A Killer App, page 16
Aunt Kylee puts down her coffee cup. “I don’t understand, Mom. Why can’t you outvote Cliff? Won’t it be a three-to-two vote? If so, you can run the owners’ meeting however you see fit.”
“Afraid not. Martha’s on a cruise to the Galapagos and can’t be reached, and Ruth’s in the hospital for a hip replacement. That leaves Cliff, me, and Bob, who always sides with our president. Both men are angry about owners trashing them and the committee on Earful.”
Dad sighs. “I sympathize with their consternation about the ridiculous rhetoric and misinformation on Earful. But, if the directors refuse to hear and answer questions, the board can expect more scorn to be heaped on them. Afraid that includes you, Myrt, and your two friends who will miss the meeting. What bad timing.”
Frank clears his throat. “I decided to wade into the Earful madness and defend Myrt. In my post, I tried to invoke reason. Noted that just because a committee kicks around some new ideas for rules, it doesn’t mean a majority of the board agrees with them. I also stressed that Myrt would make sure any proposed new rules would come up for a vote.
“Not sure if my comment helped or hurt. More than one reply noted anything I said couldn’t be trusted since I was ‘shacking up’ with Myrt. Two posts kindly added that my wife must be turning over in her grave.”
“Oh, Frank, I’m so sorry,” Aunt Kylee says. “I never cease to be amazed at how cruel gossips can be—especially when they don’t have to look whoever they’re abusing in the eye.”
Frank attempts a smile. “Hey, my wife would be spinning like a top in her grave if I paid any heed to the gossips. Jennifer never did.”
Grandma reaches over and pats Frank’s hand. When he looks at her, a genuine smile creases his face.
Glad they have each other.
Frank clears his throat. “The Earful insults petered out once a neighbor posted a rant about our utility company. His refrigerator went kaput, and he blamed the failure on frequent electrical surges. Said he planned to sue the electric company for a new fridge. That started an avalanche of blame-game posts.
“Several blamed the appliance manufacturer and our throw-away society. Another figured out a way for our HOA to be at fault. I award most creative to a claim the utility company intentionally creates electrical spikes so it can sell expensive whole-house surge protection for an add-on monthly fee.”
Ted laughs. “Let’s stop rehashing Earful nonsense and get the breakfast dishes cleared. Myrt, I assume you want your board quorum to meet at this table. Do Cliff and Bob expect me to attend?”
“Cliff probably suspects you’ll be here, but didn’t mention inviting our HOA manager,” Grandma answers. “Doubt he’ll object to you attending, though. Cliff thinks of himself as your boss and knows he can ignore you as long as the board votes with him. Today, there are three directors—a quorum—and Bob always votes with him. So, he’ll have a two-to-one decision on anything he favors.”
Kylee stands up and starts stacking plates. She shoos Dad with a wave of her hand.
“Since your presence is anticipated, you get first chance at a shower,” she says. “Fortunately, I can think of no reason for Frank, Grant, and me to get yelled at. So, I plan to disappear. While I’d rather swim laps, the island pools will be too crowded this holiday weekend. Think I’ll go for a run. Grant, want to join me? Imagine your Dad will let you leave the house if you have a chaperone.”
“No, thanks. May take a short nap.”
When I see Grandma’s scowl, I quickly add, “After I clean up the kitchen.”
* * *
Despite the bed’s strong pull, I postpone shut-eye for a web search. I can’t stop thinking about the neon green machine the shooter maneuvered through the shallow marshlands at high speed. Actually, I can’t blame Deputy Ibsen for ridiculing my insistence that it looked like a WaveRunner or a Jet Ski.
It doesn’t take long for my Google search to pay off. There are dozens of articles about rescue and research groups using a customized flat-bottomed, high-speed watercraft. The articles say it can skim over water that’s only two-to-three inches deep. Speed? Sixty- to sixty-five miles per hour. Price? The specs on the manufacturer’s website mention everything but the price.
Okay, whenever Grandma Kane sees an item missing a price tag, she jokes, “Guess if you have to ask, you can’t afford it.”
