Deceived (A Hannah Smith Novel)

by White, Randy Wayne

  “Your mom? I’d like that. The poor woman has to be a saint to raise a daughter like you. Did you hear what I just asked?”

  “Weird,” I smiled. “I’ve been thinking the same thing about your mother.” I continued walking before answering, “Not far. Once we get on the mounds, there really could be rattlesnakes. Pygmy rattlers, mostly—I’m serious this time. But they’re not aggressive, so don’t worry.”

  “Not aggressive,” she says, “my ass. You go first. I’ll follow from now on.”

  Near the center of Cushing Key were two shell mounds that rose abruptly out of the swamp like miniature volcanoes but cloaked by trees, Spanish bayonet plants, and cactus. We saw no snakes but used cell phones to photograph shards of pottery and tools made from big whelk and conch shells. Artifacts everywhere.

  “It’s pronounced konk, not cawnsh,” I corrected Tupplemeyer for the second time. She had summoned me to the western edge of the highest mound where she’d found a wall of conch shells embedded like bricks, the sharp ends pointed outward.

  “A defense against invaders,” the former archaeology major told me. “I read about this. There’s no rock around here to quarry—that’s what the Maya and Aztec did. So they used shells. All four sides of the pyramid covered with shell spikes except for one path to the top. Smart, huh? These things would cut the hell out of someone.”

  She was referencing the sketches she’d seen by Frank Cushing—the island’s namesake—who the Smithsonian had sent to Florida in the 1890s.

  The redhead knelt and took more photos but had yet to so much as touch a shell or a piece of pottery—shards of baked clay, yellow-orange, that had accumulated over the thousands of years people had hunted and cooked and lived their lives here. I was impressed by the respect she was showing for the state that was her new home.

  “Whoa . . . look at this!” Birdy called after pulling foliage away. Then began snapping more photos while I squatted beside her. She had found a large conch horn, its point sawed off as a mouthpiece, and part of a bowl with a triangular pattern etched around the rim. It was so simple and eloquent, I tried to imagine the artist—a woman, no doubt—who had lived on this island and who had done her work with extra care.

  The redhead, apparently, felt a connection, too, because she stood, tilted her nose up, and said, “Does the air seem . . . heavier here to you? In Tikal, it was exactly the same.”

  “That’s in Guatemala?” I asked.

  The deputy nodded while she rearranged leaves to cover the pottery shard. “Some jerk will cart this off if he finds it. I don’t know why I’m so attracted to places like this, but . . . they give me the weirdest feeling. Powerful, you know?” She looked up, her expression intense, a tinge of anger showing, too. “We’ve got to find those artifacts that bitch had hauled away. You still up for it?”

  I replied, “I’ve got a story about Dr. Candor. She’s an alcoholic, I think. Or crazy. Maybe both. One thing I know for sure is, she’s trying to run the locals out of Sulfur Wells, Loretta and me included. That woman’s vindictive, and I don’t want you to lose your job.” I described last night’s scene on the dock, then started to share what I’d uncovered about the couple, but no need—Tupplemeyer knew more about the Candors than I realized.

  “They’re both dirty,” Birdy said. “This morning, I figured out where they sent those dump trucks—and it wasn’t to a public landfill. They filed for a zoning variance on some wetlands near one of their rehab clinics. Documents that were dated Monday, but they’ve owned the property for more than a year. The application claims the land’s actually above the floodplain.” Tupplemeyer’s tone emphasized the importance of the time lag.

  “Where?” I asked.

  “Inland, near some little town in Sematee County. About an hour’s drive.”

  “That’s Joel Ransler’s area,” I said. “He’s got a friend who works in the planning department, Delmont Chatham, an older man. He’s been on my boat. Is planning department the same as zoning?” I was thinking that Mr. Chatham, a charter client, might be willing to speak with me.

  The off-duty deputy shrugged. “Ask your handsome attorney. I guarantee he knows who the Candors are—or, at least, about their clinic. It’s one of those revolving-door rehab facilities that targets public funding. Just like they did in Ohio—prescribe meds, then treat the very same patients when they get hooked. That’s why the Candors are still rich. They know how the system works.”

