Deceived (A Hannah Smith Novel)

by White, Randy Wayne

  I felt my face warming, which happens when I am snubbed by an evasion. I said, “That’s interesting, but you didn’t answer my question.”

  The man continued talking as if I hadn’t said a word. “See, the problem with those piddly old fish shacks is they’re on lots too small to conform to code. One by itself is worthless. Even if three got blown down, you couldn’t build a decent place. Put all twelve together, you’ve got a chunk of multimillion-dollar waterfront. Developers have tried to buy the whole kit ’n’ caboodle, but folks here are too stubborn to sell. So someone come up with a smart way to get rid of them. At least they think it’s smart.”

  I said, “Mr. Chatham, this morning I told Joel almost the exact same thing because that’s what I suspect is happening. Maybe he told you, I don’t know. What I asked was, did you involve my mother in drug trafficking?”

  Chatham tilted the whisky glass, barely wetting his lips, which seemed to signal that I was being ignored again. That did it.

  I said, “I’d rather walk than ride with a man who won’t answer an honest question,” then tried to open the door—a dramatic exit that was ruined because the door was locked. I tried several times before tapping on the Plexiglas to get the chauffeur’s attention. Apparently, Reggie had been through these scenes before because he ignored me, too.

  “Is this how you charmed Loretta?” I sputtered. “Joel’s mother? I bet your wife was real proud of you!”

  “No, my late wife tolerated me” was the reply. “She was a good woman. Deserved better than me, I’ll admit that, too.”

  Now I was mad. “While you’re in a confessing mood, why not tell me the truth?”

  Chatham looked at me, his expression sharp for the first time, and so was his tone. “Young lady, if you ever ask a man to admit to a felony again, expect to be disappointed. If he doesn’t answer, your blood pressure’s gonna shoot up. If he does, you’ll be conversing with a fool. Worse than that, you’ve given him a reason to do you harm. Maybe even kill you.”

  “Now you’re threatening me?” I asked, and picked up my phone.

  “I’m talking to you like you’re my own daughter!” the man fired back, but it was the look of pain on his face that stopped me from dialing. “I would’ve never done anything to hurt you or your mother. I loved her, Hannah, and protected her as best I could. Always will.” Chatham let me deal with that while he touched the button again and told Reggie, “Open Miz Hannah’s door, please. She might want to stretch her legs.”

  Reggie was a cackler. “She got the legs to do it, Governor,” and there was an electronic click that told me I was free to go. I didn’t budge, though. Sat there blankly while a numbing possibility formed in my mind—Mr. Chatham saying he’d kept track of me, had viewed me from afar as I grew into adulthood, and now admitting that he had loved my mother.

  Was it possible?

  I did some rapid math.

  Yes . . . it was possible.

  Sitting in the backseat of a limo with my mother’s ex-lover—and a former lieutenant governor of the state—it was suddenly difficult for me to form words let alone pose a question that might change my life forever. I finally did, although it sounded like a stranger’s voice as the words left my mouth.

  “Is this the way you handled it with Joel?” I asked. “Are you telling me that you’re my—”

  I couldn’t finish. Didn’t need to.

  “Wish I could say it’s true,” Chatham interrupted. “I would have taken better care of you both.” He cleared his throat, then pretended to sip his drink while he looked away, his eyes tearing possibly.

  Because my own throat felt tight, I said, “It was stupid of me to think such a thing. I shouldn’t have asked about smuggling drugs either. If Loretta wants to tell me, that’s up to her.”

  “Your mother’s not the same woman,” Chatham reminded me, and, for the first time, the man sounded lost and old.

  “You’d be surprised,” I said, trying to boost his spirits for some reason. “Her head’s clearer sometimes than she let’s on. When’s the last time you spoke?”

  “Up until her stroke, we talked on the phone every week, usually more. Once she was out of the hospital, though, it caused her too much upset—Lorrie gets embarrassed when she can’t remember something. You know what a proud woman she is.”

  Lorrie? I sat back to clear my head. “I had no idea!”

