“The Chathams, huh?” I said, suddenly more interested. “Are they paying to have this museum built?”
“Everybody’s got to chip in. It wouldn’t be fair otherwise.” Mica stood straighter, his smile broadened.
I had to smile, too, when he said that. “You were never known for fairness, Mica Helms. Tell me the truth. How much you charging Loretta and the others to get into this museum of yours?”
Before he answered, he studied me, his manner now asking Can I trust you? It was his reluctance that told me my suspicions were accurate.
“What you’re really doing,” I said, “is tricking old people into signing over their property, aren’t you? Especially waterfront. That’s why your mother moved out of Munchkinville, I’d bet. She signed over her cottage, then you got her preaching to her friends and handing out donation forms. Mica”—I tried to stop myself but couldn’t—“Mica, did it ever cross your mind that your mother might still be alive if she’d lived closer to her friends? I’m not going to let that happen to Loretta!”
He glared a glassy warning, then tried to settle himself by lighting another cigarette. He smoked and paced in a circle, but he was too mad, and too mean, not to punish me for guessing the truth. Finally, he stopped and faced me. “You always did act like Miss High-and-Mighty. Well, let me tell you something, girl. You’re just mangrove trash, no better than the rest of us.”
I deflected the insult by replying, “If that’s true, maybe I’d understand why you’re stealing from your own people.”
Mica pretended to give that some serious thought, then seemed to drop his guard a little. “Well, honey, truth is, I ain’t the dumb little kid you remember. I figured something out. Back in the day, folks around here made money. I’m talking piles of cash. Now that they’re old, most of ’em are happy to donate to a place that will show off their family history. Plus it helps ease the guilt they feel—which I’m sure you already know.” He let that sink in before adding, “Mamma was tickled pink to help spread the word about Fisherfolk. Same with your own sweet Loretta. So I don’t see it as stealing.”
What was that supposed to mean? I told him, “I didn’t hear you mention any pot haulers on your list of names.”
“Didn’t I?” he said, and gave me a look that asked How can you be so damn naïve? At last, I understood. He was hinting that Rosanna Helms and Loretta had both been involved in smuggling drugs.
“That’s cruel, even for you,” I said. “Your mother’s not even in the ground yet, and Loretta hated boats. Still does! Show some respect!”
Mica laughed that away while a silky wink came into his tone. “Instead of fighting me, you could be helping collect donations. I wouldn’t expect you to work for free. You’d be paid on a percentage basis—like all charities do it. Hannah-han”—he spoke my name as if I was already a conspirator—“some of our people had so much cash lying around, they didn’t know what to do with it. You think they put it in banks? You think they paid income tax on that money? Hell no! They hid it—and killed more than one man to protect what they were doing.”
“You’re talking about your father,” I said.
“Goddamn right I am! Didn’t you hear me say folks around here got reasons to feel guilty? Daddy was a mean sonuvabitch, but he wasn’t dumb. Think how much you could sock away if you made ten, twenty million cash, and didn’t pay the IRS? If I’m right, someone owes us both. Think of this as collecting your inheritance, ’cause that’s the way I see it.”
Once again, taxes had been mentioned, but that ended the conversation as far as I was concerned—and also explained why Mica Helms might have ransacked his own mother’s house. Hunting for cash, hunting for something. I started toward the gate while tapping numbers on my phone.
“Hey . . . hey! Who you calling?” Mica followed, the cigarette clinched between his teeth.
“That sheriff’s deputy,” I replied. “I’m less tolerant of bullying since Friday when you chased me with an axe. Or was it him?” I looked toward the trailer, but Spooner had vanished from the steps.
“You’re crazy!” Mica hollered, but then surrendered in a rush by promising to return Loretta’s donations if I hung up the phone.
Too late. Birdy answered, saying, “You better not be backing out. My friend loaned me his night vision dealie.” She was talking about the plans we’d made for tonight.
I remained formal. “Deputy Tupplemeyer, you said I should call if I had any problems at the junkyard.”