Huh. Can’t imagine Bubba or any of his friends has sufficient bread to afford one. Then, again, maybe Bubba or a friend “borrowed” one. Need to find out if any Lowcountry groups own one of these nifty machines. I check the websites of government agencies and nonprofits with water-related missions that could use this kind of watercraft.
My first hit comes on the URL for Friends of the Atlantic Coast Environment—FACE. A recent FACE news release thanks a generous (anonymous) donor for buying FACE a next-generation watercraft. The news release says it’s being used to conduct research in coastal wetlands and to aid in the rescue of injured marsh birds, aquatic mammals, and fish.
Everything points to Bubba being the one who killed Steph Cloyd, a FACE director. It would be horribly ironic if someone used a FACE-owned watercraft to reach Bubba’s motorboat and blow it up. I’m afraid the explosion could have destroyed the evidence needed to prove Bubba rammed Steph’s scull and fled the scene.
I shake my head. In what world would Bubba or any of his climate-change-denier pals have access to a FACE watercraft?
Maybe someone stole the craft from FACE. Okay, I know who would know. Kylee’s BFF, Kay Barrett. She’s a FACE director. Hope Kay’s not too busy with her B&B guests to pick up the phone.
Chapter Forty
Kylee
Sunday, July 2, morning
A sudden wind gust whips sand in my face. I blink furiously and raise a hand to shield my eyes. Black clouds boil on the horizon as the temperature plummets. Time to pick up the pace. Probably two miles from Frank’s house.
While I’ve yet to hear thunder, that doesn’t mean lightning won’t streak across the sky in the next five minutes. Didn’t expect this pop-up thunderstorm. I don’t mind rain. I’m drenched in sweat anyway. The dip in temperature is also welcome. It’s typical July weather. Hot. Hot. Hot. Before the cool-down, the temperatures were goose-stepping their way up to a predicted high near one hundred degrees.
I run a little faster. I’m not a running addict who regularly punishes her knees and feet to seek an endorphin high. Swimming is my go-to exercise. However, I’ll lace up my running shoes if I can’t dive into a pool or lake. I’m not a fan of ocean swimming. If I’m trying to get real exercise, I end up swallowing a quart of saltwater. Can’t seem to break the habit of swiveling my head for a breath, and it’s often when a wave crests.
On days like this, when I’m frustrated and need alone time to think, I don’t care whether I run or swim to get the needed release. Not even sure why I asked Grant if he wanted to join me. Guess I wanted him to know he was still loved despite his bone-headed escapade.
Lightning flashes, and the thunder claps that follow say the storm’s close. Too close. I run faster. The black clouds on the horizon minutes ago are now overhead. A driving rain pelts me. Whipped by a fierce wind, the rain appears to be falling horizontally. Directly in my face.
My heart’s pounding as I race up the stairs to the welcome shelter of Frank’s front porch. I’m dripping wet. Figure I should ring the bell and ask whoever answers to bring me a towel. I don’t want to barge inside and leave puddles on Frank’s polished oak floors.
My finger’s on the bell, ready to press down, when I realize the impromptu board meeting may still be underway. Don’t want to interrupt that.
Wait. Don’t see any golf carts or extra cars in the drive. Can’t imagine Cliff or Bob walked over, though they might have shared a ride.
Once again, I hesitate as I debate pressing the doorbell. When the door swings open, it startles the heck out of me.
Frank chuckles as he steps out on the porch and hands me a towel. “Was looking out the window when I saw a tall drowned rat scurry up my porch stairs. This downpour caught everyone by surprise. But the radar shows it’ll probably be over before you can dry that wild mop of hair.”
“Thanks, Frank.” I take the towel and vigorously rub my unruly curls. “You’re just jealous you don’t have a wild mop of hair.”
“A low blow,” Frank replies. “I’m wild about every strand of hair that’s stuck by me.”
I nod toward the door. “Is it safe to enter? Has any interior stormfront come and gone?”
“Yep,” he answers. “Ted arm-twisted Cliff into opening the meeting with a brief summary of facts. He’ll report that some members of a committee—one lacking any power—have been yapping publicly about rule changes they’d like to see. Cliff will add that the board hasn’t approved—or even seen—a single committee recommendation.