  Mr. Chatham had been a good-looking man in his time and carried the genes required to smile while flexing his jaw. He did it now, saying, “All through your school years, Loretta couldn’t wait to tell me when you’d done something special. Hannah got all A’s or about your clarinet recital, then when you were on the swim team. If Lorrie didn’t answer for a couple of days, I’d call Pinky and she’d catch me up on the news.”

  “Lorrie and Pinky,” I whispered, thinking about it.

  The man sensed the question forming in my mind. “No,” he said gently, “I only phoned Pinky because they were best friends. No other reason. And she liked to gossip even more than Loretta.”

  I laughed and suddenly felt better about things, but Chatham remained lost in the past. “Poor, poor Pinky,” he murmured. “It was a nice funeral, wasn’t it?”

  “Mrs. Helms had a lot of friends,” I agreed.

  “Strange how things go, Hannah. It’s the rare person who meets their real partner before they make a mistake—Pinky told me that herself. She was in the hospital at the time ’cause Dwight beat her, but she wouldn’t do anything about it. The man she married brought the Devil into her house and the ol’ Devil doesn’t leave until he’s planted bad seed. The way her kids turned out about broke that woman’s heart. By then, it was too late for her to start over.”

  I was reading between the lines. “Did he beat Mrs. Helms often?”

  Chatham replied, “The rule for any woman should be Once is your last stop on the way to jail. But those were different times. People tended to look the other way. Women tolerated unhappiness for the sake of their children. Even when a better man come along.”

  I said, “It sounds like Mrs. Helms was in love with someone. If it wasn’t you, who was it?”

  “You’d have to ask Miz Helms,” Chatham replied, an irony that closed the subject. He then pointed at something he could see through the rear window. “The Devil squirt his seed in that place, too. You ever seen an uglier pile of concrete in your life?”

  He had to be talking about the Candor house. I craned around to look while he added, “Rance says you already guessed who’s trying to squeeze your mamma and her friends out of Sulfur Wells. Only took you a couple of days. He was impressed.”

  “I didn’t guess,” I replied, which was true, but it was also a warning. I’d become vulnerable, I realized, charmed by the man’s words and openness, but I wasn’t going to be manipulated. “If you knew about it, why did Joel bother hiring me?”

  “I try to help that boy when I can, but I don’t tell him everything I know. Gotta let him sort things out on his own. One thing’s for sure, young lady, you two would make sparks ’cause Rance has got a temper on him, too. That’s another reason I seldom nose into his business.”

  I asked, “What about Delmont Chatham? You two have to be related. Is he your buffer?”

  The man made a snorting noise of disgust but didn’t answer, so I pressed him. “You and Joel don’t get along, that’s obvious. If there isn’t a go-between, it means you didn’t tell Joel you’re his father until recently. He wouldn’t have moved back to Florida. How long has Joel known?”

  “Smart girl,” Chatham said but again didn’t answer my question. Instead, he removed his glasses to look out the window again at the concrete house. “You got all the information you need on Alice Candor, do you?”

  It was maddening the way the man controlled the conversation. But I wanted to hear what he had to say, so I replied, “Tell me what you
know.”

  “She and her husband have dodged some bullets, but their luck’s about to run out. A couple’a doctors in Ohio—that’s where the Candors come from—they tried to get her license pulled ’cause she’s got a screw loose in her head. Not in those words, of course. And she’s a drunk.”

  “I’ve met her,” I said, meaning I’d yet to hear anything new.

  “Don’t underestimate your enemies, young lady. That pair’s got a lot of money invested. What they want to do is tear down them little cottages and build a high-end drug rehab. Waterfront, rooms with a view. And something else—the woman knows you’ve been investigating her. Knows Mica told you his lies about income tax evasion, too. That’s what they’re using for leverage—you’re right about that. Your testimony could help put them in jail. Keep it in mind.”

  Rather than asking who had told Alice Candor about me, I took a guess, saying, “You don’t like Delmont, do you? What is he, your cousin? Your brother? He pretended it was just good luck when he chartered my boat.”

