Deceived (A Hannah Smith Novel)

by White, Randy Wayne

  “No, it’s self-serving,” Joel said. “I’d bet the old man was somehow involved with that murder and drug running, too. That’s what this is about. I think Dwight Helms was getting into the cocaine trade, working with outsiders. The locals didn’t like it, so it makes sense they wanted to send a message. The other morning, on your boat, I had it all backward. Remember lecturing me about islanders smuggling pot but they drew the line at cocaine? If it hadn’t been for you, I wouldn’t have figured it out.”

  I wasn’t convinced, but I was softening. “I didn’t lecture, just told you the truth,” I said.

  Joel said, “That’s what I’m getting at! You know more than you realize about what went on here twenty years ago. It scared him. Chatham was probably probing, afraid you know something important. Told you I was his son, like he was sharing a big secret, then expected you to confide in him in return. What else did you talk about?”

  To give myself a second, I replied, “A lot of things,” because I had been thinking about Chatham’s friendship with Pinky Helms. If he’d had something to do with the murder, my feelings told me it wasn’t just about cocaine. It was about Dwight Helms beating his wife so badly, she had been hospitalized. Mr. Chatham had also gotten teary-eyed when talking about Loretta—there was no faking that.

  Maybe I wasn’t softening.

  Joel pressed, “If he manipulated you into talking about your uncle, your mother, or maybe some detail you remember from back then, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. The man’s a car salesman. He’s good. So, damn it, please tell me what you talked about.”

  As a warning to back off, I replied, “He did mention Audis. How do you like your new A6, Joel?”

  Ransler about lost it when I said that. “Why are you so damn defensive?” But then he took a breath and tried to make amends. “You’re right, I’m a hypocrite, couldn’t say no to this car. I love the way it handles, and he gave me a hell of a deal. But what you don’t know is—”

  My phone beeped—a call from Birdy Tupplemeyer—so I cut him off, saying, “Hang on a sec.” When I answered, the line was dead. An accidental call, probably, but I wasn’t going to take that chance. For all I knew, she was parked in that cemetery again and in trouble. So I hit Redial, but Birdy’s phone went immediately to voice mail.

  “I know, I know,” Joel said when I came back. “You’re supposed to be on Sanibel in fifteen minutes and we can’t solve this in a phone call. But did you hear what I said about the appointment Chatham had with Mrs. Helms? One of my guys found it on a slip of paper today—in her handwriting. If that doesn’t convince you, nothing will.”

  The special prosecutor had kept talking, apparently, when I’d switched lines. I asked, “An appointment for when?” but then said, “Let me call you back,” because now my cell was vibrating—a text message from Birdy.

  “Wait!” Joel said. “The appointment was for last Friday afternoon. Chatham was supposed to be at the Helms place an hour before you were attacked.” Then he said, “Hannah?” concerned by the silence that was my response.

  I felt dazed. “I’m here,” I replied. “What are you telling me?”

  “The truth,” Joel said.

  “I . . . I can’t believe that Mr. Chatham tried to kill me. Is that what you mean? Today, he was so sweet. No one’s that good an actor.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying. It doesn’t mean the old man came after you—although he’s still pretty spry. Could have been a coincidental robbery like we thought. Or he was the axe man’s target—Mrs. Helms was already dead by then, remember. What concerns me is, I told him about the attack and he intentionally withheld information. For christ’s sake, don’t say anything because tomorrow I’m going to question him formally.” Joel waited through another silence before asking, “Are you okay?”

  No, I wasn’t. I felt like a fool. “He should have told me he’d been at the Helms place before I got there! But it’s my own fault. I’d never met the man, but I trusted him anyway.”

  “Hannah, you don’t become a millionaire car dealer by sounding insincere. I intended to tell you in person, but, frankly, well . . . you’re so damn stubborn sometimes, I got pissed off.”

  I couldn’t think straight. I was due at Dinkin’s Bay in ten minutes and also concerned about Birdy. Now this.

  In a gentler voice, Joel said, “Give me a call later. Then how about dinner tomorrow night? Your friends at the marina don’t have to know.”

  I wanted to end the conversation and regroup, so told him, “Sure, dinner,” and soon hung up, but sat there for several seconds before reading Birdy’s text.

