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.
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.”
Deceived (A Hannah Smith Novel) Page 8
