Deceived (A Hannah Smith Novel)

by White, Randy Wayne

  But wait . . . Joel had said, The women who murdered Dwight Helms. He hadn’t said, The woman and the friends who covered up for her. He had been in attorney mode and intentionally vague yet had said that plainly enough.

  Loretta helped swing the axe?

  I sat back and tried to imagine the scene. Couldn’t do it, though. Impossible! Yet . . . it was slightly easier to imagine four tough women, all hardened by island life—Epsey Hendry, Becky Darwin, Jody Summerlin, and Loretta—gathering to intervene on behalf of one of their own when something had gone terribly wrong.

  Then, and only then, did it seem plausible, even justifiable, when viewed from an eye for an eye, Old Testament perspective, and that’s the perspective I chose to embrace—until I was shaken by a horrifying possibility: Crystal Helms, not yet school age, had witnessed what her mother and friends had done to the father she had idolized.

  No . . . I couldn’t allow myself to believe it, despite Joel’s earlier warning that children seldom recognize signs of trauma in their playmates. Crystal had been quiet, true, but a shock so terrible would have left her catatonic, not soft-spoken.

  Catatonic . . .

  My thoughts shifted to Walkin’ Levi and the rumors of fever or injury that had traumatized his brain. Had he, too, been a secret witness? Levi had been so terrified that afternoon on Pay Day Road, he had jumped from the truck rather than visit the old Helms place. I thought back to my earliest memories of Levi, trying to make the time line work, but couldn’t convince myself of that either.

  He was afraid of the pit bulls, I concluded, and couldn’t blame him. Nor could I blame Mrs. Helms or my mother, or their friends, for doing whatever was required to survive—not after being assaulted by the likes of Harris Spooner.

  Those were different times, Mr. Harney Chatham had told me. People tended to look the other way. Women tolerated unhappiness for the sake of their children.

  Tragic . . . and also admirable, but the saddest form of admiration because, in fact, it only rationalized looking the other way.

  Enough of this! I told myself. Drop it for now.

  Ford would be arriving soon. I didn’t want the upset I was feeling to taint the excitement of our first date since his return from South America. So I got to my feet, locked my boat, and went to tell Loretta good-bye. Before I stepped off the dock, I spent a few seconds staring at the concrete mansion that had displaced a shell pyramid and many tons of Florida history.

  Doom with a View, Birdy Tupplemeyer had suggested as a name. “What about the Bone Throne?”

  This was two nights ago when she and my bodybuilder friend, Nathan Pace, had surprised me with a bottle of champagne and gifts to celebrate the completion of my boat and my first night aboard amid the luxury of my own possessions—including a toilet that worked and a shower that sprayed warm water.

  The Bone Box, I had countered rather than risk saying her suggestions were too cute for a building that had already attracted so much misery.

  The fact was, neither name fit. Birdy hadn’t found a human bone the night she had been detained, then drugged, although she had used that lie as a threat, but her lie had backfired. A sadder fact was, even the conch shell artifact she had found wasn’t enough to stop the rehab annex from being built. Alice and Raymond Candor were still rich, still walking free, and still had a powerful ally in the state capitol. The Bone Box, their home, would continue to stand through the years despite the centuries of history its spoor had despoiled.

  There was a glimmer of future hope, however. If the Candors got into a financial mess, maybe they would accept the cash offer recently made in my mother’s name but backed by Loretta’s secret lover and protector.

  I want you to help make it happen when the time comes, Harney Chatham had told me.

  I was unconvinced The Bone Box was a worthy setting. Alice Condor was a venomous woman, and Mr. Chatham himself had said the Devil’s seed had been planted inside those concrete walls. If Rosanna Helms had avoided the mistake of returning to a tainted place, perhaps she would now be sitting atop the mound with Loretta and her other co-conspirators.

  A gust of tinkling laughter escaped the porch and drifted toward the water as if to remind me: A woman’s not dead until her last friend is buried.

  That’s what I was thinking when I heard the sound of a fast boat approaching and turned to see a twenty-six-foot Zodiac with a T-top crossing the flats, a stealthy-looking vessel, Sanibel Biological Supply visible on the side when the boat was close enough for me to wave hello.

