The man’s chin dropped to his chest. He looked at his muddy boots, looked at the hammer, then picked a leaf off his coveralls, which he rolled between his fingers.
Now what should I do? Leave him alone, a voice in me said. Keep moving and pretend this never happened. But we were here, only a few yards apart, and there could be no avoiding a handyman who worked next door. So I pushed ahead, saying, “Loretta told me you used the truck to deliver a box to Mrs. Helms. That she asked you to do it and you had permission. I shouldn’t have doubted you the other day. You forgive me?”
A shrug was my reply. Levi began tapping the hammer against his thigh—hopefully because he was eager for me to be gone and not because he was agitated. What I wanted to ask was Why were you so frightened on Pay Day Road? but couldn’t summon the courage. So I kept my tone chatty and stuck to a subject that had to be addressed. “I’m sure you took great care of the truck, no need to discuss that. But the thing is, Levi—”
He sensed a rebuke, and the man’s nostrils widened to gather air, which caused me to pause, before I continued, “The thing about using the truck is, you probably shouldn’t drive unless you have a license. See . . . my mother’s not as fussy as some when it comes to breaking the law or going to jail. But if the police pulled you over, and if they checked your—”
I stopped talking because, for the second time in my life, Walkin’ Levi risked eye contact, and what I saw scared me. The police—my choice of subjects could not have been more thoughtless. It was the source of the problem between us. Because of me, Levi had been questioned by Billy, the tough detective, and he was still mad. I had no idea why anger had motivated him to spy on me from the mangroves, but now was not the time to discuss the police or even to hint that Levi might be arrested.
I took a step back and fumbled to change the subject. “On the other hand, the worst thing for an old truck is not to be used—so let’s just forget it . . . okay?”
Was it my imagination or were Walkin’ Levi’s knuckles whitening as he gripped the hammer tighter? The man didn’t respond, so I asked, “How’s your new job going? You probably heard the news about Mrs. Candor’s little dog.”
That, at least, got a response. Levi’s big head swiveled toward the oaks at the top of the mound behind the cement house. “Yeah . . . she hunts at night,” he said, meaning the great horned owl, not Alice Candor, I felt certain, which would have made no sense. Then his head swiveled back, dodging eye contact, and offered me further reassurance by repeating what he’d told me in the truck, “But you’re nice.”
“Thank you, Levi,” I said, “I think you’re nice, too,” which struck me as a hypocritical thing to say to a man who was bouncing a hammer against his thigh. Thankfully, I was spared additional awkwardness when a voice summoned me from the road.
“Hey, Missus Smith . . . Hannah? You got a minute to talk?”
Because she wasn’t in uniform, it took a moment to recognize this petite woman wearing shorts and an amber blouse that turned her red hair to ginger. It was the sheriff’s deputy from Boston who had an interest in archaeology.
I would soon learn her unusual first name: Liberty.
When Liberty Tupplemeyer, the off-duty deputy, said, “I don’t envy you putting up with that woman,” she motioned so vaguely I assumed she meant Loretta, not Dr. Alice Candor, as was intended, which almost caused a fight, then got us into a confusing discussion about parents.
“If you met my mom, you wouldn’t believe we’re related,” the redhead said. “She still bakes hash cookies—Christ, tried to get me to eat one on my sixteenth birthday. Said it would calm me down. ‘Make me comatose, you mean,’ I told her. Or wear peasant blouses and camp at Dead concerts with Dad and her pals from the old commune. Sing ‘Rocky Mountain High’ around the campfire; talk God and astrology. No thanks.”
“Parents sometimes become childlike,” I agreed, leading the woman onto the dock while also keeping an eye on Levi. When Tupplemeyer had appeared, he’d slipped back into the mangroves, then returned to work by crossing the road to the Candor property. Ten minutes, I’d been conversing with the deputy, who was chatty now that she was out of uniform, but I had yet to hear the sound of a nail being driven, or anything similar, to explain why Levi was carrying a hammer while he spied on me.
