“Am I missing something here?” I asked. “You hired me to investigate and that’s what I’m doing.”
“No, you’re guessing,” Joel replied. “It’s not illegal for two convicted felons to be on the board of a nonprofit. That’s all you can prove, right?”
My disappointment in Ransler was turning into frustration. “Can’t you see who’s really behind this? If it wasn’t wrong, they wouldn’t target people like my mother; older people who can’t think straight.”
The man asked a few questions-Did Loretta have receipts for our missing property? Had I questioned other donors?-before reminding me, “Wrong isn’t the same as illegal. I believe what you’re telling me, Hannah, but you haven’t given me anything I can work with. You can’t accuse someone of complicity without proof-not by name anyway. Especially if they have enough money to turn their attorneys loose on you and me.”
“Power people,” I muttered.
“Money is power, dear. It’s the way the world works.”
“In Sematee County, apparently,” I responded.
Instead of getting angry, the special prosecutor became more understanding. “Come on, now, Captain Smith, don’t get sullen. Things have gotten a lot better up here in the last few years. There are still a few good ol’ boys with clout from the local pot-hauling days, I admit it, but-”
“They’re not my pot-hauling days,” I interrupted.
“You know what I mean. It frustrates the hell out of me, too, sometimes. But we have to touch all the bases before I can seat a grand jury-or even subpoena the owners of a prominent business.”
“Can I at least talk to Mica and Crystal Helms?” I asked. “You don’t consider them power people?”
Joel started to reply, but then was distracted by someone who came into his office. Seconds later, he said, “I’ve got a meeting. Just be careful, okay? Text me an address before you interview anyone-especially those two. It’s a safety thing.”
“Any chance you can get hold of their medical records?” I asked. “If Crystal spent time in rehab or a psych ward, maybe Mica did, too.”
“We’ll see-just keep me in the loop,” he replied, and hung up.
I texted Joel the only valid street address I had for Fisherfolk Inc., then went out the door, still convinced that Walkin’ Levi Thurloe-who had been listed as the organization’s third director-was the pawn of his employer… and maybe Dr. Alice Candor’s patient, too.
AS I LEFT the parking lot headed for Sematee County, it dawned on me that I should talk to people who’d actually donated to Fisherfolk before trying to interview Mica or Crystal Helms. To ask hard questions, I needed hard facts to supplement my list, which, so far, included only a book and a rare fishing reel. Sulfur Wells was only a few miles out of my way, so I detoured west and parked beyond the curve so Loretta wouldn’t notice my SUV. Across the street was Munchkinville, with its white fence and communal parking area with enough trucks and rusting cars to indicate to me most of the inhabitants were home.
I got out carrying a leather organizer, prepared to do a couple of quick interviews, then I’d be on my way. Of the dozen cottages squeezed along the bay, eight were lived in by people I had known since childhood-nine, counting the late Rosanna Helms-so I figured I’d have damning evidence enough within an hour, probably less.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Going door-to-door, I spoke to Mrs. Morgan and the House sisters, then tried the dilapidated cabin where old Captain Elmer Joiner was mending nets beneath a tree. The results were the same. My old neighbors were happy to see me, happy to discuss the weather and Mrs. Helms’s funeral or to inquire about Loretta’s health, but when I mentioned Fisherfolk, our friendships vaporized, then a wary chill followed me out the door. Same when I asked for the name of the person who had approached them about donating, and even when I said, “I think you and my mother are being robbed!”
Didn’t matter. Their behavior was more than just strange, it was revealing. People who donate to a good cause are usually happy to discuss their generosity, so the few responses I did get hinted at a larger truth, a truth my old neighbors refused to share.
“What’s the difference between paying taxes and robbery?” Mrs. Padilla, a widow, asked me. She had always been a spirited woman but sounded nervous, not angry, when I suggested that she was being cheated. Prior to knocking on her door, it had been my secret hope that Mrs. Padilla might also be willing to gossip about my mother’s secret lover-she and Loretta had never gotten along-but I gave up when she told me, “Just because I played organ at your recital doesn’t give you the right to nose into my affairs!”
Which was true, I had to admit it. But I couldn’t resist asking Mrs. Padilla why she, a woman on Social Security, was worried about taxes. Loretta had mentioned taxes, too, which was consistent, at least, and hinted that the benefits of donating to Fisherfolk had been misrepresented.
Mrs. Padilla’s response was more of a threat than an explanation. “Around here, Hannah, you pry open the wrong box, something might jump out and bite you.” Then asked, “You’re goin’ to Pinky’s funeral, aren’t you?” saying it as if there was a connection.
I replied, “Thursday afternoon, of course. Are you telling me Mrs. Helms was murdered?”
The woman shrugged, but there was a knowing look on her face as if she had made her point. End of conversation. End of my visit to the cottages of Munchkinville.
As I returned to my SUV, Captain Joiner looked up from his mending long enough to wave, but he didn’t smile.
17
Mica Helms’s “home address” turned out to be a junkyard in Glades City, which I thought was an intentional error until I saw the dog. It was a brindle-yellow pit bull, the same alpha female that had attacked me Friday, minus her pack mate whose head had been found in a freezer.
By the time I saw the dog, it was too late.
I had parked and walked to the fence, which was chain-link, eight feet high, with razor wire at the top. Inside, among rows of wrecked cars, was a trailer that looked lived in, but a sign on the door read Office. There was also a gravel path that seemed to invite business. I tried hollering to get attention but a machine-a wood shredder, it sounded like-made so much noise, I couldn’t hear my own voice. The noise came at me in waves and was piercing, so I covered my ears as I walked to the gate. It was a sliding gate, not open but slightly ajar. I looked around and tried hollering again. Pointless. There was a Keep Out sign, but no warnings about a dog, so I slipped through the gate and walked toward the trailer.
Midway between the door and the fence, someone switched off the shredder, creating an explosion of silence that was so abrupt, I actually stopped and blinked my eyes. That’s when I heard a softer sound, a warning familiar from my nightmare, the low rumble of a dog.
I turned. The female pit bull appeared from behind a stack of tires, her dark eyes black in the afternoon sunlight. Because of the shredding machine, she was momentarily surprised to see a trespasser only a few yards from where she’d been dozing. The dog stiffened, as if in recognition, and bared her teeth, while her body hunkered lower for traction. I was already backing away when she roared at me and charged.