Deceived

16

In the morning, at my office, after tracing three familiar names to the origins of Fisherfolk Incorporated, a headline in the news caught my attention.

VENEZUELAN LEADER MISSING;

GUERRILLAS VOW RIOTS, “REVENGE”

I couldn’t help but read the story. A revolutionary group known as FARC had been attending peace talks in Caracas and their chairman had disappeared while swimming near a beach resort. No body had been found, but FARC members insisted he had either been abducted or murdered. They were blaming U.S. “covert gangsters” and warned North Americans to stay out of the streets during the protest march they were organizing. The Venezuelan president said he anticipated rioting if the FARC leader was not returned unharmed. Police, he said, had detained several U.S. citizens for questioning.

That alone was enough to worry me, so I hunted around for a more detailed account. The only facts I could add, though, were that late yesterday afternoon the FARC leader had told friends he was going snorkel diving, not swimming, and he was supposedly an experienced diver. An unnamed FARC member was quoted as saying, “We know who did this and will soon have him.”

Once again, I checked e-mails, hoping for a note from Marion or, at the very least, that he had read the e-mails I had sent. There were three now, one for every day he’d been gone, but none had been opened.

I brought up Google Earth and studied Venezuela’s coastline, eight hundred miles along the Caribbean sea, much of it jungle and isolated islands.

That, at least, was comforting. Ford had said the aquaculture company that had hired him was in a remote place. He had also mentioned something about access to clean seawater away from cities. Good! If people were going to protest and riot, they would do it in a place where there were streets, not raw jungle. And police certainly wouldn’t bother with a marine biologist who was in the country to work, not cause trouble.

Ford’s safe, I reassured myself. Even so, I sent him a fourth e-mail that included a link to the story. At the bottom, I wrote, “Get yourself home in one piece!” I was tempted to add a smiley face to prove I wasn’t worried but didn’t.

Thinking about it reminded me that I hadn’t heard from Birdy Tupplemeyer. Her car had been gone when I’d stopped to check on Loretta, so I assumed she’d gotten home okay. I sent her a text, asking, You make it to work? then got back to my own work, which was nearly done-the computer search portion, that is.

In Florida, a nonprofit corporation has to name at least three primary officers. They don’t have to live in Florida, but their street addresses have to be included in the formal documents. I had had to peel through a dozen layers of bureaucracy but had laid the truth bare-a partial truth anyway. It was no wonder the late Rosanna Helms was collecting donations from her friends. Her children, Crystal and Mica, were listed as directors of Fisherfolk Inc. It was the name of the third officer, however, that convinced me a broader truth existed-a truth that would be much harder to unveil, I suspected.

I called Joel Ransler, who listened in silence, then confirmed my fears, saying, “Wow, that’s not going to be easy to prove, Hannah. You know… it might be wiser to gather complaints from people you know, locals who’ve made donations, and create a media stink-see what I’m saying? Stop what they’re doing from the bottom rather than going after power people at the top. The results will be the same, and it’s a hell of a lot safer.”

Joel, for the first time, sounded nervous. It made me curious. “Power people?” I said. “I only mentioned one name.”

“I was speaking generally,” he said. “In county infrastructure, all businesses are linked. Which wouldn’t bother me a bit if there’s a provable crime. Look”-a smile came into his voice-“collect all the information you can. Give it to me when you’re ready, then we’ll have dinner together and discuss it.”

Dinner? I had just shared details about a transparent donation scam. The charity was providing elderly “fisherfolk” with the forms necessary to donate their homes, savings accounts and valuables in return for “tax benefits” and the promise to preserve their “heritage” by displaying family heirlooms and photos in a museum that didn’t exist.

“Am I missing something here?” I asked. “You hired me to investigate and that’s what I’m doing.”

“No, you’re guessing,” Joel replied. “It’s not illegal for two convicted felons to be on the board of a nonprofit. That’s all you can prove, right?”

My disappointment in Ransler was turning into frustration. “Can’t you see who’s really behind this? If it wasn’t wrong, they wouldn’t target people like my mother; older people who can’t think straight.”

The man asked a few questions-Did Loretta have receipts for our missing property? Had I questioned other donors?-before reminding me, “Wrong isn’t the same as illegal. I believe what you’re telling me, Hannah, but you haven’t given me anything I can work with. You can’t accuse someone of complicity without proof-not by name anyway. Especially if they have enough money to turn their attorneys loose on you and me.”

