Deadly Winds

By Susan Hanafee

During a freak winter storm in Florida, a 300-pound bell plummets to the ground killing a member of the congregation who has vocally opposed an expensive church renovation project. Was it an accident or murder? Amateur sleuth and would-be novelist Leslie Elliott and her reporter friend, Wes Avery, return to their Florida island after vacationing in Key West to discover that a wealthy widow named Alice Gerkin has been obliterated in the church belfry. The sheriff is adamant that Alice's death was accidental. Leslie believes the woman's demise is linked to her outspoken criticism of the church's proposed remodeling.
Leslie reaches out to a local handyman named Jake Fargo, who worked for Alice. After investigating the belfry, he confirms Leslie's suspicions that it was more than deadly winds that caused the bell to drop. He suggests that a dishonest construction worker he knows could be involved. When the construction worker's body turns up in a dumpster and the church's architect is found dead with a two-by-four nailed to her head, Leslie is convinced that one or more of the major figures involved in the renovation have something to do with the three deaths. Her suspicions also include the pastor who has told her that Alice's death was "God's will." Meanwhile, Leslie learns that Val Gammon, the adult son of her mother's fiancé, will be moving in with Leslie's mother temporarily. Leslie quickly recognizes that Val's affinity for mind-altering drugs and his connection to a dangerous Panamanian shaman could be a threat to her family's safety. Leslie plans a road trip to Tampa to unearth details about the church pastor's shadowy past and convinces Wes to fly to Panama to learn more about Val's connection to fatal activities that have taken place in the shaman's Temple of the Spirit. As the mysteries unfold and she confronts the church bell killer, Leslie finds herself locked in a room from which there is no escape and in the path of another deadly storm racing toward the island. Mystery and intrigue, combined with a healthy dose of humor, keep the plot lively and entertaining in this latest novel featuring Leslie Elliott and her colorful Florida friends.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9781732489448

Susan Hanafee

Susan Hanafee is an award-winning former journalist whose career as a reporter for The Indianapolis Star spanned three decades. She formerly headed corporate communications for IPALCO Enterprises and Cummins Inc. She resides in southwest Florida. Hanafee's blogs can be found on www.susanhanafee.com. Her previously published books include Red, Black and Global: The Transformation of Cummins (a corporate history); Rachael's Island Adventures (a collection of children's stories); Never Name an Iguana and Rutabagas for Ten (essays and observations on life); Leslie's Voice (a novel) and the Leslie Elliott mystery series, including Scavenger Tides, The End of his Journey and Deadly Winds.

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Deadly Winds is a work of fiction created by Susan Hanafee. All names, characters, their actions in this novel and the outcome of those actions are products of the author’s imagination.

Cover photograph by Rob Barke, Thetford, Norfolk, England.

Copyright © 2022 by the author.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Print ISBN: 978-1-73248-943-1

eBook ISBN: 978-1-73248-944-8

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

About the Author

Author’s Note

Deadly Winds was completed and in the hands of the publisher two weeks before Hurricane Ian hit my beloved Southwest Florida coast with its devastating surge and destructive winds. The island that is the fictional setting and my muse for Leslie Elliott’s crime-solving adventures was hard-hit. Sadly, some of the iconic structures alluded to in my novel were destroyed or heavily damaged. Some will return; others are gone forever. It’s with loving memory of the way things were, that I dedicate this book to the resilient people of Charlotte and Lee counties and those that helped them with the recovery.

Special thanks to Rob Barke for his dramatic photography. To Kris Elbert. Jack Hanafee and Bobbie Marquis, my gratitude for donating their time and talents to helping make this book better. I am privileged to work with great editors: Colleen Clapton, Dennis Royalty and Marcy Shortuse. Many thanks also to my associates who offered thoughts and comments on the book, and especially to my partner, Ian Rogerson, for being the best supporter and friend a writer or anyone could ever have.

Chapter 1

Wednesday, January 15

Alice Gerkin e¡yed the ominous clouds as she exited her silver Mercedes to a flash of lightning and an ear-shattering boom. Her plans to host a dinner party on the lanai to raise money for a local charity faded with each smack of thunder.

Damn weather, she grimaced, scurrying up the covered steps that led to the side entrance of the First United Church of Anibonie Island. The ornate wooden door was normally locked during the week to keep out vandals. But when Alice pulled on its wrought iron handle, the door creaked open, then fought the wind as she stepped inside and tried to close it.

Hello! Yoo-hoo, she called out. She smoothed her windblown blonde hair as she walked beyond the six-by-six-foot landing that doubled as the belfry and headed for the sanctuary. She assumed the building committee chair and minister were waiting for her there. She had plenty to say to them about priorities.

