I wasn’t convinced, but I was softening. “I didn’t lecture, just told you the truth,” I said.
Joel said, “That’s what I’m getting at! You know more than you realize about what went on here twenty years ago. It scared him. Chatham was probably probing, afraid you know something important. Told you I was his son, like he was sharing a big secret, then expected you to confide in him in return. What else did you talk about?”
To give myself a second, I replied, “A lot of things,” because I had been thinking about Chatham’s friendship with Pinky Helms. If he’d had something to do with the murder, my feelings told me it wasn’t just about cocaine. It was about Dwight Helms beating his wife so badly, she had been hospitalized. Mr. Chatham had also gotten teary-eyed when talking about Loretta-there was no faking that.
Maybe I wasn’t softening.
Joel pressed, “If he manipulated you into talking about your uncle, your mother, or maybe some detail you remember from back then, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. The man’s a car salesman. He’s good. So, damn it, please tell me what you talked about.”
As a warning to back off, I replied, “He did mention Audis. How do you like your new A6, Joel?”
Ransler about lost it when I said that. “Why are you so damn defensive?” But then he took a breath and tried to make amends. “You’re right, I’m a hypocrite, couldn’t say no to this car. I love the way it handles, and he gave me a hell of a deal. But what you don’t know is-”
My phone beeped-a call from Birdy Tupplemeyer-so I cut him off, saying, “Hang on a sec.” When I answered, the line was dead. An accidental call, probably, but I wasn’t going to take that chance. For all I knew, she was parked in that cemetery again and in trouble. So I hit Redial, but Birdy’s phone went immediately to voice mail.
“I know, I know,” Joel said when I came back. “You’re supposed to be on Sanibel in fifteen minutes and we can’t solve this in a phone call. But did you hear what I said about the appointment Chatham had with Mrs. Helms? One of my guys found it on a slip of paper today-in her handwriting. If that doesn’t convince you, nothing will.”
The special prosecutor had kept talking, apparently, when I’d switched lines. I asked, “An appointment for when?” but then said, “Let me call you back,” because now my cell was vibrating-a text message from Birdy.
“Wait!” Joel said. “The appointment was for last Friday afternoon. Chatham was supposed to be at the Helms place an hour before you were attacked.” Then he said, “Hannah?” concerned by the silence that was my response.
I felt dazed. “I’m here,” I replied. “What are you telling me?”
“The truth,” Joel said.
“I… I can’t believe that Mr. Chatham tried to kill me. Is that what you mean? Today, he was so sweet. No one’s that good an actor.”
“That’s not what I’m saying. It doesn’t mean the old man came after you-although he’s still pretty spry. Could have been a coincidental robbery like we thought. Or he was the axe man’s target-Mrs. Helms was already dead by then, remember. What concerns me is, I told him about the attack and he intentionally withheld information. For christ’s sake, don’t say anything because tomorrow I’m going to question him formally.” Joel waited through another silence before asking, “Are you okay?”
No, I wasn’t. I felt like a fool. “He should have told me he’d been at the Helms place before I got there! But it’s my own fault. I’d never met the man, but I trusted him anyway.”
“Hannah, you don’t become a millionaire car dealer by sounding insincere. I intended to tell you in person, but, frankly, well… you’re so damn stubborn sometimes, I got pissed off.”
I couldn’t think straight. I was due at Dinkin’s Bay in ten minutes and also concerned about Birdy. Now this.
In a gentler voice, Joel said, “Give me a call later. Then how about dinner tomorrow night? Your friends at the marina don’t have to know.”
I wanted to end the conversation and regroup, so told him, “Sure, dinner,” and soon hung up, but sat there for several seconds before reading Birdy’s text.
Two texts, actually. The first had been sent half an hour earlier, but I’d somehow missed it, which was ironic. The message only added to the chaos in my head:
Spoke with G. R the Lance is poison, stay away.
G was Birdy’s friend Gail, who had, apparently, finally opened up about Rance the Lance.
Hard to imagine that her second text could be equally as disturbing but it was.
Am here but need help. Can’t T watch damn dog?
T for Tomlinson. Just as I’d feared, Birdy had returned to Carnicero to look for artifacts and bones. I started to type a reply but then called her instead. It wasn’t dark yet, so maybe she was still parked in the cemetery, waiting for the sun to go down.
This time, Birdy answered but wasn’t in her car because she spoke in a whisper, saying, “Can’t talk! Are you on your way?”
For no reason, I whispered, too, saying, “You promised you wouldn’t go there by yourself!”
“No, you told me to promise. Smithie, just listen! Today they dug holes and built a wood thingee around the spot. So I think they’re pouring cement tomorrow.”
“Footers,” I said. “Yeah, they’d have to frame it in first. Is that what you mean-a wooden thingee?”
“So you’ve got to come!” Birdy whispered. “Tonight’s our last chance.” Then I heard, “Oh shit, someone’s coming. I’ll text you.”
She hung up.
I slapped the steering wheel and started my SUV but was too agitated to drive. I had to do something. Calling 911 was too extreme, so I texted her a warning message: If I don’t hear from you in ten minutes, am calling police.
Birdy’s smartass reply arrived almost immediately: I am the police. Hurry up!
No smiley face this time.
I typed a reply-On my way-and hit Send because I felt sure Tomlinson would approve.
NOW I WAS DRIVING EAST, away from Sanibel Island, and listening to Tomlinson support my decision, saying, “No worries, the Creature from the Black Lagoon arrived an hour ago. The delivery van guy was in such a rush, I doubt if he stopped to whiz between Macon and Punta Gorda. Said something about the dog chewing through the bulkhead and eating his iPod.”
My cell was on Speaker, sitting on the dashboard, so I raised my voice a little to reply, “I should have been there but I’m worried about Birdy. Did she tell you what she had planned for tonight?”
“Birdy?” Tomlinson asked. “Oh-Bertie.” Then I heard yelling in the background, and he laughed, “God, I hope someone’s taking video.”
“Of what?” I asked.
I heard Tomlinson holler, “Anyone have a camera?” before he told me, “The human comedy, Sister Hannah. Nothing can touch it.” And hollered again but this time covered the phone, yelling, “He’s going to need a bigger boat! Rhonda… Hey! I know you two have a camera.”
“Tomlinson, tell me what’s happening!” The temptation was to put the phone to my ear, but I wasn’t going to do it in traffic.
Finally, he returned, still laughing. “The dog was swimming out the channel, towing a canoe. You know, with the bowline in his teeth? So Jeth gets in one of the rental kayaks to chase him down. I didn’t see how it happened, but now Jeth’s in the water, the canoe’s swamped, and the dog’s got the kayak. You were right, Hannah, the name Largo sucks. We’ve got to pick out something better that fits.”