  Two texts, actually. The first had been sent half an hour earlier, but I’d somehow missed it, which was ironic. The message only added to the chaos in my head:

  Spoke with G. R the Lance is poison, stay away.

  G was Birdy’s friend Gail, who had, apparently, finally opened up about Rance the Lance.

  Hard to imagine that her second text could be equally as disturbing but it was.

  Am here but need help. Can’t T watch damn dog?

  T for Tomlinson. Just as I’d feared, Birdy had returned to Carnicero to look for artifacts and bones. I started to type a reply but then called her instead. It wasn’t dark yet, so maybe she was still parked in the cemetery, waiting for the sun to go down.

  This time, Birdy answered but wasn’t in her car because she spoke in a whisper, saying, “Can’t talk! Are you on your way?”

  For no reason, I whispered, too, saying, “You promised you wouldn’t go there by yourself!”

  “No, you told me to promise. Smithie, just listen! Today they dug holes and built a wood thingee around the spot. So I think they’re pouring cement tomorrow.”

  “Footers,” I said. “Yeah, they’d have to frame it in first. Is that what you mean—a wooden thingee?”

  “So you’ve got to come!” Birdy whispered. “Tonight’s our last chance.” Then I heard, “Oh shit, someone’s coming. I’ll text you.”

  She hung up.

  I slapped the steering wheel and started my SUV but was too agitated to drive. I had to do something. Calling 911 was too extreme, so I texted her a warning message: If I don’t hear from you in ten minutes, am calling police.

  Birdy’s smartass reply arrived almost immediately: I am the police. Hurry up!

  No smiley face this time.

  I typed a reply—On my way—and hit Send because I felt sure Tomlinson would approve.

  • • •

  NOW I WAS DRIVING EAST, away from Sanibel Island, and listening to Tomlinson support my decision, saying, “No worries, the Creature from the Black Lagoon arrived an hour ago. The delivery van guy was in such a rush, I doubt if he stopped to whiz between Macon and Punta Gorda. Said something about the dog chewing through the bulkhead and eating his iPod.”

  My cell was on Speaker, sitting on the dashboard, so I raised my voice a little to reply, “I should have been there but I’m worried about Birdy. Did she tell you what she had planned for tonight?”

  “Birdy?” Tomlinson asked. “Oh—Bertie.” Then I heard yelling in the background, and he laughed, “God, I hope someone’s taking video.”

  “Of what?” I asked.

  I heard Tomlinson holler, “Anyone have a camera?” before he told me, “The human comedy, Sister Hannah. Nothing can touch it.” And hollered again but this time covered the phone, yelling, “He’s going to need a bigger boat! Rhonda . . . Hey! I know you two have a camera.”

  “Tomlinson, tell me what’s happening!” The temptation was to put the phone to my ear, but I wasn’t going to do it in traffic.

  Finally, he returned, still laughing. “The dog was swimming out the channel, towing a canoe. You know, with the bowline in his teeth? So Jeth gets in one of the rental kayaks to chase him down. I didn’t see how it happened, but now Jeth’s in the water, the canoe’s swamped,
and the dog’s got the kayak. You were right, Hannah, the name Largo sucks. We’ve got to pick out something better that fits.”

  I asked, “Is Jeth okay?”

  “Wait, I’m trying to get a better angle. It’ll be dark in twenty minutes, but I can make out the kayak. Yep . . . dog’s headed for Woodring Point, going like a bat out of hell. But like a ghost ship, you know? No one aboard. Hey—what about this? We call him Sinbad.”

  I had been looking forward to staying in Dinkin’s Bay but now genuinely regretted my decision to drive to Carnicero, a place that was frightening, not fun. Hoping Tomlinson would change my mind, I said, “Maybe I should turn around and help find the dog.”

  “Not if Bertie’s in trouble,” he said. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  When I’d finished, he asked a few questions, then complimented Birdy, saying, “I love the way that woman’s mind works. Most cops are outlaws at heart, but, god, I never thought I’d get naked with one. Yeah . . . you can’t leave her hanging out there.”

