Without a Grave

THIRTEEN

I’N’I BUILD A CABIN, I’N’I PLANT THE CORN;DIDN’T MY PEOPLE BEFORE ME SLAVE FOR THIS COUNTRY?NOW YOU LOOK ME WITH THAT SCORN, THEN YOU EAT UP ALL MY CORN.WE GONNA CHASE THOSE CRAZY, CHASE THEM CRAZY,CHASE THOSE CRAZY BALDHEADS OUT OF TOWN!Bob Marley, Crazy Baldheads

The next morning on open mike, I asked listeners if anyone had seen Wanderer. My question was met with depressing silence.

The next day it was much the same. Breaking Wind called in to report seeing a vessel named Wanderer anchored in Black Sound up Green Turtle Cay way, but it turned out to be a Hunter, not a Reliant.

On Friday, my last official day as moderator of the Net, my open mike call was returned by an Ericson 38 just returning to radio range after a cruise to Allen’s Pensacola, an uninhabited island to the north and west of us.

‘Windswept, Windswept, this is Northern Star.’

‘Come in, Northern Star.’

‘You’re looking for a boat called Wanderer? A Reliant for-…?’

I was so excited that I stepped on his transmission, depressing the talk button before he had finished. ‘That sounds like the boat, Captain. Over.’

‘About ten days ago, Wanderer was anchored in Poinciana Cove behind Hawksbill Cay. My wife and I dinghied over to invite the owners for cocktails.’

‘Frank and Sally Parker?’

‘Roger. They joined us on Northern Star, stayed for dinner. Frank told me about the work he was doing on behalf of Save Hawksbill Cay. Said he was going to do a couple of night dives. You can’t get a full picture of the health of a reef unless you can see it at night. What fish are out. What they’re eating. Yada yada.’

‘Anyone else in the cove with you?’

‘Nope. Just the two boats. Even for hurricane season, it was pretty empty.’

‘When did they leave?’ I asked with growing dread.

‘They were still there the next morning when we weighed anchor. I don’t think they had any intention of leaving. Frank told me he was planning to testify at a meeting over in Hope…’

‘Sea Wolf, Sea Wolf, Sea Wolf. Come back to Happy Hooker.’

Some fisherman with a more powerful radio and no sense of netiquette was overriding our signal. I waited for Happy Hooker to finish impressing Sea Wolf with the sixty-pound amberjack he’d wrestled aboard his Hatteras, then hailed Northern Star again.

But, Northern Star couldn’t add anything to what he’d already told me. Frank and Sally had been anchored in Poinciana Cove off Hawksbill Cay at the end of July. By the beginning of August they had vanished. It was looking very bleak for my friends.

Had Frank stumbled on something during his dive, something that Jaime Mueller, or someone else in the Mueller family wanted to keep secret?

I thought about all the laws the government of the Bahamas had put in place to control fishing and boating as well as the construction industry, regulations that were sometimes just for show, that could be bypassed if the right amount of money reached the right bank account of the right government official at the right time.

El Mirador Land Corporation had dotted all their I’s and crossed all their T’s. They’d been given a clean bill of health by the big shots in Nassau. As long as they didn’t deviate from their plans and permits, they would be untouchable.

Was El Mirador up to something else, then?

Something worth killing for?

It was clear to everyone involved in the meeting that Frank M. Parker, BS, PhD, SERC Senior Scientist (Retired), cruising sailor, husband and friend, would not be testifying for Save Hawksbill Cay in Hope Town on Wednesday evening. Callers to the Net that morning had wondered if the meeting was still on. Henry Allen, Warden of the Abaco Land and Sea Park, representing himself as well as the Bahamas National Trust, assured everyone that it was. Five thirty. St James Methodist Church. Be there or be square.

The day of the meeting dawned hot, humid and virtually windless, the only breeze ruffling our hair being generated by Pro Bono itself as Paul, Molly and I skimmed along the Sea of Abaco from Bonefish to Elbow Cay.