“After that, Ted will take the mic and confirm the process required by our covenants to enact any rule change. Nothing happens unless a majority of owners vote in favor. Ted will then open the floor to owner questions and comments. Speakers will be limited to three minutes max. To win Cliff’s agreement, Ted promised to warn the audience he’d immediately adjourn the meeting if folks started shouting over one another. Anyone who starts a disturbance will be escorted outside by a security officer, and there will be several officers in the hall. Guess that means you might be able to avoid any new bruises.”
“Sounds like fun. Can’t wait.” I slip off the shoes that squish with every step and leave them on the porch. Then I follow Frank inside.
“Where is everybody?” I ask.
“Myrt’s using my office desktop. She’s looking at Earful posts to see if there are any new accusations she needs to be ready to parry,” Frank answers. “Ted went to the community center to check on the setup and talk with security. He wants to make sure there are enough chairs and two or three roving mics. Also plans to check the audio system. He asked Chief O’Rourke to assign at least three security officers to help with traffic before the meeting. Then, once it gets underway, the officers will head inside and stand ready to boot loudmouths.”
“Think I’ll say hi to Mom and see if she needs anything before I hog the guest bathroom for a leisurely shower.”
I knock on the doorframe to get Mom’s attention. Hunched over Frank’s desktop computer, she looks completely focused. Did she even hear my knock?
“Mom, I’m back from my run. Thought I’d check in with you before I clean up for the meeting.”
Mom swivels the office chair to face me. No smile. Her expression isn’t angry. It’s troubled. Why? Ted convinced the board to engage in a dialogue with the owners and be open about the committee’s misunderstanding. She should be relieved.
“You need to read these Earful posts about Andy Fyke,” Mom says. “Some Rand Creek woman committed suicide, and she left a confession by her empty pill bottle. Says she pushed Andy down the stairs because she believed he was a child molester.”
“What?” I explode. “No way that nice old man’s a child molester. No way.”
“Well, even old men can and do abuse children,” Mom says. “As a nurse, I learned evil deeds have no upper age limits. But, toward the end of the suicide note, she mentions that the video that convinced her Fyke was a pedophile might have been a fake. Not wanting to go to jail or put her family through a trial, she took her own life.”
I sink into a recliner in the cozy office. “God, one person dead and another severely injured. All because of malicious rumors. Gossip. What’s the world coming to?”
Mom shrugs. “Hate to tell you, but the human race hasn’t changed all that much since the Salem witch trials. Now whisper campaigns just fly farther and faster with apps like Earful. If a lie’s repeated often enough, people believe it.”
I share Mom’s sorrow. “How sad. The dead woman’s confession may actually make matters worse for Andy. He has enough on his plate, trying to recover from broken bones and internal injuries.
‘I hate to think it, but I know some Earful regulars will decide something suspicious must have triggered the speculation about Andy being a pervert. For believers of ‘where there’s smoke, there’s fire,’ the whispers will haunt Andy for a very long time.”
Mom shuts down the computer. “Nothing you can do about it. At least not now,” she says as she shoos me away. “Go take your shower, get dressed. I want you at the owners’ meeting. Not in an official capacity but as an observer. And certainly not as a punching bag. Just observe. You’re good at reading people. See if you can tell which owners seem eager to carry torches and light more Hullis Island fires.”
Chapter Forty-One
The Chameleon
Sunday, July 2, afternoon
Must say today’s start has been dandy. Early news reports confirmed one or more unknown suspects blew up an unidentified vessel mired in the marsh. The reports breathlessly described the middle-of-the-night fireball that awakened and alarmed dozens of marshside residents. Lots of 911 calls. The Sheriff’s Department is asking for leads.
Good. Must not have an ID on Mr. Dynamite. Still think it would be wise to remove his piece from the chessboard.
The second item of welcome news arrived when I visited the Earful gossip app. Rand Creek residents were all atwitter about the discovery of a suicide. The body of Jane Tina Landreth, nicknamed J.T., was found by a friend who decided it was just fine to share J.T.’s suicide note online. In her exit message, J.T. said she attacked Andy Fyke because she thought he was a child molester.