  As we talked, I caught a green light at the intersection of Gladiolus and Tamiami Trail, traffic a stream of headlights in the pearly dusk. I planned to take Interstate 75 north across the Caloosahatchee and Peace rivers, then exit near Glades City. Thinking about the route reminded me of Joel’s warning to stay out of Sematee County, which I shared with Tomlinson because the coward in me was still looking for an excuse.

  “Did they arrest the guy?” he asked, meaning Harris Spooner.

  I had to admit I’d forgotten to ask Joel and then added a lie to my cowardice, saying, “I’ll call and find out.” I wasn’t going to do it—and not just because Birdy’s friend thought he was poison. Joel had said something that was stuck in my subconscious, a few troubling words or a phrase. The harder I tried to recall what it was, though, the deeper the fragment sank, so I knew it was best to leave it alone until it resurfaced naturally.

  Tomlinson asked, “Do you have an address for the shrink’s clinic or the cemetery?” Then jumped ahead, saying, “Screw it—I’ll meet you there. The crazy dog doesn’t listen to me anyway. The only reason he minds Doc is because they both have tunnel vision. To the dog, everyone else is just frivolous background noise. Uhh . . . speaking of Doc—”

  I said, “Wait a second,” because I was merging into traffic on I-75 and his sudden change of tone told me I was about to hear something important. It seemed to take forever before I was in a free lane and could put the phone to my ear. “I’m back,” I said, and realized the damn thing was still on Speaker. So tapped the button and asked, “Is Doc okay?”

  “Far as I know,” Tomlinson said. “A letter came for you today. Doc’s handwriting—block printing, in other words. No return address.”

  “But he has my address,” I said. “Why would he send it to Dinkin’s Bay?”

  Now Tomlinson was uneasy. “Uhh . . . actually, it came in an envelope addressed to me. Your envelope was inside. Mine was typed, so I don’t know who sent it, but yours is definitely from Doc. No postmark, of course—but what’s new?”

  “No postmark,” I said. “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Welcome to the wacky world of Dinkin’s Bay,” Tomlinson replied, then got serious. “I’ll be there in an hour, hour and a half, so don’t worry about it. I’ll bring the letter. We’ll talk then.”

  “Not so fast,” I said. “If the letter’s not postmarked, it means . . .” What? I wasn’t sure, so shifted to what was worrying me. “Is something wrong with Doc? I don’t mind if you read the letter. In fact, I hope you did.”

  “I tried,” Tomlinson said, dead serious. “Even held it up to a candle—you would’ve noticed the scorch mark. Thing is, Hannah . . . Well, what you should know about Doc is . . .”

  I pictured the man tugging at a strand of hair while he edited his wording. Finally, he got it out. “There isn’t a more dependable friend in this world than Marion Ford. But his friends have to get used to dodging the same questions we can’t ask him. Understand?”

  Of course I didn’t understand. The statement was so nonsensical, it seemed to be a plea for patience and understanding—either that or Tomlinson was a lot drunker than he sounded. I replied, “If you’ve been drinking, I don’t want you on the road. So the moment I hear from Birdy, I’ll call or text. Sound fair?”

  I thought I’d let him off the hook, but he remained serious and no less cryptic when he replied, “I’ll give you an hour, then I’m coming. And Hannah? Remember what I told you about the dog—because it’s true.”

  When Birdy texted again, I was only a mile from Glades City and the junkyard owned by Harris Spooner, so I was feeling tense and alone on this dark country road, until I read her message:

  On way home, no luck. Will call when reception better. Sorry!!!

  I felt like saying Yippee! a word I’ve never used, and my spirits, which had been low, rebounded. I checked my mirrors, engaged my flashers, and found a place to pull off the road. First, I texted Tomlinson, telling him there was no need to leave Sanibel. I checked mirrors and door locks again, then tried to call Birdy, but her phone went instantly to voice mail. It was 9:15 p.m., still early enough to rendezvous for a drink. We couldn’t be more than a few miles apart if she’d just left the cemetery. So I left a message, then replied to her text: Am near Glade City exit, how about glass of wine? Where U?

  As I hit Send, I noticed car lights behind me and was relieved when I saw that it was an eighteen-wheeler. Even so, I put my SUV in gear and kept my foot ready on the accelerator until the truck went flying past.

  When it was safe, I took a deep breath, telling myself, Relax, you’ll be out of Sematee County soon.

