Deceived (A Hannah Smith Novel) (7 page)

“In the morning, I’ll check the records, but I know the Helms family has a long history of felonies related to drug dealing. The daughter especially—again, I have to pull the file—but one of my guys said Crystal spent some of her time in the psych ward.” The man squared himself and placed his hands on my shoulders in a comforting way. “That’s just between you and me. I wouldn’t share this with most people—I’m not allowed to, in fact.”

He waited until I looked at him before adding, “I like you, Hannah. An attractive woman who can handle a boat—can handle just about
any
situation, from what I gather. I trust you, and I’m worried because you’re an unusual woman—and the person who did this is insane. My opinion, of course.”

I moved slightly, thinking Ransler would remove his hands. He didn’t, but that was okay. “I appreciate it, Joel,” I said.

“I take care of my friends, Hannah Smith—even the few who’ve proven they can take care of themselves.”

My eyes had tried to drift away, but now I had no choice but to reply, “You did a background check after our charter, didn’t you? Or was it before?” There was a long list of information he could have discovered—I’m single and live alone, for one thing. From the way he said
proven
I could take care of myself, though, I could tell he was referencing an incident that had put my name in the news some months back: I’d shot and wounded a man who’d threatened to rape me.

Ransler’s hands tightened on my shoulders while his expression asked
Does it matter?
“I’m going to have the sheriff’s department keep an eye on your mother’s place, okay? Just until we know more about Mrs. Helms. And tonight I’m following you home to make sure you get there in one piece.” Now his smile told me
Don’t argue!

The feeling of his hands on my shoulders wasn’t uncomfortable, and he kept them there even when I replied, “Thanks, but I’m meeting a friend. In fact, I’m so late now I wouldn’t blame him if he’s mad.”

“Him,”
Ransler replied. “You know the guy well?” Normally, the question would have struck me as intrusive, but his tone conveyed worry. Women are usually assaulted by men they know.

“We’re dating,” I said. “And he’s not the violent type—just the opposite. So don’t worry.”

“The guy’s a lucky man,” Ransler replied in a sweet way that made his own disappointment a gift to me.

“You’d like him,” I said, smiling back. “Next fishing trip is my treat. The three of us, or bring Mr. Chatham, too, if you want. He’s a marine biologist on Sanibel and pretty good with a fly rod.”

Ransler started to comment but turned when a deputy called, “Hey, Joel, take a look at this!” He was jogging toward us, carrying a camera.

The deputy had photos to show the special prosecutor. I wasn’t invited to view them and was glad, because I knew from their conversation they had found the body of one of the pit bulls.

“Put his head in the freezer!” was the last thing I heard the deputy say before I excused myself with a wave and hurried away.

The previous night, when I had slipped into Marion Ford’s arms, then into his bed for the first time, I had pretended to be reticent—despite the smoky shakiness of my voice—because I don’t share my body out of fondness, nor for sport, and I wanted Ford to know it.

Tonight, though, my nervous system was so overloaded, the words
No
and
Slow down
weren’t within a thousand miles of the next morning. I wanted to lose myself in private sensations, disappear into the secret oneness we were beginning to create, and I did—
we
did—Ford looking at his watch, finally, and saying, “Gezzus, no wonder I’m hungry, it’s two a.m. You still want that pompano? Or try to hold out until breakfast?”

His bawdy openness on the phone, and in bed, had cut me free, and I said, “There
is
something I’ve imagined trying . . . if you wouldn’t mind . . .”

But before I could say more, he was already doing it, and when we were done, the tears I had been holding back were unleashed, which soon became embarrassing.

“I can’t seem to stop,” I sobbed. “I don’t know why.”

“One of us has to stop,” Ford responded dryly, “or we’ll both die of dehydration. I’ve got beer, but Gatorade’s probably a better call.”

The pretense that he had misunderstood struck me as the funniest thing I’d ever heard. It replaced my bawling with laughter, and my laughter became something fun we shared, letting it flow back and forth between us, two naughty adults joined by a tide that neaped when a strange sound seeped beneath the door. A gonging
sound; repetitive, like a doorbell that is stuck.

“Damn it,” Ford said, throwing the covers back, “that’s not supposed to happen.”

“Something wrong in the lab?” I asked. I figured it was an alarm of some sort; a warning that one of the dozens of fish tanks there was leaking water or an aerator had gone bad.

“Phone call,” Ford explained. “This won’t take long,” then hurried out of the bedroom, his weight causing the stilthouse to vibrate.

A telephone?
Ford’s cell phone buzzed as an alert and his landline had an old-fashioned ringer. It was not a story a man would invent, especially a man as honest and plainspoken as Marion Ford. So maybe he had changed his ringtone or he owned a third phone—none of my business, but I was aware that only an emergency or a drunken friend would cause a phone to ring at two in the morning.