By day, Hope Town’s signature candy-striped lighthouse served as a landmark, welcoming boaters in; by night, its beacon (which can be seen for seventeen miles) warned them away from a dangerous reef where eighteenth-century locals had supplemented their income by ‘wrecking.’ The village probably looked a lot then as it does today – a quaint, pastel-colored New England fishing village.

Paul successfully negotiated the busy channel at the harbor’s narrow entrance, and managed to snag a prime ‘parking spot’ at the Hope Town dinghy dock well inside the snug, protected harbor.

While Paul made Pro Bono secure, I rooted through my fanny pack. ‘Who has the shopping list?’

‘I do,’ he said. ‘First stop, Lighthouse Liquors. Seems we’ve been running through the Sauvignon Blanc at a fairly fast clip.’

‘Guilty,’ I said. I stole a glance at Molly. ‘Not making any excuses for the bottle I drank last night, practically single-handed, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.’

Molly wrapped an arm around my waist, hugged me close. ‘I know you’re worried about the Parkers, sugar, but you shouldn’t let it get to you. Worrying yourself to death isn’t going to help anyone, least of all the Parkers.’

Angry tears pricked my eyes. ‘If Jaime Mueller is at the meeting, you might have to hold me back, Molly.’

‘Come on.’ She looped her arm through mine as we turned left and walked ‘Down Along,’ one of only two principal streets on the island, both so narrow that not even golf carts were allowed to drive on them. Where ‘Down Along’ split we took the right fork and headed up the hill, carefully negotiating the cracks in the concrete. We left Paul at Lighthouse Liquors to restock our modest liquor cabinet as he saw fit, and continued on to Vernon’s Grocery, a concrete, practically windowless building on Back Street. Its owner, Vernon Malone – Mr Vernon to you – was an island institution. His seven-times great grandmother, Wyannie Malone, had founded Hope Town settlement in 1785.

We were still downwind from the store when I stopped, breathing deeply. ‘Ohmahgawd, do you smell that?’

Molly grinned. ‘Coconut bread, I think.’

‘I hope we haven’t missed the key lime pie.’

We followed our noses to Vernon’s bakery, the Upper Crust, which was tacked to the side of his grocery almost like an afterthought. The door to the bakery stood open so we stuck our heads in, inhaling appreciatively. Key lime pies topped with mountains of golden-peaked meringue sat out on the table. Coconut pies, fresh from the oven, cooled on the windowsill.

I pressed my hand to my chest. ‘I think I’m hallucinating.’

The door to the grocery was behind us. Molly grabbed my hand and pulled me through it. ‘Quick, before you OD.’

Just inside, Vernon himself was ringing up a purchase on an elderly cash register. He glared at us over the tops of his eyeglasses. ‘In door’s over there. That’s the out.’

Since we were already inside the store, it seemed silly to leave, but I figured Vernon himself would stare us down forever until we did it his way. ‘Sorry.’ I bowed my head and backed out the way I’d come.

Giggling, Molly and I scuttled around the bag ice machine, past a stack of boxes and empty water jugs and pulled open a front door that reflected our bemused faces back at us, like a mirror.

Vernon, a wiry man somewhere in his mid-sixties, was bagging groceries for another customer. ‘Afternoon, ladies.’

All was right with the world now that we’d mended our ways.

A sign hung at eye-level caught my eye as we entered the store: If you’re looking for Wal-Mart, it’s 200 miles to the right.

More witticisms hand-written on pages torn from legal pads, four-by-five index cards, and even computer printouts labeled ‘Off the wall… at Vernon’s,’ kept us chuckling as we poked along the narrow aisles making our selections. Mr Vernon stocked more than groceries, apparently. He also stocked a wry sense of humor.

The weather is here. Wish you were beautiful! as I reached for the M &Ms on the candy and mixed-nuts rack.

Dyslexics, Untie! under the Hearth Club Custard Powder and next to a lone box of star anise.

If you’re smoking in here, you’d better be on fire over the cash register as Vernon totted up our purchases. I reintroduced myself and said, ‘Are you going to the Save Hawksbill Cay meeting tonight?’

‘Yup.’