  It wasn’t just the nearness of the junkyard that caused my nervousness. During the drive, the missing fragment of what Joel Ransler had said resurfaced—but only after I’d recalled another troubling remark.

  Your friends at the marina don’t need to know, he had confided after asking me out to dinner. I’d been so preoccupied at the time, I had not only accepted his invitation, I had been oblivious to Joel’s easygoing sneakiness. Worse was his assumption that I was willing to lie to my own friends.

  Rance the Lance is poison, Birdy’s friend had told her. I had been reluctant to pass judgment based on the opinion of a woman I didn’t know. Why would I? Joel had rescued me from a tight spot and he’d been kind to Loretta, had even won her loyalty—something few ever accomplish. He was flirty, true, and charming, but I liked the attention. I wasn’t going to deceive myself by pretending it wasn’t a factor. His attempt to lure me into lying to the man I was dating, though, had tainted my opinion of him. Maybe Joel wasn’t poison, but he wasn’t someone I would trust—not unless he had misspoken and brought up the subject on his own to explain.

  There! I had at last retrieved the item nagging at my subconscious.

  Wrong. Believing it freed my mind enough to allow a more sinister fragment to surface. I had been driving north on I-75 at the time and saw a digital sign that flashed Venice Exit 15–20 Minutes, a traffic update courtesy of Florida DOT.

  Fifteen minutes . . . Fifteen minutes . . .

  It was enough to jar the fragment loose. I remembered—remembered sitting in the Publix parking lot and defending Mr. Chatham when Joel had said, We can’t solve this on the phone and you have to be on Sanibel in fifteen minutes.

  Joel was right—but how did he know I wasn’t on Sanibel? I had told him I wanted to pull over, so he could have assumed I was driving and had yet to reach Dinkin’s Bay. I had also told him I was supposed to be there by eight, but how had he known I hadn’t crossed the bridge onto the island?

  Was I being paranoid? I argued it back and forth while still on the interstate. Maybe Joel had used the word Sanibel as a synonym for Dinkin’s Bay. Maybe he had heard the whoosh of fast traffic and knew the speed limit on Sanibel is thirty-five or slower. That was possible, too. But what if Joel
Ransler was, in fact, stalking me?

  It was a crazy idea that seemed less crazy when I thought it through.

  Joel claimed that Loretta had told him Ford was out of town, but I hadn’t confirmed that she had. As a special prosecutor, he would also have access to the GPS devices that police use to track suspects. Maybe he had hidden one somewhere on my vehicle. He could have done it at the junkyard or at the funeral.

  On the other hand . . . there was someone who’d had an even better opportunity to plant a GPS: Mr. Chatham, or his driver, Reggie, while the limo was parked behind my SUV. Joel could have convinced one of them he wanted to protect me. Or maybe . . . maybe it was Harney Chatham who wanted to follow my every move. Either was possible if my paranoia wasn’t paranoia. It depended on which man was telling me the truth.

  That was why I had been prepared to speed away when I saw truck lights in my mirror.

  Now, sitting alone on a dark asphalt road, I contemplated getting out to have a look: use a flashlight to check the undercarriage of my SUV, then pop the hood and search the motor area, too.

  No . . . not here, I decided. When I rendezvoused with Deputy Birdy Tupplemeyer, that was the time to look. Pick some nice bright spot, not this lonesome place where my headlights isolated weeds growing in the ditch, the silhouettes of trees miles beyond.

  BEEP!

  A text from Birdy. She was replying to my invitation to meet for a glass of wine—what a relief to pick up a phone that linked me with a familiar person. Can’t Smithie, almost home. Call U tomorrow.

  As I read, the relief I felt turned to disappointment—then a creeping suspicion. Why the smiley face? It was an affectation she used, but usually when sending a cheery message.

  I reread her earlier text:

  On way home, no luck. Will call when reception better. Sorry!!!

  Same thing—a smiley face that didn’t fit. I fanned through a dozen previous texts to confirm the oddity and I was right.

  I tried calling Birdy again but got voice mail on the first ring. I became more suspicious. Reception was good in the Fort Myers area. She should have answered if she was nearly home. Unless . . . unless she was still in Sematee County and someone else was using her phone—someone who had read our previous texts and was trying to convince me to turn around.