Deceived

9

When Joel Ransler parked his Audi near the dock on Monday morning and walked toward my boat, he was alone, which was unexpected, but then I saw his grave expression and knew the reason. They had found Rosanna Helms.

“Bad news?” I asked, wiping my hands on a towel.

My instincts were correct. Yesterday at sunset, deputies had noticed vultures circling a few hundred yards from the house. They were unaware that a footpath led to the area, so they had cut through the mangroves, using lights when it got too dark to work. There was a circular clearing there, a small pond in the middle-the beginning of a sinkhole. The woman was found facedown in water that was just deep enough to float her body.

“No sign of a struggle,” Ransler said, “and no obvious injuries. The medical examiner thinks she’s been dead since Thursday, but that’s preliminary.”

“That’s awful,” I said, getting to my feet. Loretta, of course, had heard Ransler’s car and was trying to eavesdrop from the porch. She would soon have to be told about her friend, but the job required gentleness and planning. Mrs. Terwilliger was in the kitchen, making their breakfast, so now was not the time.

I got Joel’s attention and nodded toward the house. He confirmed his understanding by taking a seat close to my skiff before explaining, “The only reason I mention the condition of the body is because the media might go into detail. You should be prepared. It’s not… nice, the way she died, so the less your mother knows, the better.”

“Are you sure Mrs. Helms wasn’t running from someone?” I asked, meaning a crazy person with an axe.

“She’d already been dead for at least a day when you were attacked,” the prosecutor reminded me. “I suppose the perp could’ve come back to rob the place. But why?” He thought about it, then shook his head. “No… what happened is, I think you surprised someone in the middle of a burglary. He-or she-wouldn’t have used an axe on the door if they knew someone was inside. That bothered me from the start.”

An insane killer might, I thought but stuck to reason, asking, “Then why was he wearing a mask?”

“Whoever it was probably came by boat-the dock’s only fifty, a hundred yards from the house. And you said yourself sun masks are popular with fishermen. The perp probably had it stuck in his pocket and put it on when he heard you drive up. Maybe the sound of your truck brought the woman’s dogs on the run, too. Those animals were half starved, apparently.”

Ransler paused and tapped a knuckle at his teeth, thinking about it before adding, “What he did to that dog, though, that does bother me. And what he might have done to you. Whoever the person is, I think he’s got a screw loose.”

“Anyone could have wandered into that house and surprised him,” I said, wanting to believe it.

Ransler nodded. “Unless the medical examiner says different, we think Mrs. Helms wandered off and got lost. That’s usually the case when an elderly person goes missing. It gets dark, they panic, then just sort of give up and die. Or maybe she got so thirsty, she tried to drink from the pond.”

“That’s… terrible,” I murmured.

The man shrugged and allowed me some privacy by looking at his hands. “The important thing is she didn’t suffer for long-the medical examiner has dealt with a lot of these cases and the old ones go quick. But please don’t tell your mother right away. Not anyone until the lab sends back DNA confirmation. We should get it late today.”

“That’s just a formality, right?” I said. “You’re sure it’s Mrs. Helms.”

“We’re sure, but it’s more than a formality. The sheriff’s department located the daughter, Crystal-she’s living in a trailer park not far from here-but there was no point in asking her to identify the body. So we’ve got to wait to make it public.”

The significance of that came so slowly I sought another explanation. “You mean Crystal was too upset… or she’s using drugs again?”

The prosecutor’s pained expression read I didn’t want to tell you but he did, saying, “Vultures weren’t the only thing that got to the body, Hannah. You grew up in this country, you know better than me what lives in those mangroves.”

Crabs, snakes, feral hogs, rodents-I didn’t think about it for long.

“Enough,” I said. “Poor Mrs. Helms.” Then we both sat in the silence of an April morning while, nearby, baitfish panicked beneath a sortie of pelicans and warring seagulls.

“There is one thing that might make you feel better,” Ransler said finally. “The pamphlets you saw but were missing? Deputies found a stack wadded in a trash bag behind the house. Under a pile of junk.”

“Trying to hide them,” I said. “Why do that?”

“Irrational people do irrational things. What interests me… Well, if we’d found one pamphlet, no big deal. But Mrs. Helms had a whole stack. It has nothing to do with her death but might lead to something you could maybe help me with. I have a couple in my briefcase, if you’re interested… and have the time.”