  Dr. Alice Candor had told me the same thing, bragging about it.

  I asked, “Is the property near the clinic? If it is, security’s going to be more than just one guard driving around in a golf cart.”

  “Stop worrying! Where I think they dumped the stuff is half a mile from the actual facility—you know, the buildings where they keep patients.” Birdy paused to look at me as if gauging my courage, then asked, “Do you have anything planned for tonight?”

  She’s leading you into trouble, a voice warned, which is why I replied, “You know I do.” As we’d left Sulfur Wells, I had pointed to the cabins known as Munchkinville and explained I was going to question the owners about their charity donations. But I hadn’t said tonight.

  “How about we do this,” the deputy suggested. “We’ll split up the cabins and go door-to-door—” She stopped in midsentence, a woman who was easily distracted, and tilted her nose again. “Smell that? You know what I mean about the air?”

  No, but I was happy to switch subjects. “The mounds have a different smell to them, that’s true. It could be the trees—gumbo-limbos and key lime trees, and one called white stopper—it’s got an unusual smell. They made a medicine out of the leaves to stop diarrhea.”

  Birdy shook her head in a way that told me I wasn’t close, which gave me an idea. “I’ve got a friend you should meet,” I said. “You two are opposites in most ways, but he’d understand. And he’s fun. Tomlinson’s his name.”

  “A mystic, huh?” the redhead said, either not interested or she didn’t believe me. But several minutes later, as we hiked back to the boat, she asked, “Is this guy another one of your gay buddies or is he married?”

  That made me smile. “Keeping your bra snapped is the only problem women have with Tomlinson. He lives on a sailboat in Dinkin’s Bay—that’s Sanibel.”

  “Is it on the way home?” she asked.

  Dinkin’s Bay was three miles southwest, but it was safer than sneaking around rehab clinics after dark. I replied, “It can be.”

  “Great. But if we stay late, we’ll drive up there and search tomorrow. My shift ends at six, so we can leave around seven. Okay?”

  When I asked, “Where’s this place again?” she picked up her phone and told me, “I’ll send you the link.”

  • • •

  HOURS LATER, I was alone in Marion Ford’s lab, waiting for Birdy to return from Tomlinson’s sailboat, when impatience caused me to open my phone. Instead of dialing Birdy, I sat down, surprised, because I saw the link for the first time.

  Sematee Evaluation and Treatment Clinic, Carnicero, Florida

  The clinic had a different box number, but it used the same little Carnicero post office as the charity Fisherfolk of South Florida Inc.

  Rather than calling my new friend, I texted, How much longer? We need to talk.

  It took awhile, but the off-duty deputy finally replied, Float on, Smithie , which told me I would have to wait until morning—but only because she added the smiley face.

  In the morning, at my office, after tracing three familiar names to the origins of Fisherfolk Incorporated, a headline in the news caught my attention.

  VENEZUELAN LEADER MISSING;

  GUERRILLAS VOW RIOTS, “REVENGE”

  I couldn’t help but read the story. A revolutionary group known as FARC had been attending peace talks in Caracas and their chairman had disappeared while swimming near a beach resort. No body had
been found, but FARC members insisted he had either been abducted or murdered. They were blaming U.S. “covert gangsters” and warned North Americans to stay out of the streets during the protest march they were organizing. The Venezuelan president said he anticipated rioting if the FARC leader was not returned unharmed. Police, he said, had detained several U.S. citizens for questioning.

  That alone was enough to worry me, so I hunted around for a more detailed account. The only facts I could add, though, were that late yesterday afternoon the FARC leader had told friends he was going snorkel diving, not swimming, and he was supposedly an experienced diver. An unnamed FARC member was quoted as saying, “We know who did this and will soon have him.”

  Once again, I checked e-mails, hoping for a note from Marion or, at the very least, that he had read the e-mails I had sent. There were three now, one for every day he’d been gone, but none had been opened.

  I brought up Google Earth and studied Venezuela’s coastline, eight hundred miles along the Caribbean sea, much of it jungle and isolated islands.

