“You don’t really believe that?” she said.
“Maybe. I hope Mica was just trying to scare me, but Harris’s wife disappeared, that much is true. Joel told me a little bit, and I checked the records, too. Seven, almost eight years ago, Spooner went to prison for attempted murder, but it was a totally unrelated case. Hopefully, I’ll find out more when I get back to the office.”
“Thank god you’ve got this guy Rance looking out for you.”
“He’s good at his job,” I conceded. “That’s why I think he asked me out to dinner-you know, so I could give him more details. He’s especially interested in what Mica said about older property owners not paying taxes. You know, on illegal income, money they earned hauling marijuana. But I’d already made plans with you for tonight. And Marion’s dog arrives tomorrow, so I’ll be busy.”
Birdy smiled and said, “Pot hauling,” amused by the term, which I had used earlier. Then got serious. “What’s wrong with you? Turn down a dinner date to babysit a dog?”
“I’m already in a relationship,” I said patiently. “Even if I weren’t, Joel’s not my type.”
Birdy kept pushing, but in a friendly way that was more like a game. We traded a few barbs before she said, “You think Tomlinson is my type? It didn’t stop us from having a fun night, though, did it? Haven’t you noticed how much more relaxed I am?”
“Not from your driving,” I replied.
“You know what I mean. Basic female physiology, particularly in women our age-it’s total puritanical bullshit to deny ourselves. You’re not even engaged, right? So why act like you’re married?”
“The subject of marriage hasn’t come up,” I answered. “It’s more of an understanding.” I felt no obligation to add that I’d had only two dates with Ford unless counting the times we’d gone jogging together, which I did-apparently because I was full of puritanical bullshit. Why else would my conscience demand it?
Birdy said, “It’s your understanding, not his, Smithie, that’s what I’m telling you! If you meet a good-looking guy who’s single and not some kind of psych job or an ego freak, there’s no harm in having fun. Psychologically, it’s healthy. Tomlinson happens to agree, by the way.”
“Bless his philandering heart,” I said. “The man’s finally coming out of his shell.”
My deputy friend thought that was funny and called me smartass but kept her eyes focused on the road. “I’ll tell you a secret,” she offered, then proceeded to share information about Tomlinson that was in poor taste and much too personal, but I listened to every word. While I was laughing, I tilted my head up to enjoy the odor of a citrus grove we were traveling through. Rows of trees, their canopies black, streamed by, while, above, a waxing moon floated on a bubble of pollen-scented air. We drove in silence for a few minutes before Birdy added, “God, the scariest thing is, my mother would love Tomlinson. Talk about not my type. But he’s so sweet and perceptive, I wouldn’t mind getting to know him better. It’s not just about the sex.”
“Weird how it works,” I said. “I don’t know much about Ford, either-and it doesn’t matter. But Joel, I don’t know anything about him and it does matter. That’s what’s strange.”
As I spoke, the gray asphalt road changed, becoming black and uneven. At the same instant, the BMW’s headlights sparked off a sign that read Welcome to Sematee County.
“I know a clerk who works for the sheriff’s department,” Birdy said, referring to the sign. “We both went to BU-a total coincidence-but she’s a lot of fun and smart when it comes to men. If you want, I’ll call her right now and find out what she knows about Rance the”-she caught herself-“about Joel.”
“I couldn’t ask you to do that,” I said.
“You didn’t ask, I’m offering,” Birdy replied, meaning she was going to call her friend anyway.
My eyes moved to the car’s GPS screen. To make finding the spot easier, Tupplemeyer had entered the address of the rehab clinic as our destination, and I could see that we had only seven miles to go.
Birdy’s busy brain jumped ahead of me. “You’re right. We should pull over and put the top up before anyone sees us. Then I’ll call.”
PHONE TO HER EAR, Birdy turned north onto County Road 731, which skirted Glades City and the Brighton Indian Reservation, while I listened to a one-sided conversation with her friend Gail. The BMW smelled new, it had hands-free calling, but she had opted to keep the call private. Why?
I wasn’t going to interrupt to ask.
“Gailstrom, it’s me, Bertie!” she exclaimed when her friend answered. She had to say it twice due to the poor reception, enunciating so clearly I realized I’d been calling Tupplemeyer by the wrong nickname. Maybe I made a wincing noise because she covered the phone long enough to whisper, “Would you stop? Birdy’s cool!” then went back to Gail, first discussing a college friend, then Gail’s recent breakup, Birdy Tupplemeyer offering comfort by saying, “You just dodged the big Loser Bullet, sister. And Loser Bullets aren’t made out of silver, trust me.”
It provided the opening she needed to ask about single men and then mention Joel by name. A moment later, an Oh my god look appeared on her face and she included me in the conversation long enough to say, “That’s what they call him!”
Rance the Lance, I assumed she meant but didn’t want to provide another distraction-not at sixty-five on a bad two-lane road. Birdy returned to the phone, still grinning in the dash lights, but the grin faded as she listened and said things like, “Small towns, yeah, of course you do… Gail, I understand. Sure, sure… so when can we get together? Yes, I’m curious as hell now.”
Several seconds after Birdy had put away the phone, I broke the silence, saying, “Is something wrong? Your friend probably has sense enough not to gossip about people she works with.”
The deputy shook her head. “That was the excuse she used. But it wasn’t the reason.”
“What did she say?”
Tupplemeyer slowed to fifty and touched the Cruise Control button while her mind worked at something. Finally, she answered, “I think Gail’s scared.”
“Of Joel?”
“Maybe not him, exactly, but she’s afraid her phone’s bugged. I’d bet on it. And she’s a tough girl-grew up in some tenement shit factory with pimps and ghetto monsters. I wouldn’t think the local cowboys could scratch the paint on a girl like her.”
Maybe she’s doing something illegal. That’s what I was thinking.
“You said Ransler made those two rednecks apologize?” Birdy asked. “Were those his actual words? I mean, was it a suggestion or did he say, ‘You assholes, apologize,’ more like an order?”
The question jogged the memory of the way Joel had spoken to Delmont Chatham on my boat, telling an older man, and a member of a wealthy family, Del, you’re going to apologize to Captain Smith. Not loud or bossy, but saying it in a way that left no doubt it was going to happen.
“He didn’t call them assholes,” I said. “But he was firm.”
“Two tough ex-cons,” she said, still puzzled, then had an idea. “What about the pit bull? Why didn’t Ransler call animal control and have the damn thing taken away?”
“First thing in the morning, that’s what’s going to happen,” I said. “Joel’s going to have the sheriff’s department check on the meth lab, too. Because I was trespassing, who knows what animal control will do? But Joel’s taking care of it. I believe him. Why wouldn’t I?”
While she thought about that, I decided to add, “Maybe there’s another reason Gail thinks someone is listening to her conversations. How much do you know about her?”