Something else that hadn’t happened was hearing why Tupplemeyer, on her day off, had returned to Sulfur Wells. The delay was caused by my defensiveness when she’d seemed to criticize my mother, but, in fact, had meant Alice Candor.
“No one’s asking you to put up with her!” I had countered with some heat. “Mind your own business—and walk yourself off our property while you’re at it!”
Like two dogs who mistakenly snap at each other, we were now eager to make peace. For Liberty Tupplemeyer, that seemed to require proving her mother was even crazier than Loretta, who she’d yet to meet so had no idea how stiff the competition was.
Mrs. Tupplemeyer, however—who came from money, according to her daughter—was making a strong showing.
“My mom sees a mountain stream, particularly if it’s a sunny day, she wants to go skinny-dipping. Doesn’t matter who’s around, can you imagine? Sixty-four years old—skinny-dipping. When I told her I was leaving BU for the police academy, you’d have thought I was marching off to join the Nazi Party. Know what she tells her friends? God forbid she gave birth to a cop, so she tells them, ‘Bertie has gone into public service.’ You know, like I married a Kennedy and I’m now devoting my life to flood victims.”
“We’ve got to keep those two apart,” I smiled but was becoming increasingly confused. BU, I knew, stood for Boston University, but what did our mothers have to do with the deputy’s return to Sulfur Wells? “You were studying archaeology before that?” I asked, hoping to get the conversation on track.
The redhead nodded while she enjoyed the view from the dock. “In a way, my mom got me interested. Especially the way she behaves around her old hippie friends. Tribal, you know?”
I was lost. “Interested in archaeology, you mean? Or having the power to arrest people?”
“Pre-Columbian history,” she replied. “Spend a day with Mom’s friends, it’s hard to believe space aliens didn’t come down and impregnate half our parents’ generation. You ever read Chariots of the Gods? Or look at satellite photos of the Plains of Nazca in Peru? The theory’s been dismissed as bullshit, but it’s interesting, you know? Their fascination with astronomy . . . geometry, advanced stuff. In high school, I got college credit volunteering on digs in Guatemala and Copán. You can’t believe the vibe of those places, unless . . .” Tupplemeyer let the sentence trail off as her eyes focused on an island two miles away. “That’s the western pyramid you mentioned, right?”
“Cushing Key,” I said. “On this coast, whenever you see a high stand of trees, there’s always a shell mound.”
“I know that name. Cushing . . . Yeah, I saw his sketches on the Internet. He was sent here by the Smithsonian and collected artifacts in the eighteen hundreds. An ethnologist, right? Kind of a strange guy, but you were right about the mounds being pyramids. No doubt from his drawings.”
I felt I should know more about Frank Hamilton Cushing but could only answer, “In the eighteen nineties, I’m pretty sure. You’ve done some reading since Friday.”
“Everything I could find. And made some phone calls, too—an archaeologist in Tallahassee, and finally got the zoning department this morning. The guy wouldn’t say shit, but it’s a start.” The deputy looked at me to see if I was interested or, possibly, impressed. I was both.
She continued, “Everything you told me is pretty accurate—an ancient, complex civilization, the remains are right here. What you told me about Dr. Candor is true, too. That she and her husband somehow got around all the restrictions and destroyed that Indian mound.” The deputy turned and motioned toward the concrete mansion. “Sorry you thought I was talki
ng about your mother, but I couldn’t wait to get away from that bitch. You ever been inside her place?”
At last, I understood the confusion. “You were in Alice Candor’s house? Just now?”
Yes. Tupplemeyer had actually passed the man with the camera as he was on his way out and she didn’t care that he’d recognized her.
“Off duty, I’m still an officer of the court, but my time’s my own,” she explained. “I wanted to ask Candor face-to-face where they’d sent those dump trunks. And why the hell won’t she tell the archaeologists? They could at least sift for artifacts, which would be a contextual mess, but, you know, valuable. I was more polite than the way I just put it. Trouble was, I couldn’t pretend it was police business. The woman’s too savvy. She’s used to bullying people and getting what she wants. She wouldn’t tell me where they dumped the stuff, of course. In fact, she said she’d call the sheriff personally if I kept asking questions.”