  That, at least, was comforting. Ford had said the aquaculture company that had hired him was in a remote place. He had also mentioned something about access to clean seawater away from cities. Good! If people were going to protest and riot, they would do it in a place where there were streets, not raw jungle. And police certainly wouldn’t bother with a marine biologist who was in the country to work, not cause trouble.

  Ford’s safe, I reassured myself. Even so, I sent him a fourth e-mail that included a link to the story. At the bottom, I wrote, “Get yourself home in one piece!” I was tempted to add a smiley face to prove I wasn’t worried but didn’t.

  Thinking about it reminded me that I hadn’t heard from Birdy Tupplemeyer. Her car had been gone when I’d stopped to check on Loretta, so I assumed she’d gotten home okay. I sent her a text, asking, You make it to work? then got back to my own work, which was nearly done—the computer search portion, that is.

  In Florida, a nonprofit corporation has to name at least three primary officers. They don’t have to live in Florida, but their street addresses have to be included in the formal documents. I had had to peel through a dozen layers of bureaucracy but had laid the truth bare—a partial truth anyway. It was no wonder the late Rosanna Helms was collecting donations from her friends. Her children, Crystal and Mica, were listed as directors of Fisherfolk Inc. It was the name of the third officer, however, that convinced me a broader truth existed—a truth that would be much harder to unveil, I suspected.

  I called Joel Ransler, who listened in silence, then confirmed my fears, saying, “Wow, that’s not going to be easy to prove, Hannah. You know . . . it might be wiser to gather complaints from people you know, locals who’ve made donations, and create a media stink—see what I’m saying? Stop what they’re doing from the bottom rather than going after power people at the top. The results will be the same, and it’s a hell of a lot safer.”

  Joel, for the first time, sounded nervous. It made me curious. “Power people?” I said. “I only mentioned one name.”

  “I was speaking generally,” he said. “In county infrastructure, all businesses are linked. Which wouldn’t bother me a bit if there’s a provable crime. Look”—a smile came into his voice—“collect all the information you can. Give it to me when you’re ready, then we’ll have dinner together and discuss it.”

  Dinner? I had just shared details about a transparent donation scam. The charity was providing elderly “fisherfolk” with the forms necessary to donate their homes, savings accounts and valuables in return for “tax benefits” and the promise to preserve their “heritage” by displaying family heirlooms and photos in a museum that didn’t exist.

  “Am I missing something here?” I asked. “You hired me to investigate and that’s what I’m doing.”

  “No, you’re guessing,” Joel replied. “It’s not illegal for two convicted felons to be on the board of a nonprofit. That’s all you can prove, right?”

  My disappointment in Ransler was turning into frustration. “Can’t you see who’s really behind this? If it wasn’t wrong, they wouldn’t target people like my mother; older people who can’t think straight.”

  The man asked a few questions—Did Loretta have receipts for our missing property? Had I questioned other donors?—before reminding me, “Wrong isn’t the same as illegal. I believe what you’re telling me, Hannah, but you haven’t given me anything I can work with. You can’t accuse someone of complicity without proof—not by name anyway. Especially if they have enough money to turn their attorneys loose on you and me.”

  “Power people,” I muttered.

  “Money is power, dear. It’s the way the world works.”

  “In Sematee County, apparently,” I responded.

  Instead of getting angry, the special prosecutor became more understanding. “Come on, now, Captain Smith, don’t get sullen. Things have gotten a lot better up here in the last few years. There are still a few good ol’ boys with clout from the local pot-hauling days, I admit it, but—”

  “They’re not my pot-hauling days,” I interrupted.

  “You know what I mean. It frustrates the hell out of me, too, sometimes. But we have to touch all the bases before I can seat a grand jury—or even subpoena the owners of a prominent business.”

  “Can I at least talk to Mica and Crystal Helms?” I asked. “You don’t consider them power people?”

  Joel started to reply, but then was distracted by someone who came into his office. Seconds later, he said, “I’ve got a meeting. Just be careful, okay? Text me an address before you interview anyone—especially those two. It’s a safety thing.”

  “Any chance you can get hold of their medical records?” I asked. “If Crystal spent time in rehab or a psych ward, maybe Mica did, too.”