The answer didn’t surprise me. Grocer, baker, Justice of the Peace, lay preacher – Vernon Malone was deeply involved in the life of his community. It was probably genetic. From Wyannie Malone it was passed down the generations to Vernon, and from Vernon to his children. His daughter not only owned the liquor store, but coordinated weddings out of Da Finer Tings, and was a volunteer firefighter, too.

‘I’m just a second-home owner,’ Molly added, ‘but I’m hoping I can make some small contribution.’

Vernon boxed our pies and eased them into plastic sacks. ‘Second-home owners are the bread and butter of this place, Ms Molly. Most of you’ve been breaking your butts for thirty years to afford to come here. We need to make sure the island stays worth coming to.’

Clearly, an ally. ‘Thanks, Vernon. See you tonight, then.’

The three of us decided on an early dinner at Cap’n Jack’s, sitting on the deck overlooking Hope Town harbor where we munched on conch fritters washed down with Kalik. While Paul splurged on grilled grouper with macaroni and cheese – a spicy island version, light years away from Kraft in a box – Molly and I shared a Greek salad.

At five fifteen, we wandered up the road past the clinic and the post office to St James Methodist Church, a simple white, one-story structure built on a dune overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. The branches of a voluptuous cherry-red bougainvillea cascaded over the gate. We climbed the steps and went through the double doors into a cool sanctuary.

While Paul and Molly wandered off on errands of their own, I slipped into one of the dark wooden pews.

St Katherine’s needs this view, I thought, feeling a twinge of homesickness, suddenly missing my friend, Pastor Eva, and her little Episcopal church in West Annapolis. With the exception of the altar hanging, the entire eastern wall of St James consisted of sliding glass doors that framed a spectacular view of the Atlantic Ocean. Who needs stained glass when you’ve got swaying palms, cottony clouds and the gently rolling sea? The sermons here could be boring as dirt, but the congregation would sit rapt. Guaranteed.

My eyes strayed to the cross, and as people began to fill the pews in front and behind me, I said a prayer for Frank and Sally Parker, wherever they might be.

I had gone in search of Paul, when Henry Allen barged through the swinging doors at the rear of the church struggling with a notebook, a pile of printouts, and a canvas bag containing an LCD projector and a laptop computer. Cables dangled from the mouth of the bag like a tangle of black and white spaghetti.

I met him halfway down the aisle, relieving him of the notebook and printouts. ‘I’m sorry we didn’t get over to see your video, Henry, but with the wildfire on the preserve, things have been a little hectic.’

‘That’s OK. I’m showing it tonight anyway.’ He glanced around the sanctuary. ‘There’s supposed to be a screen here, somewhere. Oh, there it is!’

‘Need help getting set up?’

‘That’d be great. Thanks.’

A table had been centered about halfway up the aisle, so I set Henry’s LCD projector down on it while he went off in search of an extension cord. When everything was plugged in, we aimed the projector at the screen, hooked up his laptop and powered on all the equipment.

Henry watched the screen apprehensively, worry changing to relief when the familiar Windows icons finally appeared. He launched his PowerPoint program and soon the screen was filled with the title page of his presentation, ‘Hawksbill Cay Development: a Case Study of a Coastal Ecosystem’ superimposed over a swirly blue background that I recognized as the ‘Calm Sea’ theme.

‘Appropriate template,’ I said.

Henry smiled. ‘It’s the one I always use. Some of the other templates sound appropriate, like “Starfish,” but they make my eyes hurt.’

Henry clicked through the first few slides of his presentation, grunted in approval, then clicked back to his title page which included the URL for his website. I was reminded that I’d forgotten to ask him about the imposter website that linked to teen porn.

When I mentioned it, he scowled darkly. ‘Know who did it, but can’t prove it. Got an attorney trying to get the Internet provider to pull the plug, but nobody’s breaking any laws. Should have registered all variations of that domain name ourselves, of course, but…’ He shrugged. ‘Frustrating.’

‘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!’

‘Is this true, Henry?’ someone else asked in a more reasonable tone.

Gabriele answered for him. ‘Yes, but Hardin’s credentials are impeccable, and so is his report.’

