I wondered who it was who knew me, while the detective, looking peeved, adjusted a knob on the transceiver in his breast pocket. “There’s someone wants to speak with you,” he said finally. “He’s on his way.”
“A relative of Mrs. Helms?” I asked.
The man shook his head. “You’re welcome to sit in my car. The mosquitoes, I spent a couple of nights camping on Cayo Costa, but they weren’t this damn bad. How about a bottle of water?”
To the west, an orange sky topped the tree line but could not penetrate the haunted-house shadows of the Helms place. I sighed in the heavy way people do when they’re tired of cooperating and replied, “I’m late already. If you’re not holding me as a suspect, I have the right to leave. Anything else, sorry. It’ll have to wait ’till tomorrow.”
The detective’s pleasant attitude vanished as if a switch had been thrown. “You an attorney?”
“No, but-”
“How do you know you’re not a suspect? I’m going to be real honest, Ms. Smith, parts of your story don’t match up with what we found in there.” He motioned toward the house. “So far, all we have is a probable vandalism and a reported assault. The victim-if that’s what you are-is usually eager to cooperate.”
Because I was getting mad, the temptation was to inform this plainclothes deputy that I was a licensed private investigator bonded by the state and there was nothing I had signed or sworn to that obligated me to tolerate his bullying. The risk, though, was his questions would become even more aggressive and reveal I was a novice, not an actual professional in that field. A private investigator is something very different from a woman who has an investigator’s license because she inherited a business from her uncle and who has only one successful case under her belt.
The little experience I’ve had, however, told me that threatening a cop wouldn’t hasten my release. Especially here, across the line in Sematee County, where my family owned no property. So I backed off, explaining, “Thing is, I’ve got to get home and tell my mother. I dread it. She and Mrs. Helms went to school together. Best friends for something like sixty years, and she’s going to take the news hard.”
“As far as we know,” the deputy reminded me, “the woman who owns this place is just fine. The lab guys are in there right now.” His head swiveled, then he ordered me to stay right where I was by adding, “Don’t wander off, I’ll be back in a second.”
Within reach was a key lime tree. I yanked off a leaf, tore it, then used its sweet odor to clean my hands and also calm myself. It was almost seven o’clock! Earlier, from the Publix parking lot, I had texted Ford rather than call because I feared he would hear the distress in my voice and offer to cancel. But there was no hiding my upset when he telephoned seconds later. Now, instead of postponing our date, he was on his way to Sulfur Wells because, as he said, “I don’t need the whole story to know you shouldn’t be alone, especially alone driving a boat.”
His thoughtfulness had almost unleashed the tears I’d been holding back since arriving at the parking lot. Maybe he had sensed that, too, because his voice had softened when he said, “Pack a bag, you’re staying with me at the lab. I’ll make dinner-fresh pompano and potatoes on the grill. How’s that sound?”
Ford, as I had learned, referred to his stilthouse as “the lab” because it was equipped for marine research projects, so his offer sounded like sweet relief to me.
That was half an hour ago, though, and now I was having second thoughts. Ford’s boat is even faster than mine, and he knows the backcountry almost as well, so he was probably waiting at our dock right now, which was a new source of anxiety. I could picture Loretta interrogating the man, terrifying him with examples of my family’s genetics-he was a biologist, after all. He would be alert to emotional oddities that might be hidden in my personality. Why hadn’t I thought to warn him!
An unmarked car, I noticed, was idling toward me, the detective walking alongside and speaking to the driver through an open window. Someone new coming to ask questions. I still had time to text Ford and I did:
Almost done. Oh-Mother hasn’t been the same since her stroke, so be patient and pretend to believe her ’till I get there.
After a moment of indecision, I added, Miss you, H4.
I hit the Send key twice before remembering there was no signal. By then, I could see that the unmarked car was, in fact, a sporty-looking Audi that had somehow survived the bad road. I recognized the driver, too, when he stepped out, although it took a moment. The face was familiar, but didn’t belong at a crime scene where pit bulls and hooded men attacked women.
It was my charter client from yesterday, the good-looking younger man. Joel Ransler.
IF MY CLIENTS offer a business card, fine, but I never ask their occupation, nor do I contact them unless invited. As my late Uncle Jake had counseled me, What is said on a boat, especially a small boat, is private and has to stay that way. I’ve fished movie stars, a bunch of pro ballplayers, even an astronaut, but I never brag about them by name, let alone ask for an autograph. For all you know, your clients told their wives they’re attending a funeral in Cleveland. Be respectful, do your job-leave gossiping to Yankees and amateurs.
Which is why I didn’t need to pretend to be surprised when the detective introduced my client, saying, “Mr. Ransler is the county special prosecutor, so you can tell him anything you’d tell me.” He turned to Ransler. “We haven’t filed any charges yet, Joel. You sure you’ve got the time for this?”
Ransler had a face and smile that reminded me of an actor I had yet to recall; an actor who was old now, maybe dead-I don’t see many movies-but had been equally good-looking, with a white smile and charm that filled a room even from a TV screen. He was showing that smile now, his eyes seeing only me, when he gave the deputy’s shoulder a pat and said, “Ms. Smith and I are old friends, Billy. I would’ve been here sooner, but I was in Arcadia when I heard the dispatcher mention her name.”
Arcadia is inland Florida, a beautiful little town, but a two-hour drive, and it wasn’t in Sematee County. Instantly, I felt safer, even special. Just as fast, the detective’s attitude toward me changed. “Sorry, Mrs.-Miz Smith-if some of my questions seemed rough, but-”
Ransler let the man off the hook by interrupting, “Billy’s one of the best we’ve got and that’s what he’s paid to do. She understands that-don’t you, Hannah?”
Time to make peace, and I did. “He couldn’t have been more polite-same with the other deputies. What happened here was so crazy, it’s a wonder they could make sense out of a word I said.”
Fifteen minutes later, Joel Ransler had his hand on my back and was steering me away from the house, where I’d just taken the special prosecutor step-by-step, describing what had happened. I had been right about someone returning to remove evidence. The recliner sat squarely in front of the television, which was still on. The kitchen sink was empty; maybe they’d wiped the place clean of fingerprints, too. The back door wasn’t broken as I expected, but there was no denying someone had used an axe on the front door and smashed the china cabinet, too, although the floor had been swept clean-even the Fisherfolk Inc. pamphlets I’d seen were gone. When I told Ransler my suspicions, he didn’t pamper me by remaining neutral.