  “We’ll see—just keep me in the loop,” he replied, and hung up.

  I texted Joel the only valid street address I had for Fisherfolk Inc., then went out the door, still convinced that Walkin’ Levi Thurloe—who had been listed as the organization’s third director—was the pawn of his employer . . . and maybe Dr. Alice Candor’s patient, too.

  • • •

  AS I LEFT the parking lot headed for Sematee County, it dawned on me that I should talk to people who’d actually donated to Fisherfolk before trying to interview Mica or Crystal Helms. To ask hard questions, I needed hard facts to supplement my list, which, so far, included only a book and a rare fishing reel. Sulfur Wells was only a few miles out of my way, so I detoured west and parked beyond the curve so Loretta wouldn’t notice my SUV. Across the street was Munchkinville, with its white fence and communal parking area with enough trucks and rusting cars to indicate to me most of the inhabitants were home.

  I got out carrying a leather organizer, prepared to do a couple of quick interviews, then I’d be on my way. Of the dozen cottages squeezed along the bay, eight were lived in by people I had known since childhood—nine, counting the late Rosanna Helms—so I figured I’d have damning evidence enough within an hour, probably less.

  I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  Going door-to-door, I spoke to Mrs. Morgan and the House sisters, then tried the dilapidated cabin where old Captain Elmer Joiner was mending nets beneath a tree. The results were the same. My old neighbors were happy to see me, happy to discuss the weather and Mrs. Helms’s funeral or to inquire about Loretta’s health, but when I mentioned Fisherfolk, our friendships vaporized, then a wary chill followed me out the door. Same when I asked for the name of the person who had approached them about donating, and even when I said, “I think you and my mother are being robbed!”

  Didn’t matter. Their behavior was more than just strange, it was revealing. People who donate to a good cause are usually happy to discuss their generosity, so the few responses I did get hinted at a larger truth, a truth my old neighbors refused to sh
are.

  “What’s the difference between paying taxes and robbery?” Mrs. Padilla, a widow, asked me. She had always been a spirited woman but sounded nervous, not angry, when I suggested that she was being cheated. Prior to knocking on her door, it had been my secret hope that Mrs. Padilla might also be willing to gossip about my mother’s secret lover—she and Loretta had never gotten along—but I gave up when she told me, “Just because I played organ at your recital doesn’t give you the right to nose into my affairs!”

  Which was true, I had to admit it. But I couldn’t resist asking Mrs. Padilla why she, a woman on Social Security, was worried about taxes. Loretta had mentioned taxes, too, which was consistent, at least, and hinted that the benefits of donating to Fisherfolk had been misrepresented.

  Mrs. Padilla’s response was more of a threat than an explanation. “Around here, Hannah, you pry open the wrong box, something might jump out and bite you.” Then asked, “You’re goin’ to Pinky’s funeral, aren’t you?” saying it as if there was a connection.

  I replied, “Thursday afternoon, of course. Are you telling me Mrs. Helms was murdered?”

  The woman shrugged, but there was a knowing look on her face as if she had made her point. End of conversation. End of my visit to the cottages of Munchkinville.

  As I returned to my SUV, Captain Joiner looked up from his mending long enough to wave, but he didn’t smile.

  Mica Helms’s “home address” turned out to be a junkyard in Glades City, which I thought was an intentional error until I saw the dog. It was a brindle-yellow pit bull, the same alpha female that had attacked me Friday, minus her pack mate whose head had been found in a freezer.

  By the time I saw the dog, it was too late.

  I had parked and walked to the fence, which was chain-link, eight feet high, with razor wire at the top. Inside, among rows of wrecked cars, was a trailer that looked lived in, but a sign on the door read Office. There was also a gravel path that seemed to invite business. I tried hollering to get attention but a machine—a wood shredder, it sounded like—made so much noise, I couldn’t hear my own voice. The noise came at me in waves and was piercing, so I covered my ears as I walked to the gate. It was a sliding gate, not open but slightly ajar. I looked around and tried hollering again. Pointless. There was a Keep Out sign, but no warnings about a dog, so I slipped through the gate and walked toward the trailer.