“Threatened you,” I said. “You’ve got a lot of nerve to even try.”
Tupplemeyer flipped her hair back in a way that told me she had some actress in her as well. “No, I’m just pissed off—and I don’t have the financial worries most people do, so, you know, screw her if she wants to get tough. Over the weekend, I used a department computer to start putting the pieces together and also . . . Well, I’ll just tell you—I ran background checks on the local players.” She paused to give me a meaningful look before continuing. “There’s not much I could do in two days. If Candor actually calls the sheriff, my sergeant could restrict my computer privileges. I don’t want to lose my job, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let those assholes get away with destroying a shell pyramid. That’s why I’m talking to you.”
It was the second time that day a person had all but admitted to prying into my personal history. I decided to overlook the intrusion, however, until I understood the woman’s motives. I said, “When I first realized it was you—you look so different out of uniform—I thought you’d come about my mother’s garden. The attorney I called said don’t touch it until she makes some calls. So if that’s on your mind—”
Tupplemeyer had a lot of nervous energy and it showed. She stopped me by interrupting, “I get shitty assignments sometimes. That was one of them, so just drop it, okay? There’s something going on around here that stinks, that’s what I’m telling you.”
“Just the Indian mound or Sulfur Wells?” I asked.
“Definitely one,” she said, “maybe both.”
“That wouldn’t surprise me,” I replied, which kept me neutral but willing to listen. I did.
“Do you have any idea how many agencies had to look the other way when the Candors dug up that mound? Either that or people in charge weren’t paying attention. There’s a long list, including that dweeb who came about your mom’s garden. Plus county zoning and planning departments—the woman in charge of historical sites has a reputation for being an incompetent ditz. She’d be useless if I went to her.” Tupplemeyer made a fluttering sound of frustration while her eyes flitted around as if she was eager to get moving.
“Are you saying the Candors paid bribes?”
The deputy read my tone correctly. “I know, I know, I don’t believe it either. I work for county government, and it would be damn near impossible—too many people involved—to keep something like that quiet. But the Candors have money, and they know how bureaucracies work. They had a big health care business in Ohio. Bought two rehab clinics that were in trouble, then four hospitals in Indiana, and kept expanding until they screwed up and had to move out of the state.”
You’re shitting me? I nearly said but caught myself in time to ask, “That’s why they came to Florida?”
The redhead shared the details she’d uncovered. Within a few years after buying the rehab clinics, the Candors had created the largest private, for-profit health care company in the Midwest. Dr. Alice Candor had the medical background and the brains. Her husband was a CPA, but she was the one who had been chairman of the board. Four years ago, their company had owned more than a hundred hospitals, but then it had all fallen apart. Investigators from the FBI and the Department of Health and Human Services had served search warrants at their main office. An investigation followed, during which the Candors struck a deal. They pled guilty to fourteen charges, all felonies, after admitting their employees had fraudulently billed Medicare and other state and federal programs. They also admitted to giving doctors partnerships in their hospitals as a kickback for referring patients. The kickbacks included free rent, fully furnished offices, and free drugs from hospital pharmacies. After plea bargaining, the company had paid out more than a million dollars in fines, but the Candors walked away free.
“My lord,” I said, “most people would have gone to prison.”
“Read up on Florida’s governor, if you believe that,” the deputy replied, then looked at the house again. “You’ve never been inside that place? What do you call it?”
I was still pondering her remark about the current governor when she pursued the question, saying, “Tasteless architecture is usually given a nickname by locals. You know, like McMansion, Garage Mahal. A name like that.”
“Oh,” I said. “The Bunker, for a while. Walmart, early on, but nothing really stuck.”
The deputy, unimpressed, shaking her head, tried a few others—Bondo Condo, Slab-a-Lot, Plaster Disaster—but couldn’t quite nail it, so she got back to her point about what it was like to be inside with the couple who had built the house.
“Creepy,” Tupplemeyer said. “They’re like two mushrooms who live in artificial lighting. Lots of pink tropical décor, Christ, even some replicas of wooden masks the Indians wore, but it’s all fake.”
