Randy White - Deceived

I had shown him the Fisherfolk membership form but hadn’t mentioned that I had been hired to investigate the organization. It was unprofessional of me, no doubt, but mentioning his directorship now wiped the grin off Mica’s face. He had been lounging against the fence but stepped away. “Who told you that?”

I said, “I don’t know what all Loretta gave you, but the items I mentioned belong to our family, not her. I’ve got a right to know the thief’s name, don’t I? So I checked public records. Crystal’s name’s there, too, but I can’t imagine her being involved in something like this.”

Mica did a vaudevillian take, the one where the comedian’s cheeks bulge instead of spitting water, then sputtered, “You sure as hell ain’t spoke with Crystal in a while, have you?”

“I plan to see her next,” I said.

“The hell you are!”

“Before the funeral, if you wouldn’t mind giving me an address. Is she doing okay?”

Mica played along. “Well, let’s put it this way: Crystal got religion long enough to gain a hundred pounds-but I imagine she’s improving since Mamma died.”

“That’s a terrible way to speak!” I told him.

“Don’t care if it is. It’s true-those two hated each other. If you want Crystal’s address, check with the loony ward or call her probation officer.”

I let that go by saying, “The funeral’s tomorrow, Mica. I expect I’ll see her.”

The man had lost track of the days, though. I could tell by the blank look on his face. “Tomorrow’s Thursday,” I reminded him. “Services are at Kirby Funeral Home, then burial’s at the cemetery on Pine Island Road. I’m sure Crystal will be there, but maybe you have other plans.”

He pointed a finger and stepped toward me. “You stop your damn nagging! And stay away from my sister!”

“What I’m going to do is call a sheriff,” I said, concentrating on my phone, “and get all your threats down on paper.”

That made him even madder, but Mica was too smart to put his freedom and his starving brain at risk. “Hold on a sec… please ?” He waited until he had my attention, then the meth addict tried to become a salesman. “For one thing, Fisherfolk is a legal nonprofit, so no one’s stealing nothin’. If you checked the records, you know that’s true. Give me a chance and I’ll prove what a good deal it is for the folks around here.”

“Someone filled out all the right forms,” I countered, “which means it wasn’t you. Was it a doctor named Alice Candor? Or maybe a company she and her husband own. I’ll find out anyway, so you might as well tell me.”

Mica recognized the name, I could tell by the thoughtful look he affected, but seemed unaware of a connection. “Some doctor’s name’s listed in the records? Show me, I’d like to see if it’s true.”

“I didn’t say that. But if that’s who you’re working for, be careful. She’s a psychiatrist, Dr. Alice Candor. She treated prison inmates before she came to Florida. And if she’s treating Crystal, there’s something Crystal should know. This woman did experiments on her patients. The paper she published is on the Internet.”

What kind of experiments? I could see the question forming in Mica’s eyes, but he couldn’t ask without conceding that he knew the woman.

“It’s the truth,” I pressed. “This was in Ohio, but she’s here now. Is that how you got involved? There’s no shame in going to a rehab clinic, Mica, but Dr. Candor is a dangerous choice.”

The man was becoming agitated and tried to regain control by saying, “She don’t have anything to do with what we’re doing-and what we’re doing is legal.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s right,” I said, which was Joel Ransler’s line but seemed appropriate.

“Right?” Mica snorted, then turned to me with a wild look in his eyes. “Name me one time this state treated people like us right. Think about it, girl! Families like ours-there was just a handful who settled this state. They put up with the ’skeeters and heat and snakes long enough to turn this shithole swamp into prime real estate. Our people put fish and citrus on the tables of Yankees who treated us like redneck trash. Then how’d they thank us? Soon as there was enough Ohioans, they voted the net fishermen out of business.”

He began to pace, using his boney hands to gesture. “They closed our co-ops but sold commercial licenses to any asshole from ’Bama or Georgia who plunked down seventy-five bucks. Japs and Cubans, too, running factory ships twelve miles off Marco Island-shit, I seen it, girl! Then taxed us out of our houses, and said, ‘Oh, by the way, you can’t net no more mullet or trout or pompano, neither!’” He snapped his cigarette away. “If there’s anyone who should understand why our people deserve a museum, it’s you, Hannah Smith.”

I looked at my phone again. Birdy Tupplemeyer, Joel Ransler, and Tomlinson had all left phone messages, but it was Birdy’s number that I had selected. My thumb had remained poised, though, while Mica talked. The question I was asking myself was Is he exploiting the truth or does he believe what he’s saying? because much of what he had said was true.

Exploiting, I decided. It didn’t take long to make up my mind.

MICA HAD GOTTENsome coaching. It showed when he went into his sales pitch, telling me, “Picture a whole room showing what the Smith family did for Florida. Old photos of your Aunt Hannahs, your grandfolks, all the famous Smiths.” He used his hands to create a wall for me to imagine. “Your granddaddy’s fishing gear, that would look good up there, too, wouldn’t it? Same thing for my family-a place where tourists could enjoy our family’s pictures and antiques.”

I wondered if he’d practiced these lines on Mrs. Padilla and the others while he continued, “Then you got your Browns and Weeks families. The Padillas, the Hamiltons, and Joiners-you know all the names. Hell, the Woodrings alone should have a whole room. Same with the Chatham family and the Colliers-don’t matter they’re rich or poor,” Mica smiled while his eyes sought my approval.

“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.”