“That’s… terrible,” I murmured.
The man shrugged and allowed me some privacy by looking at his hands. “The important thing is she didn’t suffer for long-the medical examiner has dealt with a lot of these cases and the old ones go quick. But please don’t tell your mother right away. Not anyone until the lab sends back DNA confirmation. We should get it late today.”
“That’s just a formality, right?” I said. “You’re sure it’s Mrs. Helms.”
“We’re sure, but it’s more than a formality. The sheriff’s department located the daughter, Crystal-she’s living in a trailer park not far from here-but there was no point in asking her to identify the body. So we’ve got to wait to make it public.”
The significance of that came so slowly I sought another explanation. “You mean Crystal was too upset… or she’s using drugs again?”
The prosecutor’s pained expression read I didn’t want to tell you but he did, saying, “Vultures weren’t the only thing that got to the body, Hannah. You grew up in this country, you know better than me what lives in those mangroves.”
Crabs, snakes, feral hogs, rodents-I didn’t think about it for long.
“Enough,” I said. “Poor Mrs. Helms.” Then we both sat in the silence of an April morning while, nearby, baitfish panicked beneath a sortie of pelicans and warring seagulls.
“There is one thing that might make you feel better,” Ransler said finally. “The pamphlets you saw but were missing? Deputies found a stack wadded in a trash bag behind the house. Under a pile of junk.”
“Trying to hide them,” I said. “Why do that?”
“Irrational people do irrational things. What interests me… Well, if we’d found one pamphlet, no big deal. But Mrs. Helms had a whole stack. It has nothing to do with her death but might lead to something you could maybe help me with. I have a couple in my briefcase, if you’re interested… and have the time.”
I said, “Time to do what?”
“Consumer fraud is a big issue for my office. Especially schemes that target the elderly. It’s a billion-dollar business in Florida, but I’m so short-staffed I need to hire outside help to-” Ransler was interrupted by the ping of his cell phone, which he looked at before saying, “Sorry, I’ve got to take this.”
I busied myself rigging new fishing leaders while the special prosecutor stepped away to talk but was wondering if the man had come because he had a romantic interest in me. Or had he come to give me the news about Mrs. Helms, then offer me a job?
I spun a Bimini twist around my knees and waited to find out.
JOEL RANSLER had called the previous afternoon, saying he and Mr. Chatham wanted to do some fly-fishing and also take more photos-concentrating on the area between Sulfur Wells and where the Sematee and Charlotte county borders met. Did I know the water and was I available?
I HAD ANSWERED yes to both. He was referring to a short stretch of coastline, less than five miles, all shoal water and mangroves, as Ford had described it. Access to the area was through a tricky slalom of cuts and creeks, and I had been looking forward to the challenge because it would give me a break from worrying about Ford. Instead of thinking of him, I would have to concentrate on running my boat and then finding fish in a series of bays where limestone reefs were a threat-an oddity in Southwest Florida. Ransler had arrived dressed for work, though, not fishing, in his blue pin-striped shirt and tie, and he was alone, so I figured the trip was off.
Which is why, when he finished his phone call and had returned to the dock, I offered him a bottle of water, saying, “I feel sick about Mrs. Helms, but I appreciate you driving down to tell me. I know you’re busy, Joel, so let’s make it another day.”
“Rance,” he corrected me, “and what gives you the idea I’m canceling? That was Del on the phone. He’s dealing with some family issues, so it looks like it’ll be just you and me.” He knelt to take the bottle of water and opened it. After a sip, he asked, “Is that okay?”
Do a fishing trip so soon after Mrs. Helms’s body had been found-just the two of us? My uneasiness must have shown because the man gave me a look that mixed patience and understanding. “I’m just the prosecutor. There’s nothing I can do about the person who assaulted you until the cops have their ducks in a row. And there’s nothing either one of us can do for Mrs. Helms. In my job, I see some of the most horrific stuff you can imagine, but life goes on, Hannah.” He smiled. “Right?”
I tried the only excuse I could come up with. “I’m worried about my mother-you know, leaving her alone so soon.”
Ransler looked toward the house. “She doesn’t have a nurse?”
“A sitter, yes, but-”
“Then your mother will be just fine-unless she wanders off in the mangroves. But, tell you what, I’ll have the deputies keep an eye on the place for another few days if you’re concerned.”
Sulfur Wells wasn’t in Sematee County, which I pointed out, but Ransler replied it wasn’t a problem. Then looked around, saying, “I’ve got clothes and my fishing gear in the car. Can I change in your mom’s house? Or what about there?”
He pointed at what I still believe is the most beautiful little motor yacht I’ve ever seen: a twenty-seven-foot “picnic” boat, a Marlow Prowler, moored at the end of the dock. A client had rewarded me with a year rent-free if I made it livable, then maintained it. Problem was, as I should have known, the vessel was twenty years old, had seldom been used, so there was mold in the bathroom, and the air-conditioning needed to be redone. Yesterday, after kissing Ford good-bye, I had busied myself by moving the boat here so I could work on it and also keep an eye on Loretta.
“You’re welcome to go aboard,” I told Ransler, “but the head doesn’t work.”
“You own it?” He was walking toward the boat, his eyes taking in the midnight blue hull, the white upper deck, the teak and stainless fittings that I had stripped, then polished.
“I wish,” I replied, then explained why the Marlow had become my project.
“She’s a beauty,” he said, “but a little small to live on, don’t you think?”
“I’ll let you know in a week. The new head and shower fittings arrive tomorrow. I’ve been working on it for months, but I hope to have everything finished and my things aboard by Sunday.”
Joel Ransler had the ability to flex his jaw and smile at the same time. When he did it now, the actor he resembled came into my mind-the handsome one in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, although both actors had been handsome in their way.
“A fishing guide, a private investigator, and you’re a ship’s carpenter, too,” he smiled. “Is there anything you can’t do, Captain Smith?”
I don’t blush but felt as if I came close, even though Ransler had just confirmed he knew I had worked part-time in my uncle’s agency, which meant he’d done a background check on me. I told him, “Plumbing and wiring aren’t hard if you just follow the directions. If there’s something too heavy to manage alone, I’ve got a friend who’s a bodybuilder. And another friend, Cordial Pallet-you ever hear of him? There’s nothing that man doesn’t know about boats, and he helps when I get stuck.”
“He’s the marine biologist you’re dating?”
I shook my head. Cordial was in his eighties and runs the boatyard at Fisherman’s Wharf, which I was explaining when I noticed an odd glint of light from the balcony of the new neighbors’ house. I shielded my eyes and climbed up on the dock to have a look.
Ransler asked, “What’s wrong?”