Randy White - Deceived

“Hannah… are you okay? I wasn’t trying to be graphic.” Joel was touching my elbow, I realized. It took me a moment to understand I had missed something he’d said, something important, apparently.

I took a full breath and forced a smile. “Fine, fine-my attention wanders sometimes. What were you saying?”

The special prosecutor had been easing into the facts about the murder. “The way Helms died was so brutal, I see only three possible options. I’m not going to bother you with details. I’m projecting from the killer’s point of view.”

“Options?” I asked.

“Motives, I mean. It was a crime of passion or a revenge killing or… a message, like a warning to other smugglers. That’s my read. The murder was so brutal, it scared people, so they avoided the subject by telling outsiders that Helms had been shot. After a while, the lie became accepted as fact. We both know that a lot of islanders went into drug running. If the killer was sending a message, it worked in one way: the murder scared them. The question is, what was the message the killer-or killers- was sending?”

I nodded as if I agreed but was trying to recall more about Loretta’s lover. The relationship had gone on for a decade. I suspected I had seen the man on more than one occasion-in church, most likely-yet had no idea who he was or what he’d looked like. Loretta had guarded the secret carefully, but it was my own distaste for the truth that had provided the strongest shield.

Now Joel was saying, “I didn’t come here to trap you. More than anything, I was trying to help. The way Helms was killed isn’t related to what happened to you Friday night. My theory hasn’t changed. You surprised a burglar-some local crackhead, most likely-hoping to find money or drugs. He probably heard the dogs, too, and grabbed the first weapon he saw-an axe. It was a coincidence .” The man sighed. “Instead of making you feel better, I screwed up by assuming you knew more than you did. Sorry, Hannah. Like I said, I’m in an ugly business. Sometimes I forget there are still people you can be open and honest with.”

This time I let the prosecutor place a hand on my shoulder-but as a comfort to him, not to me. His regret seemed genuine, and I soften easily when touched by the upset of others. “Joel,” I said, “I believe you, okay? So let’s drop the subject.”

“Rance,” he corrected, then squared himself so both hands were on my shoulders, holding me as if to reassure me of his support. He had done the same thing the night I was attacked.

“Rance,” I conceded, then joked, “I usually don’t tolerate pushy clients.”

Sundance Kid from the movie, yes, Joel had the same jaw-flexing smile as we stood face-to-face, joined by the warmth of his hands. Smart gray eyes, too, with a glint-boyish, but in a devilish way. For a moment, I felt comfortable standing close to this good-looking attorney who was trying so hard to win my approval… but then the look in his eyes struck me as more devilish than boyish and I began to doubt my own judgment. Two of my aunts had died because they had misread the intentions of charming men. I knew nothing about Joel Ransler, had yet to even run a background check, yet here we were alone, just the two of us.

“Hang on a second,” I said, then ducked under his arms and walked toward my skiff.

“Where you going?” He sounded hopeful when he added, “The thermos of margaritas in the cooler-we could probably both use a drink.”

I replied, “I’m getting bug spray. If you want to see the horse trail, we need to go. I’ve got to be back by noon and the tide’s falling fast.”

“Noon?”

“I have an afternoon charter,” I told him.

Birdy Tupplemeyer wasn’t paying me, but that didn’t make my excuse any less true.

After an hour with the redheaded deputy, I was beginning to agree with her mother that a hash cookie or two was just what the doctor ordered for a girl whose mind never stopped working and who wanted to be everywhere at once, especially any island with a beach or high ground, even if it meant trespassing, or wading through swamp.

Birdy’s willingness to trespass had almost gotten her into trouble the previous night. She had slipped under the gate of a landfill, only a mile from the condo where she lived, and was hiking among the piles of raw earth and asphalt when a security guard in a golf cart had appeared out of nowhere.

“He was pretty good, had his lights off,” she explained. “I don’t know if he saw me or not, but I went over the back fence anyway. I’m trying to borrow a night vision unit from a friend. If he doesn’t come through, our next visit will have to wait for a night or two.”

Something else that had to wait was our trip to Cushing Key, but that was because of low tide, not our lack of equipment. When we left the dock at one, the flats resembled green meadows, the bay was so shallow, so I drove us straight through Captiva Pass and into the Gulf of Mexico.

“That’s the most beautiful beach I’ve ever seen,” the redhead grinned, then asked, “What’s the name of the island?” We were running along the outside in water that was turquoise, wind-streaked. To our right floated a strand of silver beach, miles long, with coconut palms that leaned westward.

“Cayo Costa,” I told her, then explained that some locals still called it La Costa . “Years ago, Cuban fishermen kept fish ranches there- rancheros . They caught mullet but made most of their money smuggling rum.”

“Some things never change,” the off-duty deputy replied.

I wasn’t sure how to take that, so I continued to tell her about the island. “At the north end, there’s a tiny cemetery and a park where you can camp. Next time, bring a swimsuit. We’ll anchor off a patch of rocks that’s good for snorkeling-fire coral and a lot of fish to see. I’ll bring a speargun.”

“I’ve got a bra and panties,” Birdy replied. “There’s nobody around. Plus, I’m so flat-chested, who’s gonna notice?”

“Up to you,” I said, then anchored near the rocks and waited while she splashed around, using my mask and fins. I was playing tour guide, which wasn’t as interesting as fishing but fun and more relaxed, even though the redhead fired question after question at me. For the last hour, too many of her questions had been about Joel Ransler, so it was a relief to get a break while her mouth was plugged with a snorkel.

Fifteen minutes later, wearing clothes but hair still wet, she was lecturing, “It happens every time, Smithie, I swear to Christ. I’ll go months without a date, then finally meet a decent guy. Moment we start sleeping together, you can count on it, an even better-looking guy appears out of the blue. Total stranger. Would I like to go to dinner, maybe fly to Paris for the weekend? That actually happened to me, by the way.”

“How’d you like Paris?” I asked, giving it an edge.

“Didn’t go, smartass. I should’ve-I’m not dating anyone now, so see where it got me? When God needs a laugh, He hauls out His list of single women and tacks it to a dartboard. Keep your options open, Smithie, that’s all I’m saying.”

Smithie , that’s what she had decided to call me, which was okay. I had made a mistake by describing the special prosecutor as “handsome,” then mentioning the name of the movie star he favored. This was after telling her I had accepted Ransler’s job offer, but I hadn’t gotten around yet to the more unpleasant topics of Alice Candor’s behavior last night or the unsolved murder. Nor had I told her much about Marion Ford, but it was time, I decided, to set her straight.