teenager who fluttered at Jaime's elbow couldn't have been more than sixteen. She was dressed like a teeny-bopper, too; white denim jeans that could have been sprayed on her rail-thin legs, and an elasticized hot-pink tube top that defied the laws of gravity. Gold hoop earrings the size of saucers banged against her neck as she tiptoed around on a pair of Tommy Bahama high-heeled slides.

But Paul's eyes were glued on Gabriele's. ‘So, tell me about the tour.'

Rudy Mueller may have left the room, but he'd clearly sent in The Closer. I knew I'd never drag Paul away until we made an appointment for their stupid tour, so I acquiesced as gracefully as possible, and we settled on Friday.

‘Rain or shine!' Gabriele beamed attractively, lavishing attention on Paul who was grinning like a sap.

‘Rain or shine,' I repeated so sweetly that I hated myself for it. I wouldn't want to cross the Gulf Stream in an open-decked boat, but a Hinckley was so solidly constructed that it could handle such a voyage, easy. If a little rain or wind dared stir up the Sea of Abaco on Gabriele's watch, it would be small potatoes for Daddy's Hinckley.

Gabriele handed Paul a card. ‘My cell, just in case.'

Paul tipped the card to his eyebrow in an informal salute. ‘Until Friday.'

She beamed. ‘Friday.'

‘So,' I said as we wandered out of the shelter of the tent and into the sunshine. ‘You planning to buy me one of those waterfront cottages as an anniversary gift?'

Paul tugged playfully on my ear. ‘Of course, darling. We must have a spare million lying around somewhere.'

‘Hold that thought,' I said. ‘Meanwhile, we can pray for a movie deal on that geometry book you're writing.'

By the time four o'clock rolled around, the local conch population had taken a hit. Light munchies had been replaced on the buffet by mounds of fried conch, conch fritters, conch salad, conch chowder, and conch stew. A selection of desserts had also appeared: silver dollar-sized key lime pies, pecan bars, banana cake. Al and Cassie Sands kept the platters full, shuttling back and forth from a portable kitchen set up in the parking lot.

I picked up two plates from the end of the buffet table and handed one of them to Paul. ‘Conch, conch or conch?'

Paul raised a hand, palm out. ‘Maybe later. Will you be OK while I go check into that snorkeling expedition I told you about?'

Earlier Paul had pointed out a booth – ‘Dive Greater with Gator' – decorated somewhat haphazardly with fish painted on pieces of driftwood. Holding a fried conch strip between my thumb and index fingers, I used it to wave my husband buh-bye. ‘You snooze, you lose, sweetheart!' I dipped the conch into some tartar sauce, and popped it into my mouth. ‘Mmm,' I moaned, licking my fingers.

Paul blew me a kiss. ‘You're a heartless woman, Hannah.'

From behind the buffet table, Cassie beamed.

Conch can sometimes be tough, like eating rubber bands, but Cassie's was sweet and oh-so-tender. ‘What's your secret, Cassie?'

‘You don't want to know.'

‘Seriously?'

‘Seriously. It involves aging, like beef.'

Cassie was right. It didn't bear thinking about.

As much as I was enjoying the conch, I wondered what the Sands would do if the Bahamas' supply of the giant sea snail got fished out. Key West, Florida, I recalled, was nicknamed the Conch Republic, but nobody'd been allowed to fish conch commercially in Florida for decades.

I was suddenly aware of somebody standing at my elbow. ‘I see you're enjoying our local fare,' Jaime drawled. A younger clone of his father, Jaime's face was spoiled by a plump, pouty mouth, but he was still a dangerously handsome man, if you preferred guys with gold chains tangled up in their chest hair.

I piled spicy conch salad on a cracker without comment.

‘My sister tells me you'll be visiting Hawksbill soon,' the young man quickly added.

‘That's right.' Gabriele must have sent out an all-points bulletin. Maybe they were tag-teaming me.

Jaime staggered to one side, set his empty wine glass down on a corner of the buffet table and snagged a cold Kalik from a passing waiter.

‘It must be nice having a successful family business,' I said as I watched Jaime wave off the glass being offered and drink his beer straight from the bottle.

Jaime wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘It's just one of the projects my father has developed all over South America and Mexico. This is our first here in the Caribbean.'

Technically, the Bahamas are in the Southwest North Atlantic, not the Caribbean, but I didn't feel like correcting him. The British Virgins, St Kitts, the Grenadines, the ABCs – Aruba, Bonaire and Curacao.
They
were in the Caribbean.

Jaime downed a crab ball and chased it with another swig of beer from the long-necked bottle. I was glad he wasn't my son. I'd slap him one upside the head and teach the brat some table manners.

I didn't know where Alice, his child bride, had been hiding out, but she tottered up to us then, rolled her baby-blues and whined attractively, ‘Jaime, I'm tired. I want to go home.'

‘Not now, Alice,' her husband snapped.

She tugged on the sleeve of his polo shirt. ‘Jaime, please . . .'

He jerked his arm way. ‘Not now!'

Alice folded thin arms across her chest, and pouted. ‘But, I . . .' she began.

‘Shut
up
, I said!' His voice was so loud that conversation stopped all around us.

My heart went out to the child, standing quietly, head tilted to one side, shifting her weight nervously from one foot to the other. After a few moments, still eyeing the sad excuse for a husband who was making an elaborate show of ignoring her, Alice reached out a cautious hand and selected four miniature pies from the dessert tray. As Jaime droned on importantly about a development in Port-au-Prince that his father was going to let him manage, Alice studied each morsel critically, turning it this way and that, before depositing it on her plate.

Alice finally made her selection – a tiny key lime pie – and slid it into her mouth. Her eyes closed in ecstasy.

‘ . . . in the Pétionville area of Port-au-Prince, where there are more tourists,' Jaime concluded. He paused, as if expecting applause.

Dessert plate in one hand, wine glass in the other, I simply stared, dumbfounded, when Jaime bent his head close to his wife's ear and snorted, ‘Oink, oink.'