I said, “Time to do what?”

“Consumer fraud is a big issue for my office. Especially schemes that target the elderly. It’s a billion-dollar business in Florida, but I’m so short-staffed I need to hire outside help to-” Ransler was interrupted by the ping of his cell phone, which he looked at before saying, “Sorry, I’ve got to take this.”

I busied myself rigging new fishing leaders while the special prosecutor stepped away to talk but was wondering if the man had come because he had a romantic interest in me. Or had he come to give me the news about Mrs. Helms, then offer me a job?

I spun a Bimini twist around my knees and waited to find out.

JOEL RANSLER had called the previous afternoon, saying he and Mr. Chatham wanted to do some fly-fishing and also take more photos-concentrating on the area between Sulfur Wells and where the Sematee and Charlotte county borders met. Did I know the water and was I available?

I HAD ANSWERED yes to both. He was referring to a short stretch of coastline, less than five miles, all shoal water and mangroves, as Ford had described it. Access to the area was through a tricky slalom of cuts and creeks, and I had been looking forward to the challenge because it would give me a break from worrying about Ford. Instead of thinking of him, I would have to concentrate on running my boat and then finding fish in a series of bays where limestone reefs were a threat-an oddity in Southwest Florida. Ransler had arrived dressed for work, though, not fishing, in his blue pin-striped shirt and tie, and he was alone, so I figured the trip was off.

Which is why, when he finished his phone call and had returned to the dock, I offered him a bottle of water, saying, “I feel sick about Mrs. Helms, but I appreciate you driving down to tell me. I know you’re busy, Joel, so let’s make it another day.”

“Rance,” he corrected me, “and what gives you the idea I’m canceling? That was Del on the phone. He’s dealing with some family issues, so it looks like it’ll be just you and me.” He knelt to take the bottle of water and opened it. After a sip, he asked, “Is that okay?”

Do a fishing trip so soon after Mrs. Helms’s body had been found-just the two of us? My uneasiness must have shown because the man gave me a look that mixed patience and understanding. “I’m just the prosecutor. There’s nothing I can do about the person who assaulted you until the cops have their ducks in a row. And there’s nothing either one of us can do for Mrs. Helms. In my job, I see some of the most horrific stuff you can imagine, but life goes on, Hannah.” He smiled. “Right?”

I tried the only excuse I could come up with. “I’m worried about my mother-you know, leaving her alone so soon.”

Ransler looked toward the house. “She doesn’t have a nurse?”

“A sitter, yes, but-”

“Then your mother will be just fine-unless she wanders off in the mangroves. But, tell you what, I’ll have the deputies keep an eye on the place for another few days if you’re concerned.”

Sulfur Wells wasn’t in Sematee County, which I pointed out, but Ransler replied it wasn’t a problem. Then looked around, saying, “I’ve got clothes and my fishing gear in the car. Can I change in your mom’s house? Or what about there?”

He pointed at what I still believe is the most beautiful little motor yacht I’ve ever seen: a twenty-seven-foot “picnic” boat, a Marlow Prowler, moored at the end of the dock. A client had rewarded me with a year rent-free if I made it livable, then maintained it. Problem was, as I should have known, the vessel was twenty years old, had seldom been used, so there was mold in the bathroom, and the air-conditioning needed to be redone. Yesterday, after kissing Ford good-bye, I had busied myself by moving the boat here so I could work on it and also keep an eye on Loretta.

“You’re welcome to go aboard,” I told Ransler, “but the head doesn’t work.”

“You own it?” He was walking toward the boat, his eyes taking in the midnight blue hull, the white upper deck, the teak and stainless fittings that I had stripped, then polished.

“I wish,” I replied, then explained why the Marlow had become my project.

“She’s a beauty,” he said, “but a little small to live on, don’t you think?”

“I’ll let you know in a week. The new head and shower fittings arrive tomorrow. I’ve been working on it for months, but I hope to have everything finished and my things aboard by Sunday.”

Joel Ransler had the ability to flex his jaw and smile at the same time. When he did it now, the actor he resembled came into my mind-the handsome one in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, although both actors had been handsome in their way.

“A fishing guide, a private investigator, and you’re a ship’s carpenter, too,” he smiled. “Is there anything you can’t do, Captain Smith?”

