Deceived

8

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.”

It was another tangent Ford found interesting, so I explained about the Vom Hofe reel and Teddy Roosevelt’s little book, Harpooning Devilfish, which I had enjoyed as a teen.

“Vom Hofe,” Ford said, familiar with the name, “and Chatham is a-did you say he’s an expert or a collector?”

I had said neither, only that Delmont Chatham’s antique fishing rod had shattered when the tarpon jumped in my boat. “Probably a little of both,” I replied. “That’s why he wanted to see the reel. He was disappointed, and asked me to call if the reel showed up.”

“Your clients chose the right fishing guide, didn’t they?” Ford said, then referred to last night when he’d spent twenty minutes alone waiting for me to return and listening to Loretta. “Your mother said those two were very sweet to her.”

“She didn’t even meet Mr. Chatham,” I laughed, “and she only said a quick hello to Joel.” As I said it, I was remembering that Loretta, by phone, had raved to me about how good-looking Joel Ransler was, and probably rich, too. Had she told Ford the same thing? More than likely, knowing her, which is why I added, “Loretta enjoys meeting people, but she tends to confuse them with actors she sees on TV. She was on her way to play bingo, so I’d be surprised if she remembers Joel at all.”

Ford chuckled. “I like your mother, no need to worry about that.”

I rolled my eyes. “I just hope Mrs. Helms is safe somewhere, off on a trip with a friend. She and Loretta are close. The Helms family has had enough trouble as is.”

“That’s the problem with gerrymandering,” Ford responded, which made no sense until he explained. “What I mean is, where they live. Sematee County has got that one little section of panhandle that juts west to the bay. It’s only a few miles of waterfront, and all mangroves, so it’s an invitation to drug trafficking because the county seat is so faraway.” Then he asked a few questions about the Helms family, before adding, “I’m not surprised they still have problems up there.”

“Where aren’t they having drug problems?” I said. “Half the people I went to school with screwed up their lives that way. The Helms kids, they’re not even the worst examples.”

“Crystal and Mica,” Ford remembered, filing the information away. “And Mrs. Rosanna Helms-your mother’s closest friend.”

Ford meant something by that, I could tell, but I was eager to get off the subject and put him at ease. “It’s out of our hands, that’s what I’m telling you. We don’t need to worry. If something comes up, Joel gave me his cell number, plus cell numbers for the head detectives, too. The sheriff’s department gets paid to find criminals, Marion. And Joel’s already sent two texts, which proves he’s keeping me in the loop.”

I had offered to show Ford the messages, but he’d been satisfied with my paraphrased versions. The first message read No news. Call if U need me day or nite, and the second had asked if I was available for a charter on Monday. I hadn’t responded but intended to reply Yes, which Ford also knew and had accepted without comment. Now he voiced concern, saying, “Does it seem odd the guy wants to fish when there might be a psycho loose in his county?”

“No,” I laughed, but soon sobered and amended, “Wait… you’re right. A seventy-year-old woman missing-even if it’s Joel’s day off, he and everyone else should keep at it until they find her.”

Ford, though, was also thinking about it and decided he was wrong. “The man’s a prosecutor, not a violent-crimes investigator. Until the police have a suspect, there’s nothing he can do. You two are friends, he hears a dispatcher say your name, so it’s natural that he shows up as a favor to you.” Ford nodded, his expression saying Good for him, then seemed to swing the other direction, asking, “You think he has a romantic interest?”

Was this jealousy? If so, it wasn’t in his tone, which was reflective, even clinical. There was no reason to duck the question, but my own inclination toward privacy can behave without reason.

“Interested in me?” I asked. “How would I know?”

Ford cleans his glasses whenever he needs a few moments to think or to regroup. Wire-rimmed glasses. He cleaned them now. When he was done, his clinical tone was newly visible in his eyes.

Right away, I knew I’d made a mistake. I just lied to you, that’s what I should have said. But I didn’t. Instead, I told myself, It’s such a minor thing, then sat there and watched my new lover smile his understanding. “The guy’s a fool if he’s not interested in you,” Ford said. “Either way, I’m glad you’re in touch-like a safety net, just in case. The thing is, Hannah”-Ford stood-“that phone call I got at two a.m. I’m debating on whether to leave for Venezuela tonight or try to postpone.”

It caused me to almost spill my coffee. “Where?” He hadn’t mentioned a trip, let alone a trip to another country.

Ford held out his hand, meaning he wanted to talk inside. “The call was about a consulting job-out of the blue. They need me right away. I’d like you to stay here, but not just to look after the place-because it’s safer.”

I realized he was waiting to help me to my feet. It was a gentlemanly gesture that didn’t fit a lover who, without warning, packs up and flies off to South America. I took his hand anyway, unsure whether to fall into his arms or wait for an explanation. “Sorry, I’m flustered,” I said. “Worst-case scenario, I figured it was one of your old girlfriends, or that your dog was delayed, or… I don’t know what I thought. But a new job?”

Ford’s smile was sympathetic, but the careful, clinical look had not left his eyes. “I almost forgot about the dog,” he said, meaning the retriever he had bought and who was scheduled to arrive on Thursday. Then he reassured me by wrapping an arm over my shoulder. “I’ll only be gone a week, ten days at the most. Before I leave, though, I want to make sure you’re not in danger. Mind if I have someone I know call Joel Ransler? Or one of the detectives? Depending on where they find Mrs. Helms, and from what you told me, I’m not convinced it was a random attacker.” When I didn’t reply immediately, he added, “Is that a problem?”

I loved the warmth of his closeness and was relieved to hear he wouldn’t be gone long, but I also didn’t want Ford, a biologist, to invite danger-or even ridicule-by poking his nose into business that belonged to law enforcement professionals.

I pulled away. “Marion, I’ve never had any trouble taking care of myself. I’m more worried about your health. The doctor said to avoid anything stressful. And didn’t I read about some kind of war going on in Venezuela?” Which was another lie, but a white lie. The fighting I’d read about was somewhere in the mountains of South America, and my geography was rusty.

“A war, huh?” Ford replied, which told me it was the first he had heard of it. His eyes hadn’t left mine, but he looked away, as if deciding something. “I want to trust you, Hannah.”

“You can!” I said.

The man nodded, his glasses glinting momentarily before his sharp eyes returned. “Let’s go into the lab. We need to go over a few things.”

“You can tell me anything,” I said, and came very close to adding, I might be in love with you. Rather than risk it, I hugged him, hoping he would feel what I was feeling. Maybe he did, from the way he kissed me, yet I had a sudden, nagging fear there was now something wrong between us.

The next morning, a Sunday, I awoke in my lover’s bed and was soon aware of a pleasant but peculiar odor on his hands when he returned from the lab. Just a hint of a chemical, or some solvent, that soap could not wash away. A familiar odor to me, but it didn’t belong in the laboratory of a marine biologist-Ford and I had been workout companions before we became lovers, so I would have known.

Hoppe’s Gun Oil, I finally realized, an almost fruity scent. My nose would soon track the memory to my late Uncle Jake’s office, and then his holster, which he had carried as a Tampa detective. A bullet had retired Jake to fishing and running a small private investigation agency, but he loved to shoot and often took me along as his student.

Why had a biologist, who’d never mentioned owning a weapon, used gun solvent?

By then, it was Sunday night and too late to ask. Marion Ford was on a plane to Caracas.