Without a Grave Read Online Free PDF Page A

Abaco islands. Smaller versions of the photos, the vendor’s samples, were encased in plastic sleeves and stored in notebooks, one for each island group. Paul was flipping through the one labeled Man-O-War. ‘Check this out,’ he said when he noticed me breathing down his neck.
    Sandwiched between Man-O-War Cay to the east and Scotland Cay to the west, little horseshoe-shaped Hawksbill Cay stood out like an emerald in a sapphire sea. Bonefish Cay, our island home, lay to the south-east, a half moon that formed a natural, protective barrier for Hawksbill’s harbor. If I squinted, I could make out our cottage on tiny Beulah Bay, and to the south of it, the speck of light blue that was my favorite swimming ground, Barracuda Reef.
    I ran my fingers over the plastic-covered image of our little piece of paradise. ‘Buy this for me?’
    Paul, bless him, produced his credit card and arranged to have a sixteen by twenty inch copy of the photograph packaged and shipped back home to Maryland where our godson was house-sitting for us.
    â€˜Thank you!’ I gave him a peck on the cheek.
    â€˜This is thirsty work,’ Paul said, as he tucked his credit card back into his wallet. ‘Do you think you can locate the bar?’
    It wasn’t hard. That was where the line was. When our turn came, Paul bought us each a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. We carried our glasses outside into the sunshine where another line had formed in front of a booth bearing the sign:
    Hors d’Oeuvres Compliments of
    â€˜Cruise Inn and Conch Out’
    Visit Us on Hawksbill Cay
    We Monitor Channels 16 and 68
    www.cruiseinnconchout.com
    Paul and I were making do with pineapple and cheese on a toothpick, and engaging in idle chit-chat while waiting for the line to go down so we could get a crack at some of Cassandra’s amazing conch fritters when, behind me, somebody laughed.
    I turned to see a woman wearing a flowered, halter-top sundress and strappy sandals talking to a guy in a white polo shirt and chinos. The woman I recognized from a picture in The Abaconian , Pattie Toler, goddess of the Net. Her brown, shoulder-length hair glinted with red highlights in the sun, and she’d caught it back at the sides with tortoiseshell combs. I had no idea about the guy, except to say that he was tall, bronzed and drop-dead, be-still-my-heart gorgeous. Think James Bond, of the Sean Connery persuasion, except Hispanic.
    I elbowed Paul. ‘That’s Pattie Toler,’ I whispered. ‘I want to meet her.’
    I was insanely curious about the guy she was talking to, too, but I didn’t think it wise to mention it.
    I waited, watching for an opportunity to interrupt their conversation, twiddling my empty toothpick. Pattie pulled a cigarette from a pack in her purse, paused – presumably to ask the guy if he minded – before she put it between her lips and lit up. Pattie inhaled deeply, turned her head politely to the side to exhale, then continued talking.
    Meanwhile, I polished off two carrot sticks and a piece of celery. When Paul took my wine glass away for a refill, I muttered, ‘Screw the wait,’ and wandered closer to Pattie and her companion. I hovered silently, but conspicuously at her elbow.
    She acknowledged me immediately, almost as if she were glad for the interruption. ‘You look like you could use some champagne.’ She toasted me with her empty flute.
    â€˜I could. Thanks.’
    Pattie glanced around the tent, raised her glass and, as if by magic, a server materialized, carrying a tray of champagne. Parking her cigarette between her index and middle fingers, Pattie set her empty flute on the tray and snagged two fresh ones. ‘Here,’ she smiled as she handed me one of the glasses. ‘I’m Pattie Toler. Blue Dolphin .’
    â€˜I figured,’ I said, returning the smile. ‘I’m Hannah Ives. My husband and I . . .’
    I was about to add our