Randy White - Deceived

It seemed like a pleasant compliment until I learned that Delmont Chatham was from a well-known family in neighboring Sematee County-Chatham Chevrolet, Chatham Citrus & Cattle-and they owned a lot of property. His deference to Ransler suggested that he had inherited the name but not the money, which wasn’t unusual. Mr. Chatham collected antique fishing equipment, it turned out, which is why he’d been so upset when the tarpon shattered his vintage rod. His hobby, and his family’s history, gave us something to talk about, because my great-grandfather-who’d built the yellow house-had also been one of the area’s first fishing guides.

It got better after I tied up at the dock because my mother was on her way out. She and her friends were taking a courtesy van to play bingo, as they always do on Fridays, so there was no time to explain why a strange man-Joel-was escorting me up to the house. I was relieved. Loretta has never been an easy woman to deal with, and the stroke she had three years ago has not made her any less of a trial to me, her only child.

I FELT LUCKYthe rest of the day. And my good luck held into late afternoon, when, at the hospital, a woman physician interrupted my story about the hammerhead shark and dispelled Tomlinson’s warnings about giant fish and messages from God. “Your biologist friend has to take it easy,” she said. “No strenuous exercise. But he’s done with hospitals for now. I’ll see him in a few weeks.”

Tomlinson had been so relieved, he’d hugged the physician, and told her, “Float on, honey!” which was the sort of thing Tomlinson says even to heart surgeons.

The previous few weeks had been difficult for all of us, particularly Marion Ford. In late February, the surgeon had spent two hours removing the tip of a stingray barb from Ford’s chest, then repairing what she had described in the waiting room as “a tiny laceration of the right ventricle.” To comfort the dozens who had gathered there that night, she had added, “All he needed was a simple stitch or two-we’ll know more in a few hours.”

What the doctor knew, what we all knew, was that Marion Ford had nearly died. The week that had followed had been a roller coaster of good news, then complications that included one awful night that Ford had spent on a ventilator in ICU. Looking through a window at a person you love being inflated and deflated like a child’s toy is painful and proves the line between life and death is as thin as a newborn’s skin.

Now, six weeks later, I felt lucky indeed-as did Ford’s many friends at Dinkin’s Bay, on Sanibel Island, where we returned at sunset to share the good news.

That night, though, the biologist chose not to stay late at his own party. Instead, he invited me, alone, to his house for a “quieter celebration.” We shared a bottle of wine and attempted to make small talk until the tension I felt made it impossible to speak a coherent sentence. After that, there was no talking-no conversation, anyway-despite the doctor’s orders about strenuous exercise.

I didn’t slip into my own bed until first light.

My mother peppered me with barbs and questions, saying things like, “Is that a bounce in your step or are you walking funny?” And, “Because you didn’t phone last night, I worried about a car wreck or worse. Are you in some kind of trouble with the law?”

I’ve lived on my own for years, I didn’t have to explain, but it was the opening I’d been waiting for. “No, Loretta,” I replied, “but I’m tempted to call the police right now. I was in the attic yesterday while you were at bingo. The big trunk was open and some of the family things are missing. Know anything about it?”

I’d discovered it while attempting to show Delmont Chatham the fishing tackle stored in the attic, particularly a reel that had been given to my great-grandfather by Teddy Roosevelt. Roosevelt had come to Captiva Island in 1917 to harpoon giant manta rays and he’d been impressed by the young boy who would become Captain Mason Smith. The former president had also written a small book about the trip called Harpooning Devilfish , in which he had mentioned my great-grandfather. The book was gone, too.

Yes, Loretta knew something about it. I could tell by the way she sniffed and instantly changed the subject.

“Have you noticed that idiot dog’s not barking?”

She was referring to the neighbor’s toy Pekingese. The question was irksome because, fact was, I had noticed the unusual silence. My mother continued, “It’s because of what happened last night. An owl snatched that dog while he was outside weeing and carried him to the tree above my bedroom. The moon was so bright, I saw the whole thing.”

I sighed. Another one of my mother’s stories. And, really, I didn’t care. Nor did I care about my neighbors. They had finished their warehouse-sized concrete-and-stucco a few months earlier, after flattening a centuries-old Indian mound in the process, but had only recently moved in. The destruction of what had once been a shell pyramid was repellent, but I wasn’t going to be lured off on a tangent.

“We were talking about that missing fishing reel,” I insisted.

“How’s a woman who gets no sleep expected to remember anything?” she said in an accusing way. “Lord A’mighty, you’ve never heard such a terrible yowling in your life, and pray you never do. You’ve seen that monster owl-he roosts in the oaks behind the house.”

No, I hadn’t, but I’d heard him calling, a baritone boom-boom-boom that was sometimes answered by owls on neighboring islands miles away. “Maybe some sweet tea will improve your memory,” I said, and went to make it.

“I’m not going to sit here and lie,” she continued, pressing her advantage. “I didn’t like that ugly ball of hair. He’d hike his leg on my collards and pooed in the garden-any wonder I haven’t made greens lately? That new neighbor woman and I had words about that, believe me! But the dog hasn’t been born deserves to be eaten by a giant bird.”

My mother sat back in her recliner, reached for the TV remote and added, “Suppose I could use something cool to drink, darlin’. This time, don’t be so stingy with the sugar.”

I had no idea, of course, that the missing reel would turn out to be significant or that its disappearance would convince me that my mother and her friends were being victimized by thieves whose conscience had been replaced by sickness, and who were capable of theft, and even murder. So I allowed my attention to waver. Had Loretta actually seen an owl swoop down and grab the neighbor’s pet Pekingese? The woman’s damaged brain followed strange branches and was sometimes confused. However, she was also smart enough to use that impairment to disguise her true motives or to conceal her own bad behavior. Truth was, I suspected that she’d probably sold the reel or traded it for marijuana, which she had never admitted using but was quick to praise as a healing drug. Loretta had always been tricky when it suited her needs, a trait I’d found irksome even as a little girl.

“There’s no reason to make up stories,” I warned, ice crackling as I poured tea into a pitcher. “I just want to know where the family antiques have disappeared to.”

The reel and the book weren’t the only items missing from the attic.

“The dog’s dead,” Loretta repeated. “You’ve been here, what, an hour? How many times you heard that little rat yapping?” She motioned toward the pitcher. “And don’t forget the sugar!”