“Instant Floridians,” I said. “I didn’t know for sure she really was a doctor. Neither one of them comes outside much.”
“What they did was change the name of their company and moved here after they bought out a chain of rehab clinics—Tampa, Arcadia, Belle Glade—all low income areas with a lot of traffic. I’m guessing the clinics have a contract with the state or they bill Medicaid, but I’m not sure. She’s licensed to practice in Florida, and makes rounds at some of the clinics, but doesn’t actually practice, I don’t think. There’s a lot to find out.”
“What kind of doctor is she?”
Alice Candor was a specialist in psychiatric medicine, Tupplemeyer said. When she added that Dr. Candor had done psychiatric research as well, I felt a chill. At the same instant, Levi Thurloe appeared from behind the cement house, pushing a wheelbarrow, his coveralls sweat-soaked. When he saw me, Walkin’ Levi bowed his head to avoid eye contact but nonetheless watched me as he plodded toward the road.
“Let’s go somewhere else to talk,” I said to the deputy. “On my phone, I’ve got video I shot of them bulldozing the mound. They used a backhoe, too, for the landscaping. Want to see it?”
“Those pompous, destructive assholes,” the redhead muttered, meaning Yes, she did.
• • •
WE WERE SITTING on my skiff, drinking diet RC Cola, which was getting hard to find and which the off-duty deputy had never tried before, while she explained why she had run a background check on me after checking out the Candors and a few other locals, too.
“How else would I know you can help?” she said, referring to the reason she had returned to Sulfur Wells. The former archaeology major was determined to find the tons of earth, shells, and artifacts that had been hauled away by trucks. Seeing my video of a bulldozer and backhoe destroying what had once been a pyramid had only fired her resolve.
“What sold me, Hannah, is you’re licensed to knock on doors, ask nosy questions, the whole private detective deal. And collect information on civil matters.” The woman paused and took a sip of her drink. “It is Hannah, right? Or do your friends call you something else? Like me, Liberty is so bullshit and butterfly sounding, I go by Ber
t or Bertie—but I hate Libby, so don’t call me that.”
I wondered if I had misheard. “Birdy as in bird?” I asked. It was a name that fit a skinny woman who wasn’t pretty in the typical way but who had an interesting face and was in good shape.
“Sure, that’s fine, too. But back to what I was saying . . . If we find human bones in the fill they hauled away, there’s a state law against transporting human remains, even antiquities. You think that’s possible?”
“That we’ll find bones, you mean?”
The woman’s impatient expression told me Of course that’s what I mean!
“In a shell mound, well . . . Yeah, it’s possible,” I said. “Last year, Loretta gave permission, and a group from the University of Florida found the teeth and jaw of a young girl near our carport, just eighteen inches under the surface.” I pointed to the house, which was yellow clapboard with a chimney poking out of the tin roof. “Just to the left of the porch—I’ll show you later. They carbon-dated one of the teeth, then put the bones back and left everything just they way they found it. That ended the dig, of course.”
Fascinated, Birdy Tupplemeyer listened a while longer, then said, “You’re shitting me!” when I told her the girl had probably died in her teens and had been buried more than eight hundred years ago. Then glared at the cement three-story again. “Okay, human bones, that’s the part I wasn’t sure about. See . . . even if they didn’t destroy an actual burial mound, there could still be burials in the stuff they hauled away. Once we locate it, we can dig around and see what’s there—contextually, the fill’s ruined anyway. If we do find bones, you can file suit, or get someone else to file, but the thing is”—the woman became thoughtful and lowered her voice—“we’ve got to leave the archaeologists out of it—for now. Even if you know some of them personally.” She looked at me. “Do you?”
“Four, probably more, they’ve been coming here for years,” I said. “I trust them. Two drove down from Gainesville when they heard about the bulldozer. And Dr. Caren—you’ll meet her, she’s great—Caren cried like a baby, she was so upset. But there was nothing they could do to stop the digging.”
Deceived (A Hannah Smith Novel) Page 10