Why hadn’t I put on jeans and a blouse? Because of the robe, I couldn’t hop onto the dock in a way that was imposing. I had to use one hand to keep myself covered-way too dainty-but I got out of the boat and faced the woman. “Lady, unless you’re a good swimmer, I suggest you be on your way. You’re either drunk or just plain mean.”
“Mean?” Dr. Alice Candor was shaking her head in disbelief but already backing away. “You’re the people who butchered my dog! You just threatened me with a gun! I’ll have your head for that.”
Her tone was so suddenly theatrical, I wondered if she had an audience and was attempting to justify her behavior. I was right. A second person was approaching from the road. A man… her husband, I realized, when he called, “Alice, what are you doing out here?”
The woman lowered her voice, hoping only I could hear, and proved just how vicious she could be. “Your mother should be on psychotropic meds, sweetie, and I can make that happen. So don’t fuck with me!”
Raymond Candor had good ears or had been through similar confrontations. Seconds later, he was on the dock, trying to get an arm around a wife who was twice his size while also apologizing. “She had a couple of drinks tonight. No harm intended. I’m sure you understand.” Then whispered to his wife, “Alice, please don’t make another scene. Do you remember what happened last time?”
The woman shoved him away so forcefully, she nearly went into the water, but the man caught her. Even so, she yelled, “Go to hell, Ray! Get your hands off me, you…” Then she used a terrible word.
Dr. Candor wasn’t done. She continued to berate her husband as he led her away, calling him names so foul that I guessed he was either immune to the abuse or afraid of his own wife. The arguing didn’t stop until the heavy front door of their house banged shut, sealing off their voices with the abruptness of a stone slab.
SLAB-A-LOT-Birdy had suggested it as a name for the concrete house. It rhymed with Camelot, which struck me as a little too cute, so I experimented with others: the Dipped Crypt… Psycho Place… Mount Stucco.
No… naming a house wasn’t enough to keep my mind busy, so I gave up.
It was one-thirty in the morning. I was so upset, I was shaking. The untainted silence of stars and cloudy moonlight flooded down on me while I sat on the aft deck and tried to recover. It was too late for tea, too early for coffee, so I did what I always do when I can’t sleep: went looking for something to read. Because I hadn’t moved my things aboard, all the cabin contained were manuals on plumbing and wiring. During my search, the deceptive leather book fooled my eyes often enough that I carried it to the settee booth and switched on the lamp. It was a distraction, at least, and gave me something to think about.
NEGOTIATORS
I had puzzled over the title more than once; had even looked up the word: An agent who brokers conflicts between two or more parties, often through compromise but sometimes by issuing an ultimate ruling.
How had my Uncle Jake come to own such a weapon? It was such an ironic combination: violence in a benign case that was specially constructed to deceive. I had already done an Internet search, but there wasn’t much to find. Twenty-some years ago, a master gunsmith had produced a concealment weapon for a State Department agency, the name of which was still classified. Less than two hundred had been made. The gun was a shortened Smith & Wesson with a hooked trigger guard, a sleek fluted barrel, plus some other tweaks for fast shooting. On the transparent window grips, in red, was stamped DEVEL, which was an archaic Scottish word, a noun.
I sat looking at the pistol while my mind drifted back to Uncle Jake. Prior to his death, he had entrusted the weapon to a fishing client (who I had inherited), but the man knew nothing about Devel-didn’t even know what the book contained. The strange ensemble wasn’t something I could discuss with friends, either, even Ford-and why would I? They weren’t experts on weapons. Like Uncle Jake, who was a sweet man but also shielded in his ways, the book and its contents remained private and a mystery.
Finally, I took the pistol from the case and checked the chamber. It was empty. Two magazines, one loaded, lay secure in their places-and that’s where they would remain for the night.
Still restless, I closed the book, then returned to the deck in hopes of more comfort from the stars. Nearby, a school of mullet spooked; a family of dolphins sliced the moonlight, their blowholes ploofing like snorkels. Then, from the mound behind my childhood home, came the baritone boom-boom-boom of a great horned owl, who watched from the high shadows of an oak.
I stood, a silly attempt to feel the owl’s resonance on my face. When I did, for an instant-a single blink of my eyelids-I imagined the silhouette of a man standing near the tree. A large man with wide, familiar shoulders. One blink of the eyes later, though, the man was gone… or the illusion I had just experienced.
You’re upset and you’re lovesick, I reminded myself.
After watching the trees for another ten minutes, I went to bed.
14
With so many prime fishing spots between Sanibel Island and Punta Gorda, I’d had no need to make the tricky turns and cuts required to find the Helmses’ property by water until Joel Ransler arrived the next morning. He was ten minutes late and dressed for fishing but also carrying a briefcase in one hand, a small cooler in the other.
The first thing I asked was if there was any news from the medical examiner about Rosanna Helms.
“Heart attack,” he said, giving me a close look after he had stepped aboard my skiff. We talked about the woman awhile before he added, “You look tired. Up late?” Then offered a look of concern to assure me it wasn’t an insult.
“You’re the one who’s been investigating a murder,” I replied. Rather than mentioning I had read about the victim, the elderly man named Clayton Edwards, I asked, “Anything unusual?”
“I’m in an ugly line of work,” Joel said, “nothing I haven’t seen before. But on a morning like this”-his eyes were taking in a lucent April sky; the bay, which was glassy-“I’d rather talk about you. Tired or not, Hannah, you look incredible. And a perfect day to be on the water, huh?”
The special prosecutor sounded so cheerful and caring, I felt a twinge of guilt. I hadn’t slept much, it was true, and part of my wakeful night had been spent wondering why Joel hadn’t come right out and told me the truth about Dwight Helms. It had provided me with a solid reason not to trust the man.
I wasn’t going to admit I’d seen the crime scene photos either. Ransler was my client. If he wanted to discuss the subject, that was up to him. Did he have that kind of honesty in him? Even if he did, why should I care?
“It’s supposed to be calm all morning,” I replied. “Do you want to fish first? I found a school of reds off Hemp Key-that’s on the way.”
No, the special prosecutor wanted to go straight to Deer Stop Bay, which was linked by tidal creeks to the cove where the late Dwight Helms had built his dock during the peak of the pot-hauling trade. It was also where Helms had been chased down by a person or persons unknown who, after wounding him badly, had finally finished the job. All night long, awake and in my dreams, those photos had hounded me and forced me to imagine the terrible sequence of events. To murder a human being was bad enough, but the way Mr. Helms had died was hideous.