Mica groaned and spun away while the redhead became all business. “If you’re in trouble, give me a landmark, I’m on my way. In danger, say something about—shit, I don’t know—say your watch broke, that’s why you’re late. Then pretend to hang up—but don’t.”
Looking at Mica, I said, “No trouble so far, but you asked me to check in. Can I call you back in twenty?”
“Is this about that charity scam?”
“Seems so.”
“You’re trying to scare some asshole,” Birdy guessed. “No problem. I’ll call you back in five. Put your phone on Speaker before you answer.”
I replied, “Well, if you’re already in Glades City, that’s fine,” and hung up.
Mica was lighting another cigarette, his nerves and starving brain on overload. “Shit, that’s just dandy. I give you a chance to make some real money, but you go crying to the cops anyway!”
I pointed to the metal building and said, “Not if we find Loretta’s things in there. Otherwise, the deputy and I are just meeting for lunch.”
“Lunch! With a cop?” Mica studied me, suddenly suspicious. “You stay away from that storage barn. Hear me? It’s up to Harris whether he gives us the keys or not.”
For the first time, I took a real look at the building: corrugated roof and siding, with sliding doors like a garage but bigger, and they were padlocked. Against an outside wall was a stack of car batteries and piles of trash that included metal cans—the kind that hold paint thinner. I sniffed the air and suddenly understood why the area had a nasty chemical smell. The building was probably a meth lab.
“Don’t get any stupid ideas,” Mica warned softly.
I was moving away from him when Birdy, whose internal clock runs fast, called back. I touched Speaker and turned the volume loud so Mica wouldn’t miss a word.
“Ms. Smith? Deputy Tupplemeyer here. We’ve got a couple of K-nine units in the area, and I know how much you like dogs. Mind if we stop and say hello?”
When my eyes shifted to Mica, he was waving his hands to focus my attention and mouthing the words Okay! . . . Okay! meaning he would open the storage barn, answer my questions, anything I wanted. I didn’t believe him but the K-9 unit was a fiction, too, so I went along with it, telling Birdy I would call back in a few minutes.
Mica was lying, as expected. But it gave Harris Spooner time to appear, the ZZ Top giant who moved methodically despite the pit bull that was pulling him along by its leash.
“I’m betting on that Chevy again!” he called to us, grinning. “Or she can pay me twenty bucks and walk out like a lady. Her choice.”
The man had added an extra ten as interest, apparently, but it was actually extortion because I was terrified of the dog, which he could read in my reaction. It caused Spooner’s grin to broaden, a grin so wide and wild it spread his beard like a curtain and laid his teeth bare on a face that was the size of a yeti and just as hairy.
I didn’t freeze but didn’t argue back either. Just stood there numbly while Harris knelt to slap the dog’s neck while saying to Mica, “You talk too much, dickweed.”
Mica feigned indignation. “You know I wouldn’t do that!”
“I heard you, boy. Piles of money and unpaid taxes. You didn’t say that?” Harris’s head pivoted slowly until his eyes found Mica. “You ever bring another stranger back here, keep flapping your lips way you do, I’ll turn you into something Vixxy
can lap from a bowl.”
Mica’s expression became glassy, but he tried to save face by saying, “This girl, she’s almost like family. You knew her people!”
Spooner nailed him with another look that read I’ll deal with you later, then got back to me and his wager, saying, “I don’t see no money in your hand, girl, so you must be real proud of those legs of yours. Well, if that’s the way you want it.” He reached to unsnap the dog’s collar. “You get a five-second head start. Damn it, girl, better run!”
The threat shocked me out of my daze and I replied with a threat of my own. “Mister, I’ve got a sheriff’s deputy waiting outside—ask Mica, if you don’t believe me. A whole team, plus a K-nine unit!”
It was the wildest of lies but didn’t matter. Before Spooner could respond, a familiar voice stopped everything by hollering, “Leave her alone, Harris! Mica, back away, and let me see your hands! I’ll shoot that damn dog, if I have to.”