It was three weeks ago that Alice rose from her pew during Christmas service to express displeasure with the church’s renovation plans. You’re railroading it through, she complained. Several nodded. Others gasped at such heresy on a hallowed weekend.

And why don’t we ring the church bell to start the service like we used to? She remembered asking that question as an afterthought and being surprised to hear from the pastor that replacing the rusty bell and its tower were part of the plan.

Finding the sanctuary empty, she returned to the belfry, hands on hips, and surveyed the tiny room. On the wall to her left was a large hook around which a white rope used to ring the bell was coiled. Her eyes followed a strand to a small hole in the ceiling. Decades of pounding seasonal rains had penetrated the opening, warping boards that sealed the bell from the room below.

Alice noticed bits of sawdust on the floor when she first entered and now assumed they’d filtered through the opening. Termites at work. The island was infested with them. But such a minor issue. Tenting first, then new wood, a sheet of roof protector, paint and three hours of work by Jake would fix the belfry, she calculated. At most, a few thousand dollars.

Alice’s late husband, a builder in Aspen, had amassed a fortune that allowed his widow to live out their retirement dreams on the island in Southwest Florida. He taught her about construction, but she’d learned even more from Jake, a well-spoken handyman she hired to do odd jobs around her waterfront property. She was sure Jake could put together a small crew to handle the renovation needs with minimal cost.

She reached out, uncoiled the rope and gave it a yank. A loud clang was followed by the creaking of wood, a few thumps and more sawdust. There’s nothing wrong with this bell, she observed aloud. Another pull should get the pastor’s attention.

Outside, straight-line winds later estimated at 90 miles an hour bundled palm fronds, limbs, stones and shells into a destructive array that slammed against the church and its 80-year-old bell tower. At the exact moment this mighty force of nature struck, Alice gave the cable a second yank. The tower groaned and shifted. Wood strained, then snapped as the 300-pound bell was released from its restraints, broke through the plywood ceiling and plunged 20 feet to the floor below.

Next door, Pastor Billy Cordray, who was getting ready to leave his office for a meeting with the disgruntled Alice, reported hearing a soulful BONG and an enormous thud when the cast bronze object connected with the hapless woman standing below it.

Whether Alice Gerkin made any noise when she was flattened was left for islanders to speculate about several weeks later at a cocktail party held in her honor.

Chapter 2

Wednesday, a week later

Leslie Elliott was ready to leave Key West after day four. But because her companion, Wes Avery, was having such a good time on his first visit to the Conch Republic, she put on a game face. She stuck it out until she found herself struggling to zip up her favorite pair of size four slacks.

I can’t take any more restaurant food. No matter how good it is, she groaned. She made a face and pushed her plate away, leaving most of the salmon, roasted eggplant and asparagus untouched.

They were halfway through dinner at Café Marquesa, a trendy bistro within walking distance of their waterfront hotel, when she made the announcement.

Wes, who was loading his fork with yellowtail and parmesan grits, stopped, put down the utensil and looked at her. She read surprise and hurt in his hazel eyes. I mean it’s been fun. I’m having a great time with you. But I’m ready to go home, she said. Back to our island. Back to where people wear more than thongs and body paint.

Wes sighed, reached for his glass and drained the last of the white wine. Leslie expected him to say okay. He often deferred to her requests. She hadn’t decided if that was his nature, or if he was playing the long game in hopes of promoting their friendship into something more.

There was that gentle kiss this past New Year’s Eve when they were sitting on the seawall outside her condo watching fireworks explode over the Gulf of Mexico. Many people are affectionate on December 31, emboldened by alcohol and the spirit of the celebration, she thought as she revisited the surprising moment their lips touched. But there had been nothing of that sort during the Key West trip. Just friends, without benefits, on vacation.

The two had driven 360 miles south in Wes’s Highlander after attending the funeral of the local sheriff, a man Leslie didn’t care for and who had nothing but disdain for her when he was alive.

Wes was a reporter for the weekly newspaper, The Island Sun. If it came up, he told people he was pushing 60, although he wouldn’t be there for another six months. Leslie, a would-be novelist, was 12 years his junior. The pair had teamed up to solve three recent murders and uncover the truth behind a heartbreaking, two-decades-old island mystery.

It was their unsolicited crime-solving assistance that put them at odds with the sheriff. Still, they attended his funeral. In a small community where actions are scrutinized and then judged, their failure to pay respects to an important law enforcement figure would have isolated them for a time.

We can leave. Now, Wes said, turning to look over his shoulder and signaling the server.

Leslie started to protest, but the waiter arrived quickly, appearing dismayed that his customers had barely touched their food. Is everything okay? he asked, twisting the white cloth he was carrying. I’d be happy to get you something else.

