Randy White - Deceived

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 DOCKis 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.”

Ransler was nodding his empathy when I added, “You’re welcome to change clothes in the boat. I’ll be back in a minute after I check on something.”

“We’ll need bug spray,” he said as I started away. “I’d like to see the Helms property from the water, then maybe get out and have a look around.”

It stopped me. Before I could ask, though, the special prosecutor tried to put me at ease, saying, “I don’t want to see the pond where the woman died, don’t worry. This has to do with an old murder case. I brought along the file so I can orient myself.”

“You mean her husband?” I said. “Dwight Helms’s murder, is that the one?” As I asked, Alice Candor vanished into the house, too, so I’d missed my opportunity to flash her a nasty look or maybe even say something when I got close enough.

“Yeah, killed by person or persons unknown,” Ransler said. “Do you remember the details? It was a long time ago-almost twenty years.”

“I don’t remember much about Mr. Helms, just that he looked like a giant to me. Wore a big cowboy hat. And that they never found the man who shot him.”

The prosecutor had stepped off the dock and was opening his car but looked up when I asked, “Joel? Is it a coincidence you’re reopening the case?”

“Unsolved murders are never closed,” he began, then stopped and puzzled over something. After a moment, he asked, “Did you say shot ? Is that what people around here believe?”

Now I was confused. “Yes, by drug dealers, outsiders supposedly. Shot once or twice in the back of the head. If the killer was caught, I never heard about it-”

“That’s not what I’m saying, Hannah. Parents… Yeah, I can see why they wouldn’t want their kids to know the details. This many years later, when locals talk about the murder, I’m surprised they don’t…” The man paused to reconsidered. “ There’s the explanation. It happened so long ago, old-timers don’t discuss it.”

“That’s true,” I said, still confused. “No one’s proud of something like that. But are you telling me Dwight Helms wasn’t shot by drug dealers?”

Ransler’s tone became dismissive as he opened the trunk of his Audi and reached in. “Forensic science wasn’t very good in those days, that’s why I’m bringing the file along. Until I see for myself, though”-he stepped away from the car, holding an open briefcase-“let’s talk about that job I offered you.”

Job? I had guessed right, but now he got down to details, explaining, “My office has a budget to hire outside help-Tallahassee money earmarked to track consumer fraud. That’s how big the problem is. Here, does this look familiar?”

He handed me a manila envelope that contained the pamphlet I’d seen on the floor in the Helmses’ living room. Same old-timey photo of a woman stirring a cauldron, an architect’s drawing of a modern building beneath-the mock-up of a museum, I read for the first time-and in bold white typeface: