“Nice service. Are you staying to eat?”
The man had whispered the question, but I jumped anyway, unaware that someone had slipped up behind me. It was Joel Ransler, wearing a black sports coat and a tie that set off his eyes. He hadn’t attended the earlier service, and I hadn’t seen him arrive.
I shook my head No and touched a finger to my lips, which was unnecessary. The minister had finished praying and was making people laugh by telling anecdotes about “Pinky,” so it seemed okay when Joel cupped my elbow and walked me to a spindly tree held straight by gardening wire. We could talk there if we kept our voices low.
“How’s your mother holding up?”
“She baked two pies and a ham this morning, then threatened to haunt me if I buried her here,” I said. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”
“Would you have baked something? I’ve never seen you dressed up before.”
I was wearing a tan sleeveless dress from Chico’s and black heels, which Joel’s expression told me looked pretty good even at a funeral. I said, “Mica’s over there—see him? But Crystal didn’t show up. He told me she was sick, but I got the feeling he was lying.”
“What’s new?” Joel said. He was looking at Mica, who was dressed in a suit that might have fit when he was fifteen, standing opposite us at the back of the circle, but a foot taller than everyone but the silver-haired man, so they both stood out. Mica noticed Joel staring and used a handkerchief to wipe his face, the tattoos on Mica’s forearms showing because his jacket was so short.
I said, “You make him nervous,” then asked, “Who’s the man next to him?” and prepared myself finally to hear the name of Loretta’s lover.
“With the gray hair? That’s Harold Chatham, the richest man in Sematee County, maybe the whole west coast. I don’t know why I’m surprised to see him—he was big in politics for a while and knows just about everyone.”
Not as surprised as I was. “Harold?” I said. “His name’s not Arnold?”
Joel’s jaws flexed in bemusement. “I get the feeling I just burst your bubble somehow. But you’re pretty enough, he’d probably let you call him Arnold or Larry or anything else you wanted.” The smile faded while Joel looked at the man and added, “Yeah, ol’ Harney Chatham loved the ladies—until he found Christ. Supposedly. He owned a marina and car dealerships, then became lieutenant governor—not that anyone remembers lieutenant governors. That was years ago, but he still shakes hands.”
This was Rance the Lance talking, I could have reminded myself, but my mind was busy translating Harold into the nickname Harney. As a child I had heard it as Arnie, so it was all making sense again. But then I had to stop and put it in perspective by thinking, Loretta’s lover was lieutenant governor of Florida? My lord, she must have been good-looking and very . . .
Sexy was the word, but it made me wince to attach it to my own mother. The concept of her bedding a rich politician was tough enough to grasp.
The minister and attendees were singing “A Closer Walk with Thee” while my eyes found Loretta, a wrinkled bird of a woman who was now chirping out the chorus along with her friends. In old photos she was attractive enough, possibly even shapely—although it was hard to tell because Baptist women were partial to baggy clothes in those days. Even so, Loretta, my mother had suddenly become Loretta the woman in my eyes, and the perverse pride I felt was shameful, but in a delicious way that made me smile.
“What’s going on in that head of yours? They’re not singing that loud.”
Joel, I realized, had said something important. “Sorry, I was thinking about my mother. I should get back to her, we’ve got things to discuss.”
“Well, if it has anything to do with Fisherfolk, that’s what I was just saying. Don’t bother—not after what happened yesterday.”
I was surprised. “You’re firing me because of what someone else did?”
“Don’t be silly. You gave me plenty to work with in no time at all, so you’re my rising star. But you’re done dealing with lowlifes like Mica and Harris Spooner.” Joel moved close enough that I got a whiff of soap but no cologne, which was nice, while he continued, “Spooner is dangerous. Maybe psychotic, I don’t know, but he’s a killer—he killed his ex-wife, but they couldn’t prove it. Might have killed Dwight Helms, too—I’m still working on a time line, but it seems to fit. And I think he’s the guy who chased you. That’s why I stopped by. I got a search warrant issued this morning, and our guys are going through Spooner’s trailer right now. If they find the shark mask or the raincoat, or anything close, they’re arresting him. I wanted to tell you in person.”