Joel Ransler was there when I turned, a pistol in his left hand and ready but pointed at the ground. Then proved he could bully both men—possibly showing off for my benefit—by asking, “What’s the problem, you fellas miss showering at Raiford? Or just the strip searches?”
A few minutes later, in the parking lot, I told Joel, “Thank god you made me text the address!” which I had to yell out because Mica had resumed shredding tires.
The special prosecutor responded by asking me to lunch, then leading me to his Audi, which was a new A6, it turned out.
Best of all, the car was quiet inside.
That evening, just after sunset, I parked my SUV at the Lowe’s on Pine Island Road, and Birdy drove us inland toward Carnicero, a trip that took less than an hour but seemed longer because the woman enjoyed showing off her driving skills and the speed of her BMW convertible.
“We’ll keep the top down until we’re closer,” she told me, then pretended to respect traffic laws until we were on Route 17, a country road I didn’t remember as curvy, but it was curvy with Birdy Tupplemeyer at the wheel. As she drove, she questioned me about what had happened at the junkyard—especially Joel Ransler’s role—but often interrupted my answers to demonstrate driving advice, such as, “The trick is to maintain speed into a curve . . . then accelerate.” And, “You never want to surprise a drunk from behind, so I’ll flash my high beams before passing that asshole. Then downshift . . . always check your mirrors . . . then floor it!”
Finally, I had to ask, “Are we in a hurry? I thought the later we searched that field, the better.”
I was referring to our destination. It was a rectangular lot between the rehab clinic and a church the deputy had located on Google Earth. She had printed out copies for both of us. The photos suggested that cypress trees screened the field from the clinic, which made me more optimistic about trespassing on property owned by Dr. Alice Candor but no less nervous.
“I’d hardly call it a field,” Birdy said. “It’s less than a quarter acre. We hop out of the car, take a quick look, then we’re out of there. This far inland, even a few big conch shells will tell us we found the right place. After that, we’ll get serious.”
When I didn’t reply, she laughed, “You are so uptight! Next time Rance the Lance asks you out for dinner, you’d better say yes before you explode.”
Apparently, assigning nicknames to people she’d never met was something else the woman enjoyed. Even with the top down, the BMW was fairly quiet, but I still had to raise my voice to ask, “How’d you come up with that?”
“From the look on your face when you talk about him. He shows up out of nowhere, like a knight in shining armor, and saves your butt. Rance the Lance, see? Admit it. You’ve got the hots for the guy.”
“Oh,” I said, “that kind of lance. No . . . all we did was stop at Denny’s for iced tea. We talked, it was fun, sure. I figured I owed him at least that.”
“At the very least,” she scolded. “You said he scared the hell out of those rednecks. So he must be a pretty big guy, a hardass but classy, you said. The guy knows how to dress, how to behave around women, but you turned him down anyway. How many times you think he’ll ask before saying to hell with you?”
I said, “He’s tall, but not big compared to Harris Spooner. You’d have to see Spooner to understand. That man’s got something missing in his brain, and he’s a bully, too—until Joel showed up. I haven’t figured that part out yet.”
“One of the rednecks, yeah,” Birdy said. “That’s my point. The guy’s intimidating when he needs to be. But also an attorney, a man who’s made something of himself.”
I was reviewing the scene in my head, trying to understand why Mica and his uncle had reacted so meekly. “Joel didn’t wave the gun around or threaten to have them arrested. He even cracked a joke about them taking showers together—you know, after he sends them back to prison. I grew up around hard cases like Harris Spooner and I’ve never met a one who would tolerate being called a homosexual.”
“They just stood there and took it, huh?”
“Hardly said a word until Joel made them apologize.”
“Apologize?” Birdy slapped the steering wheel, delighted. “I’ve got to meet this Rance the Lance.”
“You mind not calling him that?” I said. “It wasn’t until we were at Denny’s that I mentioned there might be a meth lab on the property. Oh, and that Spooner supposedly cut his wife into pieces.”