The food is … was incredible, Wes said. A slight smile – more politeness than a sign of pleasure – softened the lines on his rugged face. I’m afraid my friend and I have discovered that too much of a good thing is sometimes too much. Unfortunately, this moment of enlightenment occurred in your fine establishment. Sorry.

Wes pulled out his wallet, removed a credit card and handed it to the server. This one’s on me, he said. No arguments.

Leslie blushed. During their trip she’d insisted on separate rooms and bills. She was sure she had more financial resources than Wes. He had been an underpaid reporter for a major Midwestern newspaper, The Daily News, for more than three decades. Even though he’d moved south, he was still working. She once held a lucrative position as a public relations officer for a big-city utility before being chased away by a womanizing CEO.

Their jobs brought them together professionally up north, but it wasn’t until both moved to Florida and ended up on the same small island – a stretch of land 10 miles long and one mile wide on the southwest coast – that their friendship blossomed. Today, it seemed in danger of wilting.

After leaving the restaurant, they walked several blocks without talking. Their quick pace was out of step with others around them. It was Wednesday, but as tourists quickly learn, every night in Key West feels like the weekend. People were milling about on Duval Street; in no rush to go anywhere and sipping fruity drinks with a punch they’d feel later.

A small crowd had gathered round a man with pigtails playing a guitar and wearing an oversized red and white striped hat. A sign that said Legalize Marijuana Now was propped against the folding chair he was sitting on. Nearby sat a brown terrier, leashed to the chair; sticking close to his master but licking the hands of those who stopped to pet him. Was the man’s brain too fried to realize that in most places marijuana was legal and easily obtainable? Leslie wondered as she stopped to pet the dog and drop a dollar in a nearby cup. Wes kept walking.

I’m really sorry, she said when she caught up with him. They were nearing their hotel and the crowd had thinned. She felt guilty about curtailing their vacation but also relief that it was coming to an end three days early. I should have said something before now.

That’s okay, Wes responded. We outlasted fish and guests.

She chuckled at his remark and thought about grabbing his hand. It would be intended as a friendly gesture, but might be viewed by him as patronizing, placating. He was acting nonchalant, but she could tell by the way he held his mouth – lips pressed tight together – he was upset.

The next morning, they were on U.S. Highway 1, about an hour into their drive north across the bridge spanning the turquoise waters of the Keys, when Wes’s cell phone rang.

Leslie was enjoying the sunny day and the spectacular view but also contemplating what it must be like driving across the 43 bridges that link the archipelago, trying to escape with a hurricane on your tail. She pictured cars inching across 113 miles of steel and cement as winds picked up, deadly clouds began building to the south and the first fat raindrops hit the windshield.

Her mental weather channel switched off when she heard Wes say the word dead.

Who’s dead? she asked. She panicked briefly as her thoughts turned to her mother, Ruth, and her fiancé, Gale Gammon, both in their 70s, who were on a lengthy ocean cruise. No, someone would have called her, not Wes. She took a deep breath to calm the adrenaline that had flooded her body.

The island’s population, predominantly senior citizens, was always at risk. Just last year, the church lost eight members to illnesses, including the much-beloved 86-year-old choir director and a former Chicago businessman, who many described as the backbone of the congregation.

Then there was Frank Johnson, a popular fisherman, and a pair of Canadian cousins: all murdered in connection with drug-related activities on the island. And the sheriff, Harry Fleck, whose funeral they attended. Now, it was someone else.

The recent death toll was staggering for a community that numbered 4,000-plus during the peak winter season but fewer than 800 year-round.

Wes put up his hand to silence Leslie. Yeah. Yeah. You don’t say. I’ll check in when we get home.

Leslie fidgeted but remained quiet until Wes ended his conversation.

Someone named Alice Gerkin. Smashed by the church bell, he said.

Alice? My church’s bell? That’s awful. How did it happen?

Seems that the woman was standing in the belfry when straight-line winds hit the tower and dislodged the bell. It fell and killed her instantly. A freak accident, they’re saying.

That’s terrible. Was that Randy? What else did he say?

Wes’s colleague, the layout man for The Island Sun, was not a man of many words. Leslie didn’t expect much additional information but had to ask.

Only that the pastor found her. It was the same day we left for Key West, Wes said. Randy would have told me earlier but didn’t want to spoil our trip. I texted him that we were on our way home. Guess that’s why he called.

Leslie shuddered, her thoughts turning to Alice. Slim. Shoulder-length blonde hair always in place. A widow in her mid-60s, who society would say was past her prime but still attractive, lying squashed beneath a giant bell, her blood seeping into the cracks of the decades-old plank floor in the belfry.

Leslie didn’t know Alice all that well. She was recognized on the island for her support of several prominent charities. The few times they’d spoken, Leslie found her pleasant but also a straight shooter. In addition, the two women shared Jake Fargo, the handyman Alice recommended one day when she and Leslie were talking after church.