  The man was looking at me, interested, so I continued, “One thing I do know is, he collects antique fishing tackle, and my family is missing a Vom Hofe reel owned by Teddy Roosevelt. This isn’t the first time it’s crossed my mind.”

  “Good lord, a Vom Hofe?” Chatham said, impressed or feigning innocence, I couldn’t be sure. That’s how smooth he was. Then he made it harder, asking, “Poor Loretta donated it, I assume?”

  “Joel took me off the case, but I want that reel back,” I replied. “And there’s a book President Roosevelt wrote, too. And some other things. You might pass that along to Delmont because I’ll see the man arrested if we don’t get our property back. I don’t care if he is a Chatham or how he’s related to you and Joel.”

  Mr. Chatham was studying me now, his face old but his eyes young enough to admire what he was seeing—possibly to even undress me—so I pulled my skirt farther below my knees. It seemed to snap him out of it because he gave a shake and said, “Delmont’s a second cousin, which is the only reason he has a job. He got hooked on morphine in Vietnam and that’s why he relies on Alice Candor. But don’t worry, that woman has made two serious mistakes.”

  He left the statement hanging there until I finally said, “I have to ask?”

  Chatham was already savoring what came next and answered in an old He-Coon sort of way. “’Member when I asked if you’d ever met a pot hauler rich and smart enough to hide a bundle of money away? Until it was safe, I mean—safe enough to blow trash out of the water and never leave a trace.” He waited a moment, then smiled to inform me I’m that man.

  “I knew it!” I said, but then backtracked, still on guard. “Why risk telling me this? Now you’ve got a hold on me and Loretta.”

  “Hannah, I’m eighty-six years old. If someone I trust comes along, I’m willing to show my cards just to speed up the game. Being rich is nice,” he continued, “but having cash money that can’t be tracked, well, honey . . . that’s power. Your mother was never involved, though. And if she was, well”—he shrugged—“I would never admit it.”

  Now Chatham was feigning innocence, but it was okay. I was starting to enjoy our sparring, holding my own with a man who had lived a big life and who didn’t waste his time on women not his equal—or so he had claimed—and I wanted to believe him.

  “I’m surprised you weren’t governor,” I said, then remembered to ask, “What was Alice Candor’s second mistake?”

  Before answering, Chatham tapped the seat to his right—another invitation to join him.

  This time, I did.

  • • •

  TWO HOURS LATER, I was still replaying Mr. Chatham’s response in my head, smiling every time and sometimes laughing, because his tone had added a richer meaning and so allowed me to take liberties with his wording.

  Me asking, “What was Dr. Candor’s second mistake?” The former lieutenant governor replying, “What that silly bitch did was threaten your mamma’s vegetable garden. Now her walls are going to come tumbling down. Lorrie would be lost without turnips to hoe. Where would she drink her coffee in the morning?”

  He hadn’t said bitch, of course—the man was too much of a gentleman—but profanity was the invisible wrapping on his response. And he had said Loretta, not Lorrie, but the endearment added intimacy and a caring touch that was communicated by his concern. Then Chatham had asked me about the garden, saying, “Did you show Loretta the cease and desist notice?” When I replied, “Didn’t have the heart,” the man had patted my knee, but in a fatherly way, and said, “The acorn doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

  I was enjoying myself as I reviewed my encounter, sitting behind the wheel of my SUV on my way to Sanibel to take delivery of Marion Ford’s dog and to spend a few nights. I had returned to check on Loretta, then showered, changed, and packed a small bag. Now it was 7:30 p.m., nearly sunset. Tim McGraw was on the radio but turned low so I could think while I drove, Tim—the handsomest man I’ve never seen—singing “Two Lanes of Freedom,” which added a sweetness to the new freedom I felt. The lyrics also caused me to check my driver’s-side mirror, which was cracked, and my thoughts soon shifted to the vehicle I was driving and the shimmy in my old SUV’s steering wheel.

  I can get you out of that wreck and into a new 4Runner for next to nothing, Harney Chatham had told me. Not his exact words, but, in my vacation frame of mind, I was free to remember events as I wanted. I had ridden in Toyotas but had never driven a 4Runner so tried to imagine how it would feel.

