Randy White - Deceived

“Weird how it works,” I said. “I don’t know much about Ford, either-and it doesn’t matter. But Joel, I don’t know anything about him and it does matter. That’s what’s strange.”

As I spoke, the gray asphalt road changed, becoming black and uneven. At the same instant, the BMW’s headlights sparked off a sign that read Welcome to Sematee County .

“I know a clerk who works for the sheriff’s department,” Birdy said, referring to the sign. “We both went to BU-a total coincidence-but she’s a lot of fun and smart when it comes to men. If you want, I’ll call her right now and find out what she knows about Rance the”-she caught herself-“about Joel.”

“I couldn’t ask you to do that,” I said.

“You didn’t ask, I’m offering,” Birdy replied, meaning she was going to call her friend anyway.

My eyes moved to the car’s GPS screen. To make finding the spot easier, Tupplemeyer had entered the address of the rehab clinic as our destination, and I could see that we had only seven miles to go.

Birdy’s busy brain jumped ahead of me. “You’re right. We should pull over and put the top up before anyone sees us. Then I’ll call.”

PHONE TO HER EAR,Birdy turned north onto County Road 731, which skirted Glades City and the Brighton Indian Reservation, while I listened to a one-sided conversation with her friend Gail. The BMW smelled new, it had hands-free calling, but she had opted to keep the call private. Why?

I wasn’t going to interrupt to ask.

“Gailstrom, it’s me, Bertie!” she exclaimed when her friend answered. She had to say it twice due to the poor reception, enunciating so clearly I realized I’d been calling Tupplemeyer by the wrong nickname. Maybe I made a wincing noise because she covered the phone long enough to whisper, “Would you stop ? Birdy’s cool!” then went back to Gail, first discussing a college friend, then Gail’s recent breakup, Birdy Tupplemeyer offering comfort by saying, “You just dodged the big Loser Bullet, sister. And Loser Bullets aren’t made out of silver, trust me.”

It provided the opening she needed to ask about single men and then mention Joel by name. A moment later, an Oh my god look appeared on her face and she included me in the conversation long enough to say, “That’s what they call him!”

Rance the Lance, I assumed she meant but didn’t want to provide another distraction-not at sixty-five on a bad two-lane road. Birdy returned to the phone, still grinning in the dash lights, but the grin faded as she listened and said things like, “Small towns, yeah, of course you do… Gail, I understand . Sure, sure… so when can we get together? Yes, I’m curious as hell now.”

Several seconds after Birdy had put away the phone, I broke the silence, saying, “Is something wrong? Your friend probably has sense enough not to gossip about people she works with.”

The deputy shook her head. “That was the excuse she used. But it wasn’t the reason.”

“What did she say?”

Tupplemeyer slowed to fifty and touched the Cruise Control button while her mind worked at something. Finally, she answered, “I think Gail’s scared.”

“Of Joel?”

“Maybe not him, exactly, but she’s afraid her phone’s bugged. I’d bet on it. And she’s a tough girl-grew up in some tenement shit factory with pimps and ghetto monsters. I wouldn’t think the local cowboys could scratch the paint on a girl like her.”

Maybe she’s doing something illegal. That’s what I was thinking.

“You said Ransler made those two rednecks apologize?” Birdy asked. “Were those his actual words? I mean, was it a suggestion or did he say, ‘You assholes, apologize,’ more like an order?”

The question jogged the memory of the way Joel had spoken to Delmont Chatham on my boat, telling an older man, and a member of a wealthy family, Del, you’re going to apologize to Captain Smith. Not loud or bossy, but saying it in a way that left no doubt it was going to happen.

“He didn’t call them assholes,” I said. “But he was firm.”

“Two tough ex-cons,” she said, still puzzled, then had an idea. “What about the pit bull? Why didn’t Ransler call animal control and have the damn thing taken away?”

“First thing in the morning, that’s what’s going to happen,” I said. “Joel’s going to have the sheriff’s department check on the meth lab, too. Because I was trespassing, who knows what animal control will do? But Joel’s taking care of it. I believe him. Why wouldn’t I?”

While she thought about that, I decided to add, “Maybe there’s another reason Gail thinks someone is listening to her conversations. How much do you know about her?”

We had come to a flashing yellow light, a plywood fruit stand on one corner, a Hess station straight ahead. The windows and gas pumps created a circle of neon in an area where citrus grew on both sides of the road, no streetlights for miles in either direction.

“The local hangout,” Birdy said, referring to a couple of men talking across the bed of a pickup and kids sitting beneath a Florida Lottery sign, their bikes parked near a coil of air hose. She downshifted and turned east before answering, “I think Gail’s too smart to be dealing in bad shit when she’s working for the same people who would arrest her.”

The GPS prompted me to say, “Maybe that’s something you should think about before we do any trespassing.” Our destination was less than a mile away, and it was only eight-thirty. Traffic was spotty-trucks hauling sugarcane and citrus, mostly-but still there were people around who might notice two women in a sporty white Beamer.

The deputy was unfazed. “She sure clammed up when I mentioned Ransler’s name. Said we’d have to talk in private. You know… very careful about her wording. Scared? Yeah, I really think she is.”

“But nothing bad about Joel personally,” I said.

Tupplemeyer liked energy drinks-Lord knows why she would add fuel to the fire but she did-and had opened a fresh can when we’d stopped to put the car’s top up. She took a gulp now and glanced at me, her expression serious. “The dumbest thing two friends can do is pass along third-party information-especially when it comes from a mutual friend. It’s the sort of bullshit I hate.”

I replied, “After you’ve told me what’s on your mind, we should discuss your caffeine intake.” The way the woman’s attention bounced around, I had no idea what she was talking about.

Birdy took another drink and muttered, “Damn it,” as if chastising herself, then said, “There’s a reason I was pushing you to date this guy Ransler. Not just him-I meant it generally speaking. You’re not engaged, you should date. That’s all I meant.”

At that instant, I realized the obvious: Birdy and Tomlinson had discussed Marion Ford during her night at Dinkin’s Bay yet she continued to dismiss him as if he were an object blocking my way to freedom. A warning light went off in my head. “Before we go any further,” I told her, “how drunk or stoned was Tomlinson? And what, exactly, did he say?”

The deputy sighed. “Smithie, I’ll never do this again. Seriously, I feel like we could be really good friends and I don’t want that ruined because I stupidly-”

“Just tell me what he said,” I interrupted. Unconsciously, I had stretched my legs out as if preparing myself for a crash.

The crash came, but it wasn’t as bad as I feared.

“Tomlinson raved about your guy. Respect, integrity, smart, and he’s nice to old ladies-all the things you want to hear about a man but almost never do, even from his friends. A little straitlaced, maybe, yet open-minded. But then he let something slip that I should have told you right off the bat. What Tomlinson said was, ‘Doc will never settle down with one woman.’ No…” Birdy touched a finger to her lips, trying to remember. “No, his almost exact words were, ‘Doc won’t let a woman get close enough to hurt herself. That’s why he’ll never settle down.’ Tomlinson says he’s got a bad case of Hannah fever. That’s how we got on the subject.”