“You move fast,” I said.
“In some areas, maybe, but I’m way behind in others.”
I pretended to be unaware of his meaning. “Maybe Mica knows,” I said. “Don’t look at him now, but see how fidgety he is?” Then said, “Hold it a second,” because I had just remembered a point that Joel had missed. “You forgot that the pit bull minded Spooner but not Mica. I told you how it happened. Spooner’s own dogs wouldn’t have attacked him, and he sure wouldn’t have killed one with an axe . . . would he?”
“Psychotic, a sociopath—there are so many terms, who knows? Look, Hannah”—Joel was checking his cell—“what I’m saying is, Spooner’s dangerous. I want you to stay close to home because he’s going to blame you. Guys like him, it’s the way their minds work. If we arrest him, no problem. But if we don’t, I don’t want you anywhere near Sematee County, especially Glades City. Got it?” Then Joel said, “Damn, got to go,” and pocketed his phone before giving me the kind of friendly hug people do at funerals, but he added an extra squeeze that squeezed the wind out of me, the man tall and unexpectedly powerful.
“You don’t know your own strength,” I told him, taking a step back.
Joel flashed his Sundance smile and became thoughtful. “Why don’t we have dinner tonight, then I can follow you home to make sure you’re safe.”
I told him that I would be spending the next few nights at Dinkin’s Bay, so the timing, as far as danger was concerned, couldn’t be better.
Joel said, “With your boyfriend? I thought he was out of town.”
Rance the Lance had been snooping again, and I didn’t like it. “If you’re pretending you heard that from me, keep walking. Or you can explain, but it better be good.”
“Now, Hannah—”
“I never said a word about him being gone. Who told you?”
Joel raised his eyebrows to indicate Loretta, then shook his head the way boys do when they’re ashamed. “What can I say? I gave her my cell number. Your mom gets scared sometimes and talkative—but I don’t mind, she’s fun when she gets on a roll. And she thinks the world of you, Hannah. You do know that?”
I couldn’t reply because the minster had just said, “Let us pray,” so I bowed my head, relieved that the funeral was about over. I couldn’t be mad at Loretta, not after my recent revelation, nor Joel either—if he was telling the truth. When the minister had finished, I told Joel, “There’s a dog where I’ll be staying, so I won’t need any extra protection.”
“That temper of yours,” Joel said, looking up from his phone. “I’ve got to watch what I say around you.”
He had just sent a text and didn’t seem so rushed, so I told him, “It’s just that I’m careful about who I see and what I say. Sorry if I overreacted. The women in my family have a bad habit of trusting the wrong men.”
“Tell me about it,” Joel said, giving it an edge that empathized with my reasons, and I noticed that he glanced at Mica as he spoke.
It wasn’t until I was crossing the parking lot, however, that I realized Joel might have been looking at the former lieutenant governor, not Mica. The thought came into my mind when I saw a black limo, the engine running, parked behind my SUV. Smiling at me from the backseat was Harold “Harney” Chatham.
“Hannah dear,” he said as I approached. “Figure it’s ’bout time we two met. You willing to go for a little ride so we can get acquainted?”
The music of a Southern man’s voice can be bad acid rock or an alluring sonata, and Mr. Chatham spoke with the sweetness of cello strings.
When the chauffeur opened the door, I got in—but only after noting the car’s license number.
I was texting the limo’s license to Birdy, Tomlinson, and Marion Ford as Mr. Chatham told the chauffeur, “Swing us through Sulfur Wells, then we’ll come straight back. Oh—you mind closin’ that glass? The young lady and I want to talk private.”
“Yes-sir-ee, Governor,” the driver said, capitalizing the word to show respect, as he probably had for years, this tiny man in a sporty black cap and wearing driving gloves, always eager to please. Then the hum of an electric motor sealed the passenger cabin with a pane of dark Plexiglas thick enough to be soundproof.
“What year’s that vehicle you’re driving?” Mr. Chatham asked. He was opening a cabinet of wood veneer that, in fact, was a tiny fridge. “Ford Explorer, isn’t it?”