I don’t blush but felt as if I came close, even though Ransler had just confirmed he knew I had worked part-time in my uncle’s agency, which meant he’d done a background check on me. I told him, “Plumbing and wiring aren’t hard if you just follow the directions. If there’s something too heavy to manage alone, I’ve got a friend who’s a bodybuilder. And another friend, Cordial Pallet-you ever hear of him? There’s nothing that man doesn’t know about boats, and he helps when I get stuck.”

“He’s the marine biologist you’re dating?”

I shook my head. Cordial was in his eighties and runs the boatyard at Fisherman’s Wharf, which I was explaining when I noticed an odd glint of light from the balcony of the new neighbors’ house. I shielded my eyes and climbed up on the dock to have a look.

Ransler asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Hang on,” I said, because I realized that someone was spying on us.

OUR FAMILY’S DOCK is two hundred feet long, and I was halfway to shore before I was sure of what I was seeing. Alice Candor was on the balcony, standing with a man who was four inches shorter and holding something to his face-a camera, I realized. Candor was directing while the man snapped pictures of me, using a telephoto lens, which is why he soon knew he’d been spotted and ducked behind the railing. But I’d had time to recognize him. It was the officious little man who’d ordered the removal of Loretta’s garden and fruit trees.

Another zoning violation, I thought. It explained why the man wanted photos of me with a fishing client. Or… had Alice Candor complained about the Marlow cruiser, a vessel big enough to live aboard at a private dock?

I looked over my shoulder at the boat, then walked until I had a view of the road and stopped again. The redheaded deputy, whom I’d actually sort of liked, was nowhere to be seen. Levi Thurloe was in the Candors’ yard, a bag of cement under each arm, walking toward the side of the house. Fifty-pound bags, but no problem at all for Walkin’ Levi. If police hadn’t questioned him yet, they soon would, which I’d been fretting about because Levi frightened so easily.

“That’s the man who rode with me in the truck,” I said when I heard Ransler come up behind me. “I told you about him.”

“The mentally retarded guy, yeah. Billy picked him up yesterday afternoon, but he took it easy on him.” In response to my questioning look, he added, “I promised he would, didn’t I?” Then explained, “Look, Hannah, it doesn’t matter how long you’ve known… what’s his name again?”

I told him.

“Well, it doesn’t matter if you think the poor guy likes you. The detectives still had to check him out. Thurloe knew where you were headed Friday afternoon. He knew you were alone. Billy doesn’t think the guy’s smart enough to fence stolen property, and he has no priors. But that’s the way law enforcement works. Keep eliminating suspects until you have your man.” Ransler watched Levi disappear around the corner of the house before saying, “Holy cripes, he’s a big one, isn’t he? My advice is, avoid all contact because you never know what’s going on in the mind of someone like that.”

“Kids used to pick on Levi,” I said. “Never once did I see him stand up for himself.”

Ransler was nodding his empathy when I added, “You’re welcome to change clothes in the boat. I’ll be back in a minute after I check on something.”

“We’ll need bug spray,” he said as I started away. “I’d like to see the Helms property from the water, then maybe get out and have a look around.”

It stopped me. Before I could ask, though, the special prosecutor tried to put me at ease, saying, “I don’t want to see the pond where the woman died, don’t worry. This has to do with an old murder case. I brought along the file so I can orient myself.”

“You mean her husband?” I said. “Dwight Helms’s murder, is that the one?” As I asked, Alice Candor vanished into the house, too, so I’d missed my opportunity to flash her a nasty look or maybe even say something when I got close enough.

“Yeah, killed by person or persons unknown,” Ransler said. “Do you remember the details? It was a long time ago-almost twenty years.”

“I don’t remember much about Mr. Helms, just that he looked like a giant to me. Wore a big cowboy hat. And that they never found the man who shot him.”

The prosecutor had stepped off the dock and was opening his car but looked up when I asked, “Joel? Is it a coincidence you’re reopening the case?”

“Unsolved murders are never closed,” he began, then stopped and puzzled over something. After a moment, he asked, “Did you say shot? Is that what people around here believe?”

Now I was confused. “Yes, by drug dealers, outsiders supposedly. Shot once or twice in the back of the head. If the killer was caught, I never heard about it-”

“That’s not what I’m saying, Hannah. Parents… Yeah, I can see why they wouldn’t want their kids to know the details. This many years later, when locals talk about the murder, I’m surprised they don’t…” The man paused to reconsidered. “There’s the explanation. It happened so long ago, old-timers don’t discuss it.”

