Randy White - Deceived

“Far as I know,” Tomlinson said. “A letter came for you today. Doc’s handwriting-block printing, in other words. No return address.”

“But he has my address,” I said. “Why would he send it to Dinkin’s Bay?”

Now Tomlinson was uneasy. “Uhh… actually, it came in an envelope addressed to me. Your envelope was inside. Mine was typed, so I don’t know who sent it, but yours is definitely from Doc. No postmark, of course-but what’s new?”

“No postmark ,” I said. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Welcome to the wacky world of Dinkin’s Bay,” Tomlinson replied, then got serious. “I’ll be there in an hour, hour and a half, so don’t worry about it. I’ll bring the letter. We’ll talk then.”

“Not so fast,” I said. “If the letter’s not postmarked, it means…” What? I wasn’t sure, so shifted to what was worrying me. “Is something wrong with Doc? I don’t mind if you read the letter. In fact, I hope you did.”

“I tried,” Tomlinson said, dead serious. “Even held it up to a candle-you would’ve noticed the scorch mark. Thing is, Hannah… Well, what you should know about Doc is…”

I pictured the man tugging at a strand of hair while he edited his wording. Finally, he got it out. “There isn’t a more dependable friend in this world than Marion Ford. But his friends have to get used to dodging the same questions we can’t ask him. Understand?”

Of course I didn’t understand. The statement was so nonsensical, it seemed to be a plea for patience and understanding-either that or Tomlinson was a lot drunker than he sounded. I replied, “If you’ve been drinking, I don’t want you on the road. So the moment I hear from Birdy, I’ll call or text. Sound fair?”

I thought I’d let him off the hook, but he remained serious and no less cryptic when he replied, “I’ll give you an hour, then I’m coming. And Hannah? Remember what I told you about the dog-because it’s true.”

When Birdy texted again, I was only a mile from Glades City and the junkyard owned by Harris Spooner, so I was feeling tense and alone on this dark country road, until I read her message:

On way home, no luck. Will call when reception better. Sorry!!!

I felt like saying Yippee! a word I’ve never used, and my spirits, which had been low, rebounded. I checked my mirrors, engaged my flashers, and found a place to pull off the road. First, I texted Tomlinson, telling him there was no need to leave Sanibel. I checked mirrors and door locks again, then tried to call Birdy, but her phone went instantly to voice mail. It was 9:15 p.m., still early enough to rendezvous for a drink. We couldn’t be more than a few miles apart if she’d just left the cemetery. So I left a message, then replied to her text: Am near Glade City exit, how about glass of wine? Where U?

As I hit Send , I noticed car lights behind me and was relieved when I saw that it was an eighteen-wheeler. Even so, I put my SUV in gear and kept my foot ready on the accelerator until the truck went flying past.

When it was safe, I took a deep breath, telling myself, Relax, you’ll be out of Sematee County soon.

It wasn’t just the nearness of the junkyard that caused my nervousness. During the drive, the missing fragment of what Joel Ransler had said resurfaced-but only after I’d recalled another troubling remark.

Your friends at the marina don’t need to know, he had confided after asking me out to dinner. I’d been so preoccupied at the time, I had not only accepted his invitation, I had been oblivious to Joel’s easygoing sneakiness. Worse was his assumption that I was willing to lie to my own friends.

Rance the Lance is poison, Birdy’s friend had told her. I had been reluctant to pass judgment based on the opinion of a woman I didn’t know. Why would I? Joel had rescued me from a tight spot and he’d been kind to Loretta, had even won her loyalty-something few ever accomplish. He was flirty, true, and charming, but I liked the attention. I wasn’t going to deceive myself by pretending it wasn’t a factor. His attempt to lure me into lying to the man I was dating, though, had tainted my opinion of him. Maybe Joel wasn’t poison, but he wasn’t someone I would trust-not unless he had misspoken and brought up the subject on his own to explain.

There! I had at last retrieved the item nagging at my subconscious.

Wrong. Believing it freed my mind enough to allow a more sinister fragment to surface. I had been driving north on I-75 at the time and saw a digital sign that flashed Venice Exit 15-20 Minutes , a traffic update courtesy of Florida DOT.

Fifteen minutes… Fifteen minutes…

It was enough to jar the fragment loose. I remembered- remembered sitting in the Publix parking lot and defending Mr. Chatham when Joel had said, We can’t solve this on the phone and you have to be on Sanibel in fifteen minutes.

Joel was right-but how did he know I wasn’t on Sanibel? I had told him I wanted to pull over, so he could have assumed I was driving and had yet to reach Dinkin’s Bay. I had also told him I was supposed to be there by eight, but how had he known I hadn’t crossed the bridge onto the island?

Was I being paranoid? I argued it back and forth while still on the interstate. Maybe Joel had used the word Sanibel as a synonym for Dinkin’s Bay . Maybe he had heard the whoosh of fast traffic and knew the speed limit on Sanibel is thirty-five or slower. That was possible, too. But what if Joel Ransler was, in fact, stalking me?

It was a crazy idea that seemed less crazy when I thought it through.

Joel claimed that Loretta had told him Ford was out of town, but I hadn’t confirmed that she had. As a special prosecutor, he would also have access to the GPS devices that police use to track suspects. Maybe he had hidden one somewhere on my vehicle. He could have done it at the junkyard or at the funeral.

On the other hand… there was someone who’d had an even better opportunity to plant a GPS: Mr. Chatham, or his driver, Reggie, while the limo was parked behind my SUV. Joel could have convinced one of them he wanted to protect me. Or maybe… maybe it was Harney Chatham who wanted to follow my every move. Either was possible if my paranoia wasn’t paranoia. It depended on which man was telling me the truth.

That was why I had been prepared to speed away when I saw truck lights in my mirror.

Now, sitting alone on a dark asphalt road, I contemplated getting out to have a look: use a flashlight to check the undercarriage of my SUV, then pop the hood and search the motor area, too.

No… not here, I decided. When I rendezvoused with Deputy Birdy Tupplemeyer, that was the time to look. Pick some nice bright spot, not this lonesome place where my headlights isolated weeds growing in the ditch, the silhouettes of trees miles beyond.

BEEP!

A text from Birdy. She was replying to my invitation to meet for a glass of wine-what a relief to pick up a phone that linked me with a familiar person. Can’t Smithie, almost home. Call U tomorrow.

As I read, the relief I felt turned to disappointment-then a creeping suspicion. Why the smiley face? It was an affectation she used, but usually when sending a cheery message.