I replied, “It’s not that old, and I’m a fishing guide. I need something with a trailer hitch that’s roomy and not too nice because I haul bait sometimes. Cast nets, too.”
Chatham, who was familiar with marinas and fishing, enjoyed that. “How about something to drink? I’ve got liquor, Coke-Cola, some bottled tea that’s not too bad, and fizzy water, too.”
I accepted a bottle of Perrier while he talked and poured Scotch into a heavy glass. “How’d you like to get out of that old Ford and into a new Toyota 4Runner? Payments wouldn’t be much. Or what about an Audi allroad? Plenty of room, still an SUV but a lot more stylish. A young woman pretty as you deserves stylish.” The man gestured to indicate where we were sitting. “Feels nice, doesn’t it? You look right at home riding in luxury. Not all women have the shoulders to handle it. Grace, I mean.”
I had attended bachelorette parties and had been in limos before, but never one as tasteful as this. The cabin smelled of leather and wood and had a flat-screen TV that folded into the headliner and plush seats on both sides, so Mr. Chatham sat facing me but with plenty of legroom between us.
I said, “Did you invite me along to sell a car or was there something you wanted to discuss?”
The man chuckled to show he valued directness, which people often do but seldom mean. Maybe Chatham was an exception, though, because he said, “Rance told me you weren’t shy about speaking your mind. I wouldn’t have wasted my time otherwise.” He leaned back, his eyes taking me in and seemed to approve of what he was seeing. “Sure you don’t want something stronger than that fizzy water? No need to pretend properness around me.”
“Mr. Chatham, I didn’t know who you were until twenty minutes ago. And I didn’t get the impression you and Joel Ransler are friends. Why in the world were you talking about me?”
The man had a friendly laugh, a sort of tympani rumble, his voice lower than most. “That’s often the way,” he said. “A lot of fathers and sons aren’t friends, exactly, but they find ways to get along. Sorta like bulls in the same pasture. Rance, he’s got himself a bad case of the Hannahs, so your name comes up. That boy’s goin’ places—you could do a lot worse. But it’s your mamma I wanted to talk about.”
I took a second to sort through what I’d just heard. “You mean Joel Ransler is like a son to you. He was born here, but his family moved to the Midwest. He told me that.”
Chatham’s expression said otherwise, then he explained, “Aside from Rance and me, you’re the only one who knows. His mother, God rest her soul, never told her husband. She’s where the boy got his good looks—that lady was something, I’ll tell you. But I’d like to think he got his brains and knack for people from me.”
Which sounded coldhearted, Chatham realized, so he tried to soften it by saying, “I suppose it was wrong for the husband not to know, but he wasn’t much of a man. First sniff of trouble, he packed up the family and hightailed it north. Then ran off and left them both a year later. Even Rance doesn’t know the reason they left Florida, so don’t bother asking me.”
I said, “Does he know you’re telling me this?”
“About me being his father, you mean? Nope. Didn’t decide to do it ’till just now after I’d sized you up.” The man unfolded his bifocals and put them on for the first time, then looked at me as if to reaffirm his decision. It took a few seconds. “You don’t favor your mamma, never did. But you’ve turned into a beautiful woman, Miss Hannah Smith. Remind me a lot more of your Aunt Hannah. And, by god, she was more than just something!”
I didn’t know whether to be angry on Loretta’s behalf or let it slide. What I did know was that men like Harney Chatham didn’t share damaging secrets unless they already possessed leverage of equal power. He’d had an affair with my mother, but that wasn’t exactly earth-shattering. Besides, the Chathams had money, so it was his reputation at stake, not Loretta’s or mine. There was only one explanation.
“What do you want from me?” I asked.
“See there?” he said. “That’s why I wouldn’t a’wasted my time on some ditzy-headed girl who didn’t have brains and a mind of her own. By god, Hannah, you do aim right for the heart, don’t you?”
“Not yet,” I said, giving him a look, “but I haven’t heard your answer.”