  It was Marion Ford, looking gaunt but tanned and healthy. He didn’t bother to double-check his mooring knots before pulling me into his arms, then saying, “I’d like to say hello to your mother before we take off. Okay?”

  No . . . but there was no avoiding the inevitable, just as there was no dodging an answer to the note Ford had sent from Venezuela:

  Sorry, delayed. I miss you. When I get back, interested in buying a place together? We’ll need more room.

  I had settled on an answer days ago—a decision based on mistrust and a fear of my own poor judgment. But I wasn’t going to force the issue now. Why risk denying myself the pleasure of a night with a man my body was already responding to and for whom I truly cared?

  “You can meet Loretta’s friends while you’re at it,” I suggested. “But be careful—you don’t want to cross that group of ladies.”

  • • •

  For a complete list of this author’s books click here or visit www.penguin.com/whitechecklist

  DISCLAIMER

  Sanibel and Captiva Islands are real places, faithfully described, but used fictitiously in this novel. The same is true of certain businesses, marinas, churches, and other locations mentioned in this book. Hannah and Sarah Smith are icons in Florida’s history, and did exist. However, their relationship to characters in this novel are the author’s invention, and purely fictional.

  In all other respects, however, this novel is a work of fiction. Names (unless used by permission), characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is unintentional and coincidental.

  Contact Mr. White at WWW.DOCFORD.COM

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Special thanks goes to: Ivan Held and Neil Nyren for entrusting Hannah Smith into my care; Wendy Webb, my magic companion, adviser, and friend; Mrs. Iris Tanner, a guardian angel, and to whom this book is dedicated. Also supportive were my partners and pals, Mark Marinello, Marty and Brenda Harrity, and my teammates, Stu Johnson, Bill Lee, Gary Terwilliger, Don Carman, Judd Park Miller, and Victor Candelaria. Once again, thanks to Dr. Marybeth B. Saunders, Dr. Peggy C. Kalkounos, and Dr. Brian Hummel for providing expert medical advice, and also thanks in advance to young Colgan and Levi Dudley for their contributions to Florida. Special thanks go to writer/historian Jeff Carter.

  Much of this novel was written at corner tables before and after hours at Doc Ford’s Rum Bar and Grille on Sanibel Island and San Carlos Island, where staff were tolerant beyond the call of duty. Thanks go to Raynauld Bentley, Amanda Gardana, Amanda Rodrigues, Ashley Rodehaffer, Amazing Cindy Porter, Desiree Olson, Aaron Geis, Fernando Garrido, Joey Wilson, Khusan (Sam) Ismatullaev, Kory Delannoy, Mary McBeath, Michelle Madonna Boninsegna, Magic Milita Kennedy, Olga Jerrard, Rachel Songalewski, Tall Sean Lamont, High Shawn Scott, T. J. Grace, Yakh’yo Yakubov, Capt. Brian Cunningham, Mojito Greg Barker, Jim Rainville, Nathaniel Buffman, Crystal Burns, Donna Butz, Gabrielle Moschitta, Maria Jimenez, and Sarah Carnithan.

  At the Rum Bar on San Carlos Island, Fort Myers Beach, thanks go to Dan Howes, Andrea Aguayo, Corey Allen, Nora Billeimer, Tiffany Forehand, Jessica Foster, Amanda Ganong, Nicole Hinchcliffe, Mathew Johnson, Janell Jambon, C. J. Lawerence, Josie Lombardo, Meredith Martin, Sue Mora, Kerra Pike, Michael Scopel, Heidi Stacy, Daniell
e Straub, Latoya Trotta, Lee Washington, Katlin Whitaker, Kevin Boyce, Keil Fuller, Ali Pereira, Kevin Tully, Molly Brewer, Jessica Wozniak, Emily Heath, Nicole English, Ryan Cook, Drew Fensake, Ramon Reyes, Justin Voskuhl, Anthony Howes, Louis Pignatello, John Goetz, and Clark and Kristen Hill.

  Finally, I would like to thank my two sons, Rogan and Lee White, for helping me finish, yet again, another book.

  —Randy Wayne White

  Sanibel Island, Florida