Randy White - Deceived

I can get you out of that wreck and into a new 4Runner for next to nothing, Harney Chatham had told me. Not his exact words, but, in my vacation frame of mind, I was free to remember events as I wanted. I had ridden in Toyotas but had never driven a 4Runner so tried to imagine how it would feel.

Then heard the cello strings of Mr. Chatham’s voice ask, Or what about an Audi allroad? A beautiful young woman deserves to ride in luxury.

An Audi was more of a stretch for my imagination. When Joel had driven me to Denny’s in his new A6, I had enjoyed the leather smell and was impressed by all the electronics but couldn’t help thinking, What a silly waste of money. Audis were so expensive… But, on the other hand, what had Mr. Chatham meant by next to nothing ?

Well… maybe he’d factored in part of the seven-plus million in cash he had stashed back when he owned a marina and had done some pot hauling on the side.

The man had been in a card-showing mood on our drive back to the cemetery and had shared that secret, too.

Seven million dollars? It was still difficult to grasp the amount, and the former lieutenant governor had made it no easier when he had added, “It would’a been twice that if I’d had the brains to learn better Spanish. There was a Perkins diesel giving me fits, too, so I missed a couple of trips.”

Not cash, actually. Gradually, Chatham had converted the paper bills into silver dollars and gold coins. Never touched a penny of it, he had told me. Wasn’t safe, the IRS would have net-worthed him. But a wealthy man could afford to wait for the right time.

Now, apparently, was the right time, because what made me smile most was Mr. Chatham telling me, A pinch of tainted money will buy a ton of honest testimony. Alice Candor won’t know what hit her. With what’s left, we’ll make that lie about a Fisherfolk museum come true. That’s where you come in, Hannah. I want you to help make it happen when the time comes.

The museum, it turned out, had been Mr. Chatham’s idea from the start. But he had shared it with the gossipy Rosanna Helms, whose children, while on parole, were mandated to make weekly visits to a rehab clinic. Dr. Alice Candor again.

My cell rang. It startled me. Then I became worried when I saw the caller ID.

Joel Ransler checking in.

Had Mr. Chatham told Joel about our conversation? If not, was I obligated to share some, or all, of what I’d learned?

I picked up the phone, saying, “How you doing, Joel?”

No need to ruminate. Mr. Chatham had been right about the special prosecutor’s temper. Joel was furious.

Because traffic was heavy and I wanted to concentrate on what I was hearing, I pulled into a Publix parking lot only a mile from the bridge to Sanibel Island. Joel had started the conversation by saying, “I hope you didn’t believe anything that old son of a bitch told you!”

I was so taken aback, it wasn’t safe to drive.

Now I was parked, the sunset a blur of tropic colors, an orange smear on Gulf Stream blue, while I listened to Joel explain, “You know why he told me I’m his son? Because I reopened the Dwight Helms case. I still think Harris Spooner is the murderer, but it’s possible that Harney Chatham paid him to do it. Or paid money into a pool to have it done. I think he was heavy into drug trafficking but behind the scenes. He was too smart to get his hands dirty. Of course, that’s something he wouldn’t have admitted to you.”

I don’t shift allegiances easily so ducked the issue by replying, “He didn’t say a word about paying anyone to do anything. Or about being behind the scenes during the pot-hauling years-I’d swear to that.”

“See what I mean?” Joel said. “The old man plays the saint in front of women he wants to impress. He’s charming, I’ll admit that, but he’s a ruthless son of a bitch. Money is all he cares about. I suppose he tried to sell you a car while he was at it.”

I wasn’t going to confirm it was true until I understood something. “Are you saying he lied about you being his son? There are DNA kits. You could prove you’re not related in just a couple of days.”

No… Mr. Chatham had told me the truth about Joel. It was in Joel’s sigh of exasperation before he answered, “Why the hell bother? Point is, he didn’t get around to telling me until he could use it to manipulate me. See, Hannah”-Joel sighed again and tried to collect himself-“let me explain something: Harney Chatham doesn’t do anything unless it benefits Harney Chatham. He wants something from you , plain and simple. Same with the bullshit about him being my father-tells me out of the blue for no reason? I don’t think so.”

“It is strange,” I admitted. “But he spoke so highly of you.”

“No, it’s self-serving,” Joel said. “I’d bet the old man was somehow involved with that murder and drug running, too. That’s what this is about. I think Dwight Helms was getting into the cocaine trade, working with outsiders. The locals didn’t like it, so it makes sense they wanted to send a message. The other morning, on your boat, I had it all backward. Remember lecturing me about islanders smuggling pot but they drew the line at cocaine? If it hadn’t been for you, I wouldn’t have figured it out.”

I wasn’t convinced, but I was softening. “I didn’t lecture, just told you the truth,” I said.

Joel said, “That’s what I’m getting at! You know more than you realize about what went on here twenty years ago. It scared him. Chatham was probably probing, afraid you know something important. Told you I was his son, like he was sharing a big secret, then expected you to confide in him in return. What else did you talk about?”

To give myself a second, I replied, “A lot of things,” because I had been thinking about Chatham’s friendship with Pinky Helms. If he’d had something to do with the murder, my feelings told me it wasn’t just about cocaine. It was about Dwight Helms beating his wife so badly, she had been hospitalized. Mr. Chatham had also gotten teary-eyed when talking about Loretta-there was no faking that.

Maybe I wasn’t softening.

Joel pressed, “If he manipulated you into talking about your uncle, your mother, or maybe some detail you remember from back then, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. The man’s a car salesman. He’s good . So, damn it, please tell me what you talked about.”

As a warning to back off, I replied, “He did mention Audis. How do you like your new A6, Joel?”

Ransler about lost it when I said that. “Why are you so damn defensive?” But then he took a breath and tried to make amends. “You’re right, I’m a hypocrite, couldn’t say no to this car. I love the way it handles, and he gave me a hell of a deal. But what you don’t know is-”

My phone beeped-a call from Birdy Tupplemeyer-so I cut him off, saying, “Hang on a sec.” When I answered, the line was dead. An accidental call, probably, but I wasn’t going to take that chance. For all I knew, she was parked in that cemetery again and in trouble. So I hit Redial , but Birdy’s phone went immediately to voice mail.

“I know, I know,” Joel said when I came back. “You’re supposed to be on Sanibel in fifteen minutes and we can’t solve this in a phone call. But did you hear what I said about the appointment Chatham had with Mrs. Helms? One of my guys found it on a slip of paper today-in her handwriting. If that doesn’t convince you, nothing will.”

The special prosecutor had kept talking, apparently, when I’d switched lines. I asked, “An appointment for when?” but then said, “Let me call you back,” because now my cell was vibrating-a text message from Birdy.