I listened to a screen door slap shut, and soon the gonging stopped. I stretched, yawned, and lay there, luxuriating in the contentment I had just shared with a man I might be falling in love with. Maybe was already too far gone in love for my own good—it was way too early to have discussed commitment—but I didn’t care. It felt natural to lie there in my own skin, unashamed, letting moonlight show my body to the window and anyone who might be outside peeking—which was not a possibility, of course—Ford’s house, actually two small houses built on stilts in shallow water fifty yards from shore. That fact made my boldness a silly fiction, but I maintained it by walking naked to the bathroom. I felt a great closeness to my new lover, true, but I was nonetheless shy about using the toilet—the result of spending most of my life sleeping alone. So I made use of the opportunity but didn’t use the light switch. Vanity was the reason. I’ll never be considered beautiful by fashion model standards, but I do have a long, full body that moonlight treats kindly, and reality was something I’d seen enough of for one day.

After a few minutes, I surmised the phone call wasn’t an emergency or I would have heard Ford’s voice spike through the wall. It allowed me to relax while I stood at the window. Dinkin’s Bay Marina, down the shoreline, was speckled with dock lights where houseboats and cruisers shimmered beneath the moon. Still a few wandering souls awake: two women huddled together on the aft deck of a Chris-Craft; the boney silhouette of Tomlinson sharing a joint with a friend. I had met the two women when Ford was in the hospital, so I recognized them from the name of their boat,
Tiger Lilly
. The women had been chilly toward me at first but that had changed. Tomlinson, of course, still flirted openly, he still probed my availability with words and his eyes while urging me to
Float on!
But that was changing, too.

I like it here,
I thought.
Good people in a place that feels safe.

I slid beneath the covers; arranged my hair, then folded the sheet across my breasts for maximum effect. After several more minutes, I decided to read while I waited. Books were something Ford and I had in common and they can bring two strangers together faster than anything I know. We both liked nonfiction, especially natural history, which is always a safe topic of conversation. Gradually, though, books had allowed us to reveal our more personal tastes. Reading Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings had somehow led me into British classics. Now I’m fascinated by the complicated lives of George Eliot and Charlotte Brontë, among others, and we had been trading favorites, him reading
Jane Eyre—
or pretending to at least. I had been switching between Carl Hiaasen and Peter Matthiessen.
Killing Mister Watson
was on the bedstand, but I soon put it away because the subject matter—violence set among mangroves—was unsettling after my visit to the Helms place.

I lay back, rearranged the sheet, then my hair. Next thing I knew, I had been transported by a nightmare from Dinkin’s Bay to a doorless mansion where pit bulls eyed me from a hallway, then gave chase. The worst part was the terrible guilt I felt—the guilt of sneaking into the concrete privacy of a neighbor’s house without a permit or an excuse to shield me from a faceless woman’s axe.

Marion!

Maybe I screamed his name. More likely, I dreamt that part, too, because I was sitting up alone in bed when I awoke. There was no clock in the room, but I felt that a long space of time had passed.

I put my feet on the floor and found the baggy shirt I had been using as a robe. Dew dripped off the tin roof; the boom of a distant owl interrupted the rustle of mangroves and the chiming of chuck-will’s-widow birds. Yes, it was
very
late.

Where was Ford?

•   •   •

FORD’S LAB
was walled with bubbling aquariums, its pinewood interior old, like most fish houses, but furnished with stainless tables, a marble countertop with chemical racks, and a metal desk, where I found the biologist sitting. He was so deep in thought, he was startled when I came into the room.

“Marion?” I said gently. “Is everything okay?”

Lighting from a goosenecked lamp was harsh, but only over the desk. It showed an open book—a world atlas—and what looked like a complicated cell phone near a legal pad where Ford had made notes, his block printing tiny but as concise as the orderliness of the room.

“Oh . . .
Hannah
!” he said, as if he’d forgotten I was visiting. “Sorry, I got preoccupied.” Then swiveled his back to me, closed the atlas, and slid the legal pad beneath it. The cell phone wasn’t as easily hidden, but the thought was in his mind, I sensed it, even though he pushed his chair away, straightening his glasses, and invited me closer with a wave.

“I’m interrupting,” I said. “I should have knocked.”

“No. You never have to do that. Not with me, you don’t.”

I wasn’t convinced. We all have secrets, as I am aware. We all deserve the privacy of our own minds, but Ford’s attempt to hide what I’d already seen was disturbing. “This is your work space,” I responded. “You’re busy—no need to apologize.”

I hadn’t intended to sound chilly but did. That changed when Ford stood, moved into the harsh light, and I got my first real look at him, shirtless and unprotected by bedroom shadows. The man was too muscled to appear frail, but he had lost weight after a week in the hospital, then three weeks convalescing. Fishing shorts hung on the bones of his hips, he looked gaunt and vulnerable because of the fresh scar beneath his heart—a scar new enough to be startling.