“What?”
I said it again, and added, “Or put her in a tire shredder—I didn’t want the details.”
“You don’t really believe that?” she said.
“Maybe. I hope Mica was just trying to scare me, but Harris’s wife disappeared, that much is true. Joel told me a little bit, and I checked the records, too. Seven, almost eight years ago, Spooner went to prison for attempted murder, but it was a totally unrelated case. Hopefully, I’ll find out more when I get back to the office.”
“Thank god you’ve got this guy Rance looking out for you.”
“He’s good at his job,” I conceded. “That’s why I think he asked me out to dinner—you know, so I could give him more details. He’s especially interested in what Mica said about older property owners not paying taxes. You know, on illegal income, money they earned hauling marijuana. But I’d already made plans with you for tonight. And Marion’s dog arrives tomorrow, so I’ll be busy.”
Birdy smiled and said, “Pot hauling,” amused by the term, which I had used earlier. Then got serious. “What’s wrong with you? Turn down a dinner date to babysit a dog?”
“I’m already in a relationship,” I said patiently. “Even if I weren’t, Joel’s not my type.”
Birdy kept pushing, but in a friendly way that was more like a game. We traded a few barbs before she said, “You think Tomlinson is my type? It didn’t stop us from having a fun night, though, did it? Haven’t you noticed how much more relaxed I am?”
“Not from your driving,” I replied.
“You know what I mean. Basic female physiology, particularly in women our age—it’s total puritanical bullshit to deny ourselves. You’re not even engaged, right? So why act like you’re married?”
“The subject of marriage hasn’t come up,” I answered. “It’s more of an understanding.” I felt no obligation to add that I’d had only two dates with Ford unless counting the times we’d gone jogging together, which I did—apparently because I was full of puritanical bullshit. Why else would my conscience demand it?
Birdy said, “It’s your understanding, not his, Smithie, that’s what I’m telling you! If you meet a good-looking guy who’s single and not some kind of psych job or an ego freak, there’s no harm in having fun. Psychologically, it’s healthy. Tomlinson happens to agree, by the way.”
“Bless his philandering heart,” I said. “The man’s finally coming out of his shell.”
My deputy friend thought that was f
unny and called me smartass but kept her eyes focused on the road. “I’ll tell you a secret,” she offered, then proceeded to share information about Tomlinson that was in poor taste and much too personal, but I listened to every word. While I was laughing, I tilted my head up to enjoy the odor of a citrus grove we were traveling through. Rows of trees, their canopies black, streamed by, while, above, a waxing moon floated on a bubble of pollen-scented air. We drove in silence for a few minutes before Birdy added, “God, the scariest thing is, my mother would love Tomlinson. Talk about not my type. But he’s so sweet and perceptive, I wouldn’t mind getting to know him better. It’s not just about the sex.”
“Weird how it works,” I said. “I don’t know much about Ford, either—and it doesn’t matter. But Joel, I don’t know anything about him and it does matter. That’s what’s strange.”
As I spoke, the gray asphalt road changed, becoming black and uneven. At the same instant, the BMW’s headlights sparked off a sign that read Welcome to Sematee County.
“I know a clerk who works for the sheriff’s department,” Birdy said, referring to the sign. “We both went to BU—a total coincidence—but she’s a lot of fun and smart when it comes to men. If you want, I’ll call her right now and find out what she knows about Rance the”—she caught herself—“about Joel.”
“I couldn’t ask you to do that,” I said.
“You didn’t ask, I’m offering,” Birdy replied, meaning she was going to call her friend anyway.
My eyes moved to the car’s GPS screen. To make finding the spot easier, Tupplemeyer had entered the address of the rehab clinic as our destination, and I could see that we had only seven miles to go.
Birdy’s busy brain jumped ahead of me. “You’re right. We should pull over and put the top up before anyone sees us. Then I’ll call.”
Deceived (A Hannah Smith Novel) Page 17