The guy in the red ball cap wasn’t buying it. ‘Ha!’

Henry raised both hands. ‘Calm down a minute. No need to shout.’

From the back of the sanctuary, Vernon spoke up. ‘What I want to know is what happened to that fellow from the Smithsonian Environmental Research Center. Wasn’t he supposed to testify tonight?’

‘Thanks for asking, Vernon. Yes, he was, but I’m afraid Frank Parker’s been delayed.’

‘If he can’t be here, why don’t we have a copy of his report?’ Vernon wondered.

I elbowed Paul. ‘That’s a good question. Do you think Frank sent a copy of his report to anybody?’

‘Regrettably, we don’t have a copy of his report,’ Henry continued. ‘As some of you may know, we were expecting Mr Parker to speak here tonight, but his vessel is overdue. He and his wife are missing.’

Lots of murmuring agreement from the audience, many of whom had probably been following our efforts to locate Wanderer on the Cruisers’ Net each morning. Some had probably overheard when Northern Star reported a sighting of Wanderer in Poinciana Cove. But there was only a handful of people who knew that Wanderer, the sailboat, had been found without her captain and first mate aboard, and that she was now rechristened the Alice in Wonderland and in Jaime Mueller’s possession.

Winnie stood, shoulders back, arms to her sides. ‘One thing that the El Mirador environmental impact study doesn’t adequately address is the impact that their desalinization plant will have on our island. Have there been any studies on that?’

‘Nothing on the federal level,’ Gabriele admitted. ‘Most of the studies of desalinization have been funded by private business.’

‘Well, we all know how unbiased that would be!’ Winnie’s eyes went on scan, making contact with everyone in the room, who nodded in agreement.

‘We have a state-of-the-art facility,’ Gabriele assured the audience. ‘Please, tell me. What are your specific concerns?’

‘You have to get the water from our sea,’ Gator boomed from the back row. ‘I’m worried about the impact your water-intake pipes will have on the fish, particularly with such a large-scale plant.’

Gabriele managed a straight-lipped response. ‘We have been assured that that isn’t a concern.’

Gator pressed on. ‘In what way isn’t it a concern? Fish will be sucked in through the pipes, isn’t that so?’

‘The pipes will be screened.’

Gator looked up, rolled his eyes, as if seeking patience from the cross. ‘Then organisms will collide with the screen, Ms Mueller. Fish, and smaller organisms, like zooplankton will go right on through.’

‘Wait a minute!’ A suntanned arm attached to a petite islander was waving for attention. ‘Once you take the salt out of the water, Ms Mueller, what are you going to do with it? You can’t tell me that pumping that stuff back into the ocean wouldn’t have an impact on our reefs.’

Gabriele sighed. She’d obviously fielded this question before, and was boring even herself with the answer. ‘The salty sludge will be combined with post-treatment sewage plant effluence and injected into deep wells.’

‘Wait a minute!’ The girl jumped to her feet, bouncing on tiptoes to see over taller heads. ‘Doesn’t the plant run on electricity? And how do you plan to generate that electricity, Ms Mueller?’

‘I’m sure you know that at Tamarind Tree we have our own power generator.’

‘Doesn’t it run on diesel?’ the girl pressed. ‘Doesn’t diesel generate greenhouse gasses?’

‘I’ll tell you what I think,’ the postmistress chimed in without budging from her seat. ‘You just need to use less water! You rich people are spoiled rotten. Can’t live without your bathtubs and your dishwashers. Bet you still run the tap for five minutes while you stand in front of the bathroom sink brushing your teeth.’

‘Well, I’m all in favor of the resort,’ another woman announced from one of the side aisles. ‘I think they’ve been nothing but environmentally responsible and upfront about it from Day One. And my house is adjacent to the Tamarind Tree restaurant.’

A guy wearing a red tropical shirt shot to his feet. ‘Well, of course you’re in favor of it, Arlene. You’re so much in favor of it that you’ve put your house on the market. Isn’t that right?’

To a chorus of that’s rights and uh huhs, Arlene sucked in her lips and sat down.

