Deceived

24

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.”

“Welcome to the wacky world of Dinkin’s Bay,” Tomlinson replied, then got serious. “I’ll be there in an hour, hour and a half, so don’t worry about it. I’ll bring the letter. We’ll talk then.”

“Not so fast,” I said. “If the letter’s not postmarked, it means…” What? I wasn’t sure, so shifted to what was worrying me. “Is something wrong with Doc? I don’t mind if you read the letter. In fact, I hope you did.”

“I tried,” Tomlinson said, dead serious. “Even held it up to a candle-you would’ve noticed the scorch mark. Thing is, Hannah… Well, what you should know about Doc is…”

I pictured the man tugging at a strand of hair while he edited his wording. Finally, he got it out. “There isn’t a more dependable friend in this world than Marion Ford. But his friends have to get used to dodging the same questions we can’t ask him. Understand?”

Of course I didn’t understand. The statement was so nonsensical, it seemed to be a plea for patience and understanding-either that or Tomlinson was a lot drunker than he sounded. I replied, “If you’ve been drinking, I don’t want you on the road. So the moment I hear from Birdy, I’ll call or text. Sound fair?”

I thought I’d let him off the hook, but he remained serious and no less cryptic when he replied, “I’ll give you an hour, then I’m coming. And Hannah? Remember what I told you about the dog-because it’s true.”