Hot diggity. The Earful post by J.T.’s friend is long and rambling. She waits until the last paragraph to mention J.T. eventually had misgivings, that maybe Andy wasn’t a pedophile. That revelation will be lost in the verbal hand-wringing.
It’s 12:45 as I slip into an aisle seat at the back of the Hullis Island Community Center. I’m about to follow meeting protocol and turn off my cellphone’s ringer when I get an alert from my Ring doorbell. It’s detected motion—a pint-size moving van is using my driveway to turn around and back into Leona Grimm’s drive. Looks like she’s quickly moving out essentials, probably including Ginger’s doggy bed. Hallelujah. My haunting-by-dead-husband ploy worked.
Wish I could have seen old Leona when she heard her dead hubby’s plea. Bet she sobbed and crouched by one of her digital ask-me-anything spheres, praying her husband would tell her the secrets of the afterlife.
Sorry, Leona, I only had time to dream up a few chilling warnings. No insights beyond the veil.
Man, the good news just keeps coming.
Good thing I arrived fifteen minutes before the fireworks are due to start. Not many seats left. I’m guessing at least one-hundred-fifty fellow owners occupy the available chairs. Another twenty or so lean against the back wall. A fire marshal by the door counts heads. Imagine Hullis stormtroopers—three of the uniformed posse are inside—will bar entrance once the two-hundred-person occupancy limit’s reached.
Good show. Turning people away should ratchet up the anger among the folks who arrive late.
Three people sit at a front table, facing the crowd. The middle man with a gavel at the ready must be the president, Cliff Jackson. A matching male sourpuss sits to his right. Both men studiously examine papers, avoiding eye contact with the crowd. To the president’s left, Myrtle Kane proves an exception. She looks directly at the audience and attempts a pleasant expression.
Where are Kylee, Ted, and his son?
I scan the room. Ted’s near the front wall, speaking with a security officer. I don’t spot Kylee or Grant till I crane around to check out the wallflowers. Both of them are loitering near the back wall. Interesting. Would have thought Kylee would position herself up front. Especially since her back-of-the-room post at Marshview ended with a solid punch to the cheek. Had I arrived earlier, I’d have sat up front. Then I could swivel to see the faces of any members who pipe up. Hard to judge a person’s mood, staring at the back of a neck.
Oh, crap, Kylee just recognized me.
Bad timing. Didn’t want Kylee to catch me staring at her. Actually, I hoped my presence would go unnoticed. I don’t plan to say a peep. Just gather intel and video of Ted and Myrtle, people I may need to spoof.
Ted walks to the podium and taps the mic, igniting an irritating feedback screech that sets my teeth on edge. I switch my cellphone to record to capture whatever he plans to say.
“Could I please have your attention for a moment. For those of you who haven’t met me, I’m Ted Welch. Our company manages your Hullis Island Owners Association. Today, I’ll serve as meeting facilitator. While it’s not quite one o’clock, the fire marshal is closing the doors since we’ve reached this room’s occupancy limit. But don’t worry, new arrivals won’t be shut out of the proceedings. We’re piping the audio outdoors so everyone on the grounds can hear.”
He pauses a moment for audience murmurs to subside.
“Grant Welch, one of our company’s summer interns, will take a roving microphone outside. When the public comment period begins, everyone who wants to speak will have an opportunity. If you’re outdoors, just raise your hand, and Grant will bring the mic to you.”
Not bad.
The Welch website bio and mug shot don’t do Ted justice. It should have included a video. He comes across as patient, sincere. Guess that’s his State Department background. He’s smart and savvy, too. He anticipated the overcrowding and took measures to prevent a furious mob from storming the castle.
The man isn’t hurting in the looks department either. About my age—late forties to early fifties. At least six feet and trim. His thick black hair is threaded with a few distinguishing strands of silver at the temples. Winning smile.
Can’t blame Kylee for jumping his bones. Just not sure what Ted sees in her. The woman could do herself a favor if she applied a little makeup. Can’t believe she hasn’t even tried to hide the bruises on her cheek. Her clothes scream thrift shop. And what’s with that mop of white hair? Can she even get a comb through it?
