CHAPTER 52

Charlotte Mills packed up the last plastic container and hauled it upstairs. She had secured all her important documents, jewelry, and memorabilia, including photo albums, scrapbooks, and her collection of autographed novels. One container alone held all the newspaper and magazine articles about her husband’s “untimely death,” or as Charlotte called it, his Mafia-style murder.

The federal government had ruled the plane crash an accident, an unfortunate engine failure on the Lear jet that was supposed to deliver him to Tallahassee so he could testify in front of a grand jury. She had warned George months before that turning state’s evidence could mean his death. But he insisted it was the right thing to do, his penance for helping “the son-of-a-bitch” corrupt politician get elected. As a result, the son of a bitch kept his job.

That was fifteen years ago and Charlotte Mills had gotten nowhere in her diligent pursuit of the truth. Five years ago she gave up—or at least, that’s what it felt like, when, in fact, she had depleted all of her options. She didn’t want to also deplete her financial resources. George would have been furious with her if she had done that. So finally she accepted the life-insurance money, the policy that George had invested in just months before the grand jury convened.

She had already quit her job to work full-time investigating George’s murder. It turned out to be way too many wasted hours. When she finally stopped she bought this place on the beach, and now she spent her days walking along the shore collecting shells. And she spent her nights reading all the wonderful novels she hadn’t had time for. It wasn’t a bad life and she wasn’t going to let some hurricane dismantle it.

Charlotte took a long, hot shower, knowing it might be her last for a week. She put on comfy clothes, tied her short gray hair into a stubby ponytail. She checked her list as she placed new batteries in a variety of flashlights. She filled the bathtub, all the sinks, and the washing machine with water. She stuffed extra bottled water into the freezer. The latter was a small trick she’d learned during the last hurricane threat. It meant having ice to keep things cool and water to drink later.

With the windows and patio door boarded up the house was dark, reminding her that she’d need to put the candles and matches in a plastic bag and have them somewhere she could grab when the electricity went off. Same for the extra batteries.

Her master bathroom was the only true inside room and she had set it up as her refuge. The counter was arranged with the necessities: a battery-operated radio, several flashlights, a telephone already plugged into a landline, a cooler filled with sandwiches, her prescription meds, and even a pickax almost too large for her small frame to lift. Everything she would need for a ten- to twelve-hour stay.

She was on her way back upstairs when a knock at the front door stopped her. The sheriff’s department had come by earlier. Her neighbors had already left. She checked the peephole. Saw the patch on the man’s sleeve and she let out a groan. Was this the county or the federal government’s last-ditch effort?

“I already told the sheriff’s deputy that I was staying,” she insisted as she opened the door only to the security chain’s length.

“Hi, Mrs. Mills,” the young man said with a smile. “I met you at Mr. B’s yesterday. Joe. Joe Black.”