Chatham’s laughter was a tympani drum solo, nothing fake about it. He was still laughing when he touched a button on the armrest and told the driver, “Reggie? I believe I’ve finally met my match, so use that gas pedal. We want to get Hannah back before the funeral food’s gone or she’ll be chewing off my leg next.”
“Bound to happen one day, Governor!” the driver cackled, and didn’t slow down until he had to brake for the first S-curve on the road to Sulfur Wells.
• • •
NOW WE WERE barely moving, idling past Munchkinville, the car’s tinted windows up so as not to be recognized, but I could see the cottages just fine on this breezy late afternoon. Captain Elmer Joiner was outside still mending nets, but the parking area was all but empty, most residents at the post-funeral potluck, which was being held at Judd Park off Pondella Road.
During the drive, Mr. Chatham had asked about Loretta’s health, had shared a few more secrets, saying he had followed my progress over the years and had seen me several times—at church, usually, him sitting in the back row—and at my uncle’s funeral, too, although I’d been too emotional for him to approach or to even notice his presence. Chatham had also spoken of his respect for Jake, but he admitted that my uncle had never warmed to him—said it as if he didn’t blame Jake either, which, so far, was as close as he’d come to acknowledging his affair with my mother.
Now, as we watched the cabins of Munchkinville file by, he got down to business, saying, “I got word that idiot Mica Helms told you that folks here are guilty of income tax evasion. Scared to death of the IRS ’cause of what went on back in the pot-hauling days. Or had stacks of cash buried away—some such nonsense.”
“It’s not true?” I asked.
“Nah!” Chatham said it in a way that dismissed Mica and his claims as absurd, then pressed the button again and told the driver, “Park at the marina, Reggie. Back us in so Miz Hannah and me can enjoy the bay.”
The man patted the seat next to him so I could look out the rear window, but I didn’t move. Nonetheless, he returned to his thread, saying, “See . . . the few folks that actually made a pile on dope got arrested or net-worthed years ago. Besides, you ever known anyone rich enough or smart enough to hide cash money ’till it was safe? Hell no. Especially a bunch of poor fishermen! That boy Mica, he was trying to hustle you. Boy’s desperate ’cause them drugs has shrunk his brain. There’s a lesson for you, Hannah, when you start raising babies of your own. If them Helms children would’a spent more time in church and less time
smokin’ their daddy’s dope, they might still have the sense the good Lord gave ’em.” The man reflected for a moment before adding, “You and your mother still go to church? That’s what I hear.”
There was something I wanted to ask and tried to widen the opening he’d just given me. “Chapel By the Sea on Captiva,” I said. “I missed last Sunday, but, most weeks, we’re there. Loretta goes Wednesday nights, too, but we stopped attending Foursquare Pentecostal like before. Are you still a deacon there, Mr. Chatham?”
The man was wily, knew exactly where I was going with it, so he shared another secret as a preemptive. “You’re right. Never was the good Christian I pretended to be—didn’t I just admit that? We aren’t perfect, Hannah, but we are forgiven. Or did you forget?”
I replied, “I hope you told me about Joel because you trust me. See . . . I’m not perfect either. I’m too suspicious sometimes and can’t help thinking it might be because you have something on my family and me.” I used my hand to stop him from interrupting. “I’d like to ask you something, Mr. Chatham. Were you involved with smuggling drugs? Normally, it would be none of my business, but it is my business because I know you and Loretta had an affair—ten years, it lasted, all during the pot-hauling days. She never said a word, but I knew. Now someone is blackmailing—extorting’s probably a better word—or bullying her and her friends and they’re afraid. If you were involved, she was involved. See why I’m concerned? I’d like the truth, sir.”
Chatham held up his Scotch, which he’d been nursing, savored the color, and took a sip. Through the limo’s back window were the cabins of Munchkinville—Loretta’s house, too—and coconut palms green against blue water. That’s where his eyes were focused when he said, “They’re being squeezed out. Accuse an older person of a crime, they’ll believe it, ’cause everyone’s guilty of something. Call it extortion or whatever you want, but it’ll appear to be done legal—if it gets done. I’m not behind what’s happening, though.”
Deceived (A Hannah Smith Novel) Page 20