‘Your father promised he’d hire Bahamians,’ Mr Red Shirt continued, addressing Gabriele. ‘All I’ve ever seen around the place is foreigners. Damn Haitians and those boys from that fancy college in Florida.’

‘He is hiring Bahamians, Alvin,’ Arlene grumbled from her seat. ‘My son is working as a supervisor for one of the contractors.’

‘OK, Arlene. You just ask your boy how many of his workers are Bahamian. Go on, I dare you. I hear there’s nothing but Mexicans over there.’

‘We work exclusively with Bahamian contractors,’ Gabriele assured him using her best anything-to-appease-the-natives tone. ‘But to be perfectly honest, we have little control over the people that our contractors hire, including the various subcontractors, so if you have any issues with the make-up of our contract workforce, you’ll have to take them up with the individual contractors.’

I thought about the lovely waitress who had brought me my iced tea the other day. That’s one Bahamian. I was trying to come up with a second Bahamian when Winnie shouted in exasperation, ‘And another thing! Who has been stealing our signs?’

For the first time that evening, Gabriele Mueller wrinkled her flawless brow. ‘What signs?’

‘Our protest signs.’

‘I don’t know anything about that, but surely you aren’t suggesting…’

‘That’s exactly what I’m suggesting!’

‘I’ll look into it.’ Gabriele raised her hands in an attitude of surrender. ‘Look, we’re not hiding anything. If any of you are still skeptical, please, come see us. I’m issuing an open invitation to all of you. Come visit, tour the facilities. I am speaking for my father when I say we are committed to keeping the Tamarind Tree Resort and Marina as environmentally safe as possible. You have my promise on that.’

‘They think that if they promise to take our garbage away, we’ll fall all over ourselves to welcome them,’ Molly muttered to the guy sitting on her right.

‘Money talks, and we have no money,’ he grumbled back.

While Troy Albury gave an update on the legal efforts of Save Guana Cay Reef to halt the Baker’s Bay Development on his tiny island, I stared at the aerial photo that remained on the screen following the conclusion of Henry’s presentation. Troy was giddy with the news that the Privy Council had agreed to hear the case they had filed against both the developer and the government of the Bahamas, but I was more interested in Henry’s slide. It showed the pier at Tamarind Tree Resort as it was now, undergoing repair. Something was bothering me about it. When the meeting broke up and everyone was gathering on the church steps to analyze and dissect it, I pulled Henry aside. ‘Henry, do you mind if I look at a couple of your slides again?’

‘Not a problem.’

‘Can you page back to an earlier slide for me?’ Henry picked up the remote and moved backwards through his presentation.

‘No, not that one. Uh, uh. Stop!’ It was another picture of the pier, taken just before the repairs had begun. ‘When was this picture taken, Henry?’

‘That would be two weeks ago, I think.’

‘Can you put that slide next to the last one?’

‘Sure.’ I watched while Henry copied the photograph, paged forward to the final slide, and pasted it next to it. ‘There.’

‘What’s this?’ I said, pointing to an odd discoloration in the water, a blue oblong just to the left of the pier.

Henry squinted at the screen, took a few steps back and looked again. ‘I don’t know. Didn’t notice it before. Some sort of fish trap?’

‘How big do you think it is?’

‘Hard to say. Compared to the pilings, I’d say twenty, twenty-five feet.’

‘What’s curious to me, Henry, is that whatever this thing is, it was in the water two weeks ago.’ I tapped the screen where the later photo was projected. ‘Now it’s gone.’

Henry pointed out, quite correctly, that a golf cart and a dune buggy appeared in the earlier photo, but weren’t present in the later one. ‘Could be related to the construction, or to the pier repairs, I suppose.’ He rubbed his chin where a five o’clock shadow was just beginning to make an appearance. ‘Could be junk, too.’ He tapped the more recent of the two slides. ‘And they cleaned it up.’

I thought about all the discarded refrigerators, sinks and water heaters I’d seen at the bottom of the Sea of Abaco and thought, maybe he’s right. Tube-shaped. Could be a water heater.

If hot-water heaters are blue.