Deceived (A Hannah Smith Novel) (21 page)

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 only 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.”

“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.”