now safe and dry. As were the rugs and most of the shelving. On the first floor the heart pine floors were wet and muddy and probably ruined. Judging from the stains on the wall behind the cash register, the floodwaters reached a height of exactly four and a half feet before they receded.
Oh well. He had plenty of insurance and plenty of money. Everything could be repaired, and before long he would be back in business. It could’ve been far worse. He climbed the stairs and walked onto the balcony where he had shared many cappuccinos and lots of good wine with friends and touring writers. He had met Nelson there, not that many years ago.
The madness of the past twenty-four hours had muddled his brain and made clear thinking impossible. During the storm, his frightened thoughts had been on physical survival. Once it passed, he went into a panic phase as he desperately worried about damage to his home and store. And now, after seeing Nelson, he was on the verge of bewilderment. The murder theory was giving him headaches.
He breathed deeply and tried to imagine the phone call to Nelson’s parents. Surely the police had made contact by now, and surely his family was frantically trying to reach someone on the island who knew more. He felt an obligation to at least attempt to contact them. Not for the first time he contemplated loading up Bob and Nick and making a run for it. In his car, not Nelson’s. They could drive two hours, probably south, and find cell service and a motel. Bruce could call the Kerr family and also check in with Mercer, Myra and Leigh, and other friends. But once off the island it might be impossible to return.
And where was Nelson’s dog? And how many pets were lost in the storm?
The breathing helped little and his nerves were still frayed. He walked up a narrow stairway to his old apartment on the third floor and found a bottle of single malt. The air was thick and musty so he returned to the balcony and poured a strong one. After a few sips he felt himself relax, and soon he was able to hold on to one thought at a time.
He assumed the state crime lab would conduct a proper autopsy. The storm had caused other fatalities and the lab might get stressed somewhat, but for a murder it would certainly take its time. If the autopsy confirmed Nick’s theory, then what was the next step? Trusting Hoppy Durden to get to the bottom of things seemed like a joke. He seemed to have little interest in a possible homicide. Who would inform Nelson’s parents that he was not only dead but had been murdered? It was entirely plausible that Hoppy and his bosses would show little sympathy for some clown venturing outdoors in a Cat 4 and getting hit by falling limbs. Faced with what appeared to be an unsolvable crime, they could easily decide to embrace the theory that there was no crime at all, just an accident. Nelson was new to the island, kept to himself and had few friends, and he was a writer anyway and those folks are known to be odd. Blame it on flying debris and close the file.
Bruce finished his drink, returned the bottle to the apartment, and left Bay Books. He walked to Noelle’s shop to assess the damage.
3.
There was enough charcoal to fill the grill, and Bruce built a raging fire. He cooked Nelson’s steaks first, for their dinner, then grilled sausages, hot dogs, pork chops, and everything else in the freezer, which was running at one-quarter speed. When the coals were perfect, he put on two whole chickens.
They ate on the veranda, in fading sunlight, and washed down the steaks with a bottle of Syrah. When they finished, Bruce cleared the table and poured more wine.
Bob suddenly stood, cracked his knuckles, and said, “Okay, boys, I have to get this off my chest. I’m not sure I’ll tell the cops. I don’t know what to do so I want your advice.” He was suddenly fidgety and nervous, and