Free Hurricane House by Sandy Semerad Page B

the steep stairs to the attic. It looked like the inside of a ship’s hull up there, and smelled musty like damp cabins, filled with dust mites.
    The floor creaked as she walked to the first set of double doors, leading to the causeway, which reminded her of an enclosed slide at a water park, only this thing was ten-feet high and had a flat, marble floor. She knew she’d have to go through three sets of attic doors before she reached the walkway, which led to the second floor of Roxanne’s beach house.
    The doorknob facing her turned easily, but the door behind it wouldn’t budge. Obviously this neighbor had disobeyed one of the association’s rules: “Third floor attic must be kept open at all times. Attic space is community property.”
    Now what? The pounding on the roof, sounded like tennis-ball hail, and Geneva had no desire to risk life and limb, but she saw no other option.
    With a loud sigh, she ran downstairs and stepped outside. The fierce wind, rain and hail ripped Loughton’s umbrella backwards. So much for pricey umbrellas.
    Lightning flashed, followed by a loud pop of thunder that put Paradise Isle in total darkness. Her flashlight and the lightning offered the only streams of light to lead the way.
    Geneva remembered a story she wrote on how umbrellas aren’t safe in a thunderstorm. They are a conductor of lightning. Regardless, she didn’t want to discard the umbrella, because it provided leverage when she used it as a cane to move forward against the wind and rushing water.
    The last fifty feet of her journey, her face, eyes, and hands burned from the stinging sand and she could barely see the dark mansion, or the gulf slapping the house on all sides with Roxanne’s Porsche in the garage, half covered in water.
    Geneva waded to the front of the house. The door opened when she turned the knob. Not good. Roxanne was a stickler for locking-up the pink palace after what happened to Tara.
    “Roxanne,” Geneva yelled as she stepped inside the house. The grand room looked like a swimming pool. Last Christmas she and Loughton had stood at the cathedral window and watched the sunset. Now, her flashlight created ghostly shadows.
    “Roxanne,” Geneva shouted again and again. The only response she heard was the gulf striking the house. Perhaps Roxanne couldn’t hear anything above the storm. Or maybe she’s asleep.
    Geneva climbed the spiral staircase like a cat on ice. Every few steps, she shouted Roxanne’s name. When she reached the second floor landing, a sick odor made her stop. The knot in her stomach seemed to be telling her to get out, but she persisted.
    Geneva directed her flashlight at the king-size waterbed. If Roxanne took one of her sleeping pills, she might not wake up when called. Unfortunately, the flashlight found the bed, with its white silk comforter, undisturbed. Not good. Something’s wrong. Geneva could feel it and smell it.
    She followed the nauseating odor while reaching in her jeans’ pocket for the cell phone. That’s when she realized she’d left her cell at the townhouse.
    Her foot bumped against something on the floor. She directed her flashlight to the object and the light found Roxanne’s nude body. Oh, God, no, please no.
    Geneva knelt beside her friend. Her eyes were opened, as if staring at some unspeakable horror. No pulse, Geneva discovered when she felt behind Roxanne’s ears.
    Geneva screamed and fumbled for the wall phone, but once she found it, there was no dial tone, meaning she’d have to go all the way back to her townhouse to call for help. “I’ll find out what happened, Rox, I promise,” Geneva whispered.
    “Not smart,” a deep voice whispered.
    Geneva tried to run, but a strong arm held her in a headlock and forced a smelly mask over her face.
     
    Chapter Fourteen
     
    Ellen at Geneva’s Tallahassee home
    E llen Langley went on-line and found the e-mail from Geneva. As instructed, she saved it in an AOL file and hoped Geneva had enough smarts