Camino Winds (Camino Island #2)(12)

“Where’s Nelson?” Bruce asked.

“Around back.”

Nelson was lying crumpled over a short brick wall that ringed his patio. Definitely dead. He was wearing jeans, a T-shirt, old sneakers. Another policeman, a sergeant, was standing guard, obviously uncertain about what to do next. He offered a hand and said, “This your friend?”

Bruce felt weak in the knees but gamely stepped forward for a closer look. Nelson’s head was hanging off the side of the brick wall. There was a bloody gash above his left ear. Below the body was a limb from one of several Japanese crepe myrtles. Other limbs and leaves littered the scene.

Bruce stepped back and said, “Yes, that’s him.”

Nick leaned closer for a look and said, “That’s Nelson.”

The sergeant said, “Okay. Do you guys mind staying here with the body while we get some help?”

“What kind of help are you talking about?” Bruce asked.

“Well, I’m not sure. I guess we need the medical examiner to pronounce him dead. Just stay with him, okay?”

“Sure, whatever,” Bruce replied.

“He left your name, address, and phone number, and he also wrote down the name of some folks in California. Mr. and Mrs. Howard Kerr. I assume they’re his parents.”

“Probably. I’ve never met them.”

“I guess we need to call them.” The sergeant looked at Bruce as if he could use some help.

Bruce wanted no part of that call and said, “That’s your job. But the phones are down, right?”

“We have a satellite phone back at the staging area at Main Beach. I guess I’ll get back there and make the call. I don’t suppose you could do that, could you?”

“No sir. I don’t know those people and it’s not my job.”

“Okay. Y’all just stay here with the body.”

“Will do.”

Bob asked, “Can we look around his house?”

“I guess. We’ll be back as soon as we can.” The two policemen got in the Gator and drove away.

Bob said, “These folks were a bit luckier. The surge stopped here at the front steps. I live two streets over and got five feet of water on the ground floor. I sat on the stairs and watched it rise. Not a good feeling.”

“I’m sorry, Bob,” Bruce said.

“I wouldn’t call Nelson lucky,” Nick said.

“Good point.”

They returned to the rear patio and stared at the body. Bob said, “I can’t imagine what he was doing outside in the middle of the storm. A really stupid move.”

“Didn’t he have a dog?” Bruce asked. “Maybe his dog got out.”

“He did have a dog,” Bob remembered. “A little black mutt, knee high, called him Boomer. Let’s find him,” Bob said as he opened the rear door. “I suppose it’s prudent not to touch anything.”

They stepped inside onto a wet floor in the unlit kitchen, looking for any sign of a dog. Nick observed, “If the dog was here wouldn’t we know it by now?”

“Probably,” Bruce said. “I’ll check the upstairs. You guys poke around down here.”

Five minutes later every room had been checked and there was no dog. They regrouped in the kitchen, where the heat and humidity were rising by the minute. They went out to the patio and stared at Nelson.

Bruce said, “We should at least cover the body.”

“Good idea,” Bob said, as if still in a daze. Nick found two large towels in a bathroom and gently placed them over the body. Bruce was suddenly nauseous and said, “I need to sit down, fellas.” Nelson had shoved four metal deck chairs under a table wedged in a corner of the patio, and they had not been scattered by the wind. They pulled them out, dusted off the debris, and sat in the shade twenty feet from the body. Nick found three bottles of warm beer in the fridge and they toasted their dead comrade.

Bruce said, “You got to know him pretty well, right?”

Bob replied, “I guess. He moved here, what, two years ago?”

“Something like that. His third novel had just been published and was selling well. He’d been divorced for a few years, no kids, and wanted to get away from California.”

They sipped their beers and studied the white towels. Nick said, “This really doesn’t make any sense. How could the dog get out in the middle of a major hurricane?”

“Maybe the damned thing had to pee,” Bob said. “Nelson let him out for a quick one, the dog got freaked out in the storm, got away, and Nelson panicked and tried to get him. That branch snapped and hit him in the head. I’ll bet he’s not the only fool who got hit by a falling limb last night. Bad timing. Bad luck.”

Bruce said, “He had just finished a novel. I wonder where the manuscript is.”

“Wow. That’s valuable stuff. Did you read it?” Nick asked.

“No, but I had promised to. He was just finishing the second draft. As far as I know, he had not sent it to New York.”

“It’s probably in his computer, don’t you think?”

“More than likely.”

Nick asked, “What happens to it?”

There was a long pause as they considered this. “Wasn’t he a lawyer?” Nick asked.