“Power people,” I muttered.

“Money is power, dear. It’s the way the world works.”

“In Sematee County, apparently,” I responded.

Instead of getting angry, the special prosecutor became more understanding. “Come on, now, Captain Smith, don’t get sullen. Things have gotten a lot better up here in the last few years. There are still a few good ol’ boys with clout from the local pot-hauling days, I admit it, but-”

“They’re not my pot-hauling days,” I interrupted.

“You know what I mean. It frustrates the hell out of me, too, sometimes. But we have to touch all the bases before I can seat a grand jury-or even subpoena the owners of a prominent business.”

“Can I at least talk to Mica and Crystal Helms?” I asked. “You don’t consider them power people?”

Joel started to reply, but then was distracted by someone who came into his office. Seconds later, he said, “I’ve got a meeting. Just be careful, okay? Text me an address before you interview anyone-especially those two. It’s a safety thing.”

“Any chance you can get hold of their medical records?” I asked. “If Crystal spent time in rehab or a psych ward, maybe Mica did, too.”

“We’ll see-just keep me in the loop,” he replied, and hung up.

I texted Joel the only valid street address I had for Fisherfolk Inc., then went out the door, still convinced that Walkin’ Levi Thurloe-who had been listed as the organization’s third director-was the pawn of his employer… and maybe Dr. Alice Candor’s patient, too.

AS I LEFT the parking lot headed for Sematee County, it dawned on me that I should talk to people who’d actually donated to Fisherfolk before trying to interview Mica or Crystal Helms. To ask hard questions, I needed hard facts to supplement my list, which, so far, included only a book and a rare fishing reel. Sulfur Wells was only a few miles out of my way, so I detoured west and parked beyond the curve so Loretta wouldn’t notice my SUV. Across the street was Munchkinville, with its white fence and communal parking area with enough trucks and rusting cars to indicate to me most of the inhabitants were home.

I got out carrying a leather organizer, prepared to do a couple of quick interviews, then I’d be on my way. Of the dozen cottages squeezed along the bay, eight were lived in by people I had known since childhood-nine, counting the late Rosanna Helms-so I figured I’d have damning evidence enough within an hour, probably less.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Going door-to-door, I spoke to Mrs. Morgan and the House sisters, then tried the dilapidated cabin where old Captain Elmer Joiner was mending nets beneath a tree. The results were the same. My old neighbors were happy to see me, happy to discuss the weather and Mrs. Helms’s funeral or to inquire about Loretta’s health, but when I mentioned Fisherfolk, our friendships vaporized, then a wary chill followed me out the door. Same when I asked for the name of the person who had approached them about donating, and even when I said, “I think you and my mother are being robbed!”

Didn’t matter. Their behavior was more than just strange, it was revealing. People who donate to a good cause are usually happy to discuss their generosity, so the few responses I did get hinted at a larger truth, a truth my old neighbors refused to share.

“What’s the difference between paying taxes and robbery?” Mrs. Padilla, a widow, asked me. She had always been a spirited woman but sounded nervous, not angry, when I suggested that she was being cheated. Prior to knocking on her door, it had been my secret hope that Mrs. Padilla might also be willing to gossip about my mother’s secret lover-she and Loretta had never gotten along-but I gave up when she told me, “Just because I played organ at your recital doesn’t give you the right to nose into my affairs!”

Which was true, I had to admit it. But I couldn’t resist asking Mrs. Padilla why she, a woman on Social Security, was worried about taxes. Loretta had mentioned taxes, too, which was consistent, at least, and hinted that the benefits of donating to Fisherfolk had been misrepresented.

Mrs. Padilla’s response was more of a threat than an explanation. “Around here, Hannah, you pry open the wrong box, something might jump out and bite you.” Then asked, “You’re goin’ to Pinky’s funeral, aren’t you?” saying it as if there was a connection.

I replied, “Thursday afternoon, of course. Are you telling me Mrs. Helms was murdered?”

The woman shrugged, but there was a knowing look on her face as if she had made her point. End of conversation. End of my visit to the cottages of Munchkinville.

As I returned to my SUV, Captain Joiner looked up from his mending long enough to wave, but he didn’t smile.