Jake is great. So talented. Reasonable, Alice had said. Her voice had a certain lilt to it that hinted that the man could do more than wield a hammer and screwdriver with finesse. Leslie almost expected Alice to give her an elbow and a wink as part of the description. But she realized that Alice was too direct for such innuendoes. If she had wanted Leslie to know the more intimate details of her life, she would have shared them.

Leslie hired Jake to replace several steps in front of her condo. He was, as Alice said, a good craftsman, fairly-priced and well-mannered. At the time, Leslie found it difficult to ignore his good looks. But she hadn’t given any further thought to the handyman or his patron until that day during the Christmas service when Alice stood up and expressed concern about the renovation, and Leslie found herself agreeing.

The building had a certain shabbiness. There were water spots on ceiling tiles in various locations. The dark gray carpeting in the Fellowship Hall had many ugly stains, especially around the coffee urns, which got heavy use on Sunday mornings. The pews creaked and some wobbled as members of congregation used them to pull themselves to their feet and then leaned on them when a hymn lasted for more than three verses.

Still, for a small church on a barrier island that was threatened by, at worst, monster hurricanes and, at best, driving summer rain squalls, Leslie thought the place was in good shape. Quaint, in fact. Perhaps paint and carpentry work were needed. Nothing that would merit the church spending money it didn’t have. Or, even if the funds could be raised, that Alice and others might argue could be put to better use elsewhere. It’s hard to make a meal for the poor out of bricks and mortar.

Leslie hit the button on the passenger side of Wes’ SUV to lower the window. The warm air rushing in tousled her short reddish hair and lifted a piece of tissue from the floorboards into suspension. Leslie grabbed it before it could travel through the open window and become an unsightly piece of litter.

Uh, what are you doing? Wes asked, glancing her direction before returning his eyes to the road.

Remember how when you were a kid and you put your hand outside the car and let the wind play with it? I’m thinking about doing that, she said, smiling.

I didn’t do that but whatever makes you happy, he said.

I’m also thinking about calling Jake Fargo, the handyman who fixed my condo steps, and asking him to take a look at the church, she said as she revisited a childhood pleasure and stuck her arm out the open window.

As the wind pushed down on the skin around her fingers, Leslie pondered what forces besides natural ones could dislodge and bring down a 300-pound bell at exactly the wrong moment. She hoped Jake would have some answers for her.

Chapter 3

Friday

Jake Fargo’s voice was deep and inviting. It conjured up a vision of him without a shirt, his tanned arm muscles flexing as he drove nails into the cedar plank steps in front of Leslie’s condo on the northernmost part of the island.

It was Friday morning and she’d called him early, knowing that he’d be on the job by 7 a.m. He was that conscientious.

Mrs. Elliott. What can I do for you?

Wasn’t that terrible news about Alice Gerkin? Leslie said, expressing genuine feelings.

I’m still trying to figure out how it happened. How someone could be killed by a church bell, he said and paused. She was a friend, you know.

Leslie was convinced there was something more than friendship between them, even though she’d never seen the two together socially. Alice was a wealthy widow and Jake a six-foot-tall, divorced island workman at least ten years her junior. It was okay for some pot-bellied octogenarian to flaunt a thirty-something eye candy on his arm, but the reverse would be frowned upon. Especially by Alice’s upper-crust friends. They would think Jake was taking advantage of her.

Figuring out what happened was what I had in mind, Leslie said. Could you meet me at the church during your lunch break today, say 11 a.m.? Have a look around? You are on the island, aren’t you?

She heard him clear his throat as if unsure how to respond. Well, um, yes, he finally said. Just down the street. I guess it won’t be a problem. What do you need me to do?

Check out the room, the tower and its structural integrity, she said.

Not sure I’m qualified. I’m no engineer.

But you know construction, Jake. Oh, and bring a ladder, she said, clicking off before he could say no.

Leslie thought about how quiet Wes was during the drive home; how curt he sounded when he said see ya, as she exited his vehicle and thanked him for the trip. She’d call him after meeting with Jake to finalize their plans for Saturday. She was confident Wes wouldn’t back out of the two events they were attending together; she just wanted reassurance.

Meanwhile, she needed to get back to her morning walk. The bathroom scales were indicating it was mission critical. She put on shorts, a tank top and walking shoes and headed for the front door, stopping to stare at the empty hook that once held the leash for Whalen’s collar.

Whalen was Frank Johnson’s rescue dog and had been in Leslie’s keeping for only a short time. She’d returned him to the fisherman’s teenage son, Stevie, before she and Wes left for Key West. It was the right thing to do, even though it left a hole in her heart; almost as big a void as Frank’s recent death had created.

Leslie hoped that if given a say, the yellow lab would have remained with her. But Stevie loved the dog, too,