Randy White - Deceived

“Weird,” I smiled. “I’ve been thinking the same thing about your mother.” I continued walking before answering, “Not far. Once we get on the mounds, there really could be rattlesnakes. Pygmy rattlers, mostly-I’m serious this time. But they’re not aggressive, so don’t worry.”

“Not aggressive,” she says, “my ass. You go first. I’ll follow from now on.”

Near the center of Cushing Key were two shell mounds that rose abruptly out of the swamp like miniature volcanoes but cloaked by trees, Spanish bayonet plants, and cactus. We saw no snakes but used cell phones to photograph shards of pottery and tools made from big whelk and conch shells. Artifacts everywhere.

“It’s pronounced konk , not cawnsh ,” I corrected Tupplemeyer for the second time. She had summoned me to the western edge of the highest mound where she’d found a wall of conch shells embedded like bricks, the sharp ends pointed outward.

“A defense against invaders,” the former archaeology major told me. “I read about this. There’s no rock around here to quarry-that’s what the Maya and Aztec did. So they used shells. All four sides of the pyramid covered with shell spikes except for one path to the top. Smart, huh? These things would cut the hell out of someone.”

She was referencing the sketches she’d seen by Frank Cushing-the island’s namesake-who the Smithsonian had sent to Florida in the 1890s.

The redhead knelt and took more photos but had yet to so much as touch a shell or a piece of pottery-shards of baked clay, yellow-orange, that had accumulated over the thousands of years people had hunted and cooked and lived their lives here. I was impressed by the respect she was showing for the state that was her new home.

“ Whoa… look at this!” Birdy called after pulling foliage away. Then began snapping more photos while I squatted beside her. She had found a large conch horn, its point sawed off as a mouthpiece, and part of a bowl with a triangular pattern etched around the rim. It was so simple and eloquent, I tried to imagine the artist-a woman, no doubt-who had lived on this island and who had done her work with extra care.

The redhead, apparently, felt a connection, too, because she stood, tilted her nose up, and said, “Does the air seem… heavier here to you? In Tikal, it was exactly the same.”

“That’s in Guatemala?” I asked.

The deputy nodded while she rearranged leaves to cover the pottery shard. “Some jerk will cart this off if he finds it. I don’t know why I’m so attracted to places like this, but… they give me the weirdest feeling. Powerful , you know?” She looked up, her expression intense, a tinge of anger showing, too. “We’ve got to find those artifacts that bitch had hauled away. You still up for it?”

I replied, “I’ve got a story about Dr. Candor. She’s an alcoholic, I think. Or crazy. Maybe both. One thing I know for sure is, she’s trying to run the locals out of Sulfur Wells, Loretta and me included. That woman’s vindictive, and I don’t want you to lose your job.” I described last night’s scene on the dock, then started to share what I’d uncovered about the couple, but no need-Tupplemeyer knew more about the Candors than I realized.

“They’re both dirty,” Birdy said. “This morning, I figured out where they sent those dump trucks-and it wasn’t to a public landfill. They filed for a zoning variance on some wetlands near one of their rehab clinics. Documents that were dated Monday, but they’ve owned the property for more than a year. The application claims the land’s actually above the floodplain.” Tupplemeyer’s tone emphasized the importance of the time lag.

“Where?” I asked.

“Inland, near some little town in Sematee County. About an hour’s drive.”

“That’s Joel Ransler’s area,” I said. “He’s got a friend who works in the planning department, Delmont Chatham, an older man. He’s been on my boat. Is planning department the same as zoning ?” I was thinking that Mr. Chatham, a charter client, might be willing to speak with me.

The off-duty deputy shrugged. “Ask your handsome attorney. I guarantee he knows who the Candors are-or, at least, about their clinic. It’s one of those revolving-door rehab facilities that targets public funding. Just like they did in Ohio-prescribe meds, then treat the very same patients when they get hooked. That’s why the Candors are still rich. They know how the system works.”

Dr. Alice Candor had told me the same thing, bragging about it.

I asked, “Is the property near the clinic? If it is, security’s going to be more than just one guard driving around in a golf cart.”

“Stop worrying! Where I think they dumped the stuff is half a mile from the actual facility-you know, the buildings where they keep patients.” Birdy paused to look at me as if gauging my courage, then asked, “Do you have anything planned for tonight?”

She’s leading you into trouble, a voice warned, which is why I replied, “You know I do.” As we’d left Sulfur Wells, I had pointed to the cabins known as Munchkinville and explained I was going to question the owners about their charity donations. But I hadn’t said tonight .

“How about we do this,” the deputy suggested. “We’ll split up the cabins and go door-to-door-” She stopped in midsentence, a woman who was easily distracted, and tilted her nose again. “Smell that? You know what I mean about the air?”

No, but I was happy to switch subjects. “The mounds have a different smell to them, that’s true. It could be the trees-gumbo-limbos and key lime trees, and one called white stopper-it’s got an unusual smell. They made a medicine out of the leaves to stop diarrhea.”

Birdy shook her head in a way that told me I wasn’t close, which gave me an idea. “I’ve got a friend you should meet,” I said. “You two are opposites in most ways, but he’d understand. And he’s fun. Tomlinson’s his name.”

“A mystic, huh?” the redhead said, either not interested or she didn’t believe me. But several minutes later, as we hiked back to the boat, she asked, “Is this guy another one of your gay buddies or is he married?”

That made me smile. “Keeping your bra snapped is the only problem women have with Tomlinson. He lives on a sailboat in Dinkin’s Bay-that’s Sanibel.”

“Is it on the way home?” she asked.

Dinkin’s Bay was three miles southwest, but it was safer than sneaking around rehab clinics after dark. I replied, “It can be.”

“Great. But if we stay late, we’ll drive up there and search tomorrow. My shift ends at six, so we can leave around seven. Okay?”

When I asked, “Where’s this place again?” she picked up her phone and told me, “I’ll send you the link.”

HOURS LATER,I was alone in Marion Ford’s lab, waiting for Birdy to return from Tomlinson’s sailboat, when impatience caused me to open my phone. Instead of dialing Birdy, I sat down, surprised, because I saw the link for the first time.

Sematee Evaluation and Treatment Clinic, Carnicero, Florida

The clinic had a different box number, but it used the same little Carnicero post office as the charity Fisherfolk of South Florida Inc.

Rather than calling my new friend, I texted, How much longer? We need to talk.

It took awhile, but the off-duty deputy finally replied, Float on, Smithie

, which told me I would have to wait until morning-but only because she added the smiley face.