Randy White - Deceived

I hadn’t said bloody , I had said reddish-colored , so it had been an attempt to trick me. Not the first or last either.

The questions by themselves weren’t upsetting, but the fact I was being asked so delicately, and repeatedly, told me what the police would not: the sink had been empty when they arrived. Nor had the pit bulls returned, and maybe the wreckage in the living room had been removed, too. No way to guess specifics, but I was convinced that someone had returned to the house and neatened up the crime scene. They’d had time to do a good job, too, which was my fault. I had refused to park at the intersection of Pay Day Road and await help as the operator had insisted-sit there alone and risk the axe man having a fast truck or ATV? Nope. Instead, I’d driven straight to a Publix parking lot, six miles away, where there were bright lights and witnesses. Even police GPSes didn’t list the pot hauler’s nickname for what amounted to a long driveway, so thirty minutes or more had lapsed by the time I’d led police back to the old Helms place.

“It’s not that we don’t believe you, Mrs. Smith,” the detective was saying now. “It’s procedure. People under stress sometimes forget details. Sometimes even imagine details that-”

“It’s Ms. Smith,” I interrupted. “And I didn’t imagine a door beaten down with an axe. And I didn’t imagine the man who tried to kill me with that same axe.”

“The same axe?” the detective said, trying to draw me out by sounding intrigued.

I ignored him by offering advice. “As to the pit bulls, take a walk around the yard, then be sure to check your shoes before you step in a car. Detective? I don’t care if you believe me or not. Find Rosanna Helms, that’s all I care about. Someone broke into that poor woman’s house and there’s no telling what they did to her.”

The man frowned and started to say, “Ms. Smith, it’s not my job to believe-” but then stopped to concentrate on a radio message by touching a finger to his ear. I listened to him say, “Yeah… Yeah-if you say so.” Then, “Yeah, well, I’m not crazy about the idea, but-” Then, “Sheriff, if that’s what you want, no problem. She’s right here.” Then the detective stood taller, looking for landmarks, saying, “We’re by the house, the whole perimeter’s taped off, so we’re standing in the drive by the… Well, hell, if he knows the woman, he’ll recognize her, right?”

I wondered who it was who knew me, while the detective, looking peeved, adjusted a knob on the transceiver in his breast pocket. “There’s someone wants to speak with you,” he said finally. “He’s on his way.”

“A relative of Mrs. Helms?” I asked.

The man shook his head. “You’re welcome to sit in my car. The mosquitoes, I spent a couple of nights camping on Cayo Costa, but they weren’t this damn bad. How about a bottle of water?”

To the west, an orange sky topped the tree line but could not penetrate the haunted-house shadows of the Helms place. I sighed in the heavy way people do when they’re tired of cooperating and replied, “I’m late already. If you’re not holding me as a suspect, I have the right to leave. Anything else, sorry. It’ll have to wait ’till tomorrow.”

The detective’s pleasant attitude vanished as if a switch had been thrown. “You an attorney?”

“No, but-”

“How do you know you’re not a suspect? I’m going to be real honest, Ms. Smith, parts of your story don’t match up with what we found in there.” He motioned toward the house. “So far, all we have is a probable vandalism and a reported assault. The victim-if that’s what you are-is usually eager to cooperate.”

Because I was getting mad, the temptation was to inform this plainclothes deputy that I was a licensed private investigator bonded by the state and there was nothing I had signed or sworn to that obligated me to tolerate his bullying. The risk, though, was his questions would become even more aggressive and reveal I was a novice, not an actual professional in that field. A private investigator is something very different from a woman who has an investigator’s license because she inherited a business from her uncle and who has only one successful case under her belt.

The little experience I’ve had, however, told me that threatening a cop wouldn’t hasten my release. Especially here, across the line in Sematee County, where my family owned no property. So I backed off, explaining, “Thing is, I’ve got to get home and tell my mother. I dread it. She and Mrs. Helms went to school together. Best friends for something like sixty years, and she’s going to take the news hard.”

“As far as we know,” the deputy reminded me, “the woman who owns this place is just fine. The lab guys are in there right now.” His head swiveled, then he ordered me to stay right where I was by adding, “Don’t wander off, I’ll be back in a second.”

Within reach was a key lime tree. I yanked off a leaf, tore it, then used its sweet odor to clean my hands and also calm myself. It was almost seven o’clock! Earlier, from the Publix parking lot, I had texted Ford rather than call because I feared he would hear the distress in my voice and offer to cancel. But there was no hiding my upset when he telephoned seconds later. Now, instead of postponing our date, he was on his way to Sulfur Wells because, as he said, “I don’t need the whole story to know you shouldn’t be alone, especially alone driving a boat.”

His thoughtfulness had almost unleashed the tears I’d been holding back since arriving at the parking lot. Maybe he had sensed that, too, because his voice had softened when he said, “Pack a bag, you’re staying with me at the lab. I’ll make dinner-fresh pompano and potatoes on the grill. How’s that sound?”

Ford, as I had learned, referred to his stilthouse as “the lab” because it was equipped for marine research projects, so his offer sounded like sweet relief to me.

That was half an hour ago, though, and now I was having second thoughts. Ford’s boat is even faster than mine, and he knows the backcountry almost as well, so he was probably waiting at our dock right now, which was a new source of anxiety. I could picture Loretta interrogating the man, terrifying him with examples of my family’s genetics-he was a biologist, after all. He would be alert to emotional oddities that might be hidden in my personality. Why hadn’t I thought to warn him!

An unmarked car, I noticed, was idling toward me, the detective walking alongside and speaking to the driver through an open window. Someone new coming to ask questions. I still had time to text Ford and I did:

Almost done. Oh-Mother hasn’t been the same since her stroke, so be patient and pretend to believe her ’till I get there.

After a moment of indecision, I added, Miss you, H4 .

I hit the Send key twice before remembering there was no signal. By then, I could see that the unmarked car was, in fact, a sporty-looking Audi that had somehow survived the bad road. I recognized the driver, too, when he stepped out, although it took a moment. The face was familiar, but didn’t belong at a crime scene where pit bulls and hooded men attacked women.

It was my charter client from yesterday, the good-looking younger man. Joel Ransler.

IF MY CLIENTSoffer a business card, fine, but I never ask their occupation, nor do I contact them unless invited. As my late Uncle Jake had counseled me, What is said on a boat, especially a small boat, is private and has to stay that way. I’ve fished movie stars, a bunch of pro ballplayers, even an astronaut, but I never brag about them by name, let alone ask for an autograph. For all you know, your clients told their wives they’re attending a funeral in Cleveland. Be respectful, do your job-leave gossiping to Yankees and amateurs.