  Then heard the cello strings of Mr. Chatham’s voice ask, Or what about an Audi allroad? A beautiful young woman deserves to ride in luxury.

  An Audi was more of a stretch for my imagination. When Joel had driven me to Denny’s in his new A6, I had enjoyed the leather smell and was impressed by all the electronics but couldn’t help thinking, What a silly waste of money. Audis were so expensive . . . But, on the other hand, what had Mr. Chatham meant by next to nothing?

  Well . . . maybe he’d factored in part of the seven-plus million in cash he had stashed back when he owned a marina and had done some pot hauling on the side.

  The man had been in a card-showing mood on our drive back to the cemetery and had shared that secret, too.

  Seven million dollars? It was still difficult to grasp the amount, and the former lieutenant governor had made it no easier when he had added, “It would’a been twice that if I’d had the brains to learn better Spanish. There was a Perkins diesel giving me fits, too, so I missed a couple of trips.”

  Not cash, actually. Gradually, Chatham had converted the paper bills into silver dollars and gold coins. Never touched a penny of it, he had told me. Wasn’t safe, the IRS would have net-worthed him. But a wealthy man could afford to wait for the right time.

  Now, apparently, was the right time, because what made me smile most was Mr. Chatham telling me, A pinch of tainted money will buy a ton of honest testimony. Alice Candor won’t know what hit her. With what’s left, we’ll make that lie about a Fisherfolk museum come true. That’s where you come in, Hannah. I want you to help make it happen when the time comes.

  The museum, it turned out, had been Mr. Chatham’s idea from the start. But he had shared it with the gossipy Rosanna Helms, whose children, while on parole, were mandated to make weekly visits to a rehab clinic. Dr. Alice Candor again.

  My cell rang. It startled me. Then I became worried when I saw the caller ID.

  Joel Ransler checking in.

  Had Mr. Chatham told Joel about our conversation? If not, was I obligated to share some, or all, of what I’d learned?

  I picked up the phone, saying, “How you doing, Joel?”

  No need to ruminate. Mr. Chatham had been right about the special prosecutor’s temper. Joel was furious.

  Because traffic was heavy and I wanted to concentrate on what I was hearing, I pulled into a Publix parking lot o
nly a mile from the bridge to Sanibel Island. Joel had started the conversation by saying, “I hope you didn’t believe anything that old son of a bitch told you!”

  I was so taken aback, it wasn’t safe to drive.

  Now I was parked, the sunset a blur of tropic colors, an orange smear on Gulf Stream blue, while I listened to Joel explain, “You know why he told me I’m his son? Because I reopened the Dwight Helms case. I still think Harris Spooner is the murderer, but it’s possible that Harney Chatham paid him to do it. Or paid money into a pool to have it done. I think he was heavy into drug trafficking but behind the scenes. He was too smart to get his hands dirty. Of course, that’s something he wouldn’t have admitted to you.”

  I don’t shift allegiances easily so ducked the issue by replying, “He didn’t say a word about paying anyone to do anything. Or about being behind the scenes during the pot-hauling years—I’d swear to that.”

  “See what I mean?” Joel said. “The old man plays the saint in front of women he wants to impress. He’s charming, I’ll admit that, but he’s a ruthless son of a bitch. Money is all he cares about. I suppose he tried to sell you a car while he was at it.”

  I wasn’t going to confirm it was true until I understood something. “Are you saying he lied about you being his son? There are DNA kits. You could prove you’re not related in just a couple of days.”

  No . . . Mr. Chatham had told me the truth about Joel. It was in Joel’s sigh of exasperation before he answered, “Why the hell bother? Point is, he didn’t get around to telling me until he could use it to manipulate me. See, Hannah”—Joel sighed again and tried to collect himself—“let me explain something: Harney Chatham doesn’t do anything unless it benefits Harney Chatham. He wants something from you, plain and simple. Same with the bullshit about him being my father—tells me out of the blue for no reason? I don’t think so.”

  “It is strange,” I admitted. “But he spoke so highly of you.”