“That’s true,” I said, still confused. “No one’s proud of something like that. But are you telling me Dwight Helms wasn’t shot by drug dealers?”

Ransler’s tone became dismissive as he opened the trunk of his Audi and reached in. “Forensic science wasn’t very good in those days, that’s why I’m bringing the file along. Until I see for myself, though”-he stepped away from the car, holding an open briefcase-“let’s talk about that job I offered you.”

Job? I had guessed right, but now he got down to details, explaining, “My office has a budget to hire outside help-Tallahassee money earmarked to track consumer fraud. That’s how big the problem is. Here, does this look familiar?”

He handed me a manila envelope that contained the pamphlet I’d seen on the floor in the Helmses’ living room. Same old-timey photo of a woman stirring a cauldron, an architect’s drawing of a modern building beneath-the mock-up of a museum, I read for the first time-and in bold white typeface:

PRESERVE OUR HERITAGE

JOIN FISHERFOLK of SOUTH FLORIDA Inc.

“These things were scattered all over the floor,” I said, then looked at the back where there was a simple pledge form that solicited donations of $10, $20, $50-just check the box-and a fill-in-the-blank space for Other. If it was a swindle, at least the con men weren’t being overly greedy, which I told Joel.

“Maybe it’s legitimate, maybe it’s a soft pitch that leads to bigger money,” he replied. “That’s not unusual. I have only two people on my staff and we’ve got seventy, eighty of these so-called charities to check out. Those are just the ones we’ve flagged. There are fifty thousand charities registered in this state, did you know that?”

I looked at the pamphlet again. The fine print said that Fisherfolk of South Florida Inc. was a 501(c)(3) nonprofit, donations tax-deductible. The address was a P.O. box in Carnicero, a little crossroads town, inland Florida.

“Carnicero’s in Sematee County?” I asked.

“Yep-I always picture carnival people because of the name. In the envelope there’s preliminary information that’ll explain why I flagged the organization.”

“Your friend Mr. Chatham probably knows something about this,” I said. “I don’t know if his family fished, but the Chathams have been in Florida a long time.”

“Del’s never heard of it, and that’s another red flag. So’s the fact that Rosanna Helms had a whole stack of these forms. Chances are, she gave them out to her friends. Maybe they have a stack, too, which could mean it’s some kind of pyramid scheme. I need someone local, an insider, to follow up in person and do the research. By law, I can only hire an investigator licensed and bonded by the state, so you’re a perfect fit.”

“Actually, it was my Uncle Jake’s business,” I replied. “And I’ve got a lot of charters already booked, so I-”

“This isn’t high priority, so you can work around your charters. We’ll pay whatever the rate schedule allows by the state. If this Fisherfolk thing is legitimate, you’ll know soon enough-then I’ll throw more cases your way.” The man offered me a confidential smile. “For me, it’s a win-win because hiring you gives me a built-in excuse to-”

Do what? Stay in touch? Meet for dinner? Try to lure me into bed-that wasn’t going to happen. Ransler didn’t offer a hint because his cell rang again, this time with important business.

“Gotta run,” he told me, pocketing his phone. “An actual murder-they just found the body.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“Can’t say. Oh”-the special prosecutor looked over his shoulder as he walked toward his car-“can we postpone our trip until this afternoon? I could be back by one, maybe two.”

I shook my head. I had a charter scheduled for the afternoon, a woman who wanted to learn fly-casting, and her son who was home from college.

“Wednesday morning, then,” Ransler pressed. “I’ve got meetings tomorrow.”

I don’t like being rushed, and was also troubled by the man’s subtle flirting, so I shook my head and lied, “The biologist I’m dating? He’s already booked me for Wednesday. All day.”

Ransler thought that was humorous. It caused him to smile as he opened the door of his Audi. “Your boyfriend has to book a date? Or do you mean you charge him to fish?”

“We’re collecting specimens,” I responded as if that explained everything.

“Then make it tomorrow, I’ll change my calendar. Afternoon or morning?” Ransler, who should have been on his way to a murder scene, stood, loose-jointed and amused, awaiting my answer.

“Tomorrow same time,” I told him, which was safer than risking another ridiculous lie.