I couldn’t take my eyes off the thing. Only two days ago, after pretending reticence, I had been celebrating Ford’s good news in bed. Now I was being cold to the man I’d nearly lost—a man I might be falling in love with and didn’t want to lose again.

“I should have put on a shirt,” Ford said when he saw my expression. “Hang on, I’ll grab a lab coat.”

I caught the man’s arm as he passed, then framed his face between my hands and kissed him. “I’ve got vanity enough for both of us,” I said, “so don’t bother. I thought you left the lights off to make
me
look prettier.”

When he grinned, I kissed him again, then leaned for a closer look at his chest. “Stand still, for heaven sakes! Get your hand out of the way.”

The scar was a pink weld of flesh that angled four inches across his ribs. I had touched the scar with my fingers, my lips, too, but always in bedroom darkness. So I kissed it again as if saying,
Hello,
then stood, taking care not to look at the desk. “I’m going back to bed. Get your work done, then come along. A man who shirks his work isn’t going to get far with me.”

“Hey,” he said when I turned to go, then pulled my body close, his eyes staring into mine. “When you came in, I did something else stupid. I tried to hide something from you. It has to do with the phone call. Want to talk about it now? Or wait ’till morning?”

Ford’s willingness was enough for me. “Or not at all,” I replied, then steered his hand to a place that promised
That’s okay, too.

•   •   •

SITTING ON THE DECK,
sipping coffee, wearing jeans and a purple tank top that had to belong to Tomlinson, I told myself,
Instead of prying, set an example. Ford will get around to discussing the phone call when he’s ready.

Or maybe not. Hadn’t I told him there was no need? It was a matter of respect and like-minded behavior. Last night, Ford had treated me with care by not pressing for details about what had happened at the Helms place. So it seemed right to satisfy his curiosity before dropping a hint or two in hopes of satisfying my own.

“That’s exactly how I remember it,” I said, concluding my story. “It all happened so fast, but, at the time, it just kept getting worse and worse. Like it would never end—you know how that is?”

Ford wanted to hear more about Levi Thurloe and Loretta’s new neighbors—tangent issues, it seemed to me—before asking, “You’re sure you’re not hurt? If the guy did something, you can tell me, I’ll understand.” Then explained he’d read about victims blaming themselves, not their attackers, which is why some women kept the facts secret to hide guilt they didn’t deserve.

“I’ve got a little bruise,” I said, touching my wrist, “but it’s because I almost slammed the door on my own hand. Maybe you haven’t noticed, but I have my clumsy moments.”

Ford is mild-tempered, but I could see that he was too concerned to smile. Part of me was glad. It meant he cared. But I also didn’t want a man who studied fish for a living to get involved in a matter that was dangerous and best left to experts.

“I was at the wrong place at the wrong time,” I explained. “That’s what it comes down to. The lunatic with the axe—whoever it was—he never touched me, I
would
tell you. So he has no reason to come after me—or Loretta. But the special prosecutor has deputies checking on her just to be safe.”

Ford had yet to ask about Joel Ransler, although the coincidence of Ransler being my new fishing client had caused his attention to zoom. He alluded to the coincidence now, but obliquely, saying, “You two had a wild couple of days. A tarpon jumps in your boat, then you’re assaulted in his jurisdiction.”

“That’s why he’s giving Loretta extra attention,” I reminded him.

“It’s a powerful bond,” he agreed, “and the timing couldn’t be better. I remember when the governor appointed a special prosecutor in Sematee, but I’m surprised the position still exists. The small county with a big drug problem. Whatever the reason, I’m glad he’s there.”

“Their commissioners made it a full-time job,” I replied. “Sort of like a state attorney, but a smaller area. That’s what Joel told me anyway.”

“
Joel,” Ford said, but not in an accusing way—more like he wanted to remember the name.

“He’s about my age, that’s what he said to call him, so, yeah.”

“An attorney who likes to fish in his spare time, that’s not unusual. He and his friend were taking a lot of photos, too, you said.”

“I didn’t know why until Joel mentioned it last night. The man who actually booked the charter is about thirty years older, Delmont Chatham.”

“As in citrus groves and car dealerships?” Ford asked.

“Minus the money, I’m guessing. Mr. Chatham works for Sematee County, too. He’s been cataloging examples of old Florida architecture because it’s disappearing so fast. Something to do with restoring historic buildings. He loved Loretta’s house—it’s the oldest house in Lee County, did you know that? When I was showing him the attic, that’s when I found the trunk open—an old Army trunk—and noticed things missing. Quite a bit of old fishing gear was gone, and some family books I’d put in a Ziplocs to protect them.”