Deceived (A Hannah Smith Novel) (2 page)

He was carrying a bucket he’d been using to slosh slime off the deck and gestured with it. “The boat’s still a mess.”

“Hurry up,” I told him, which is when he realized I was staring at something behind him, so he turned and looked. The shark wasn’t coming fast, but it was pushing a big wake, and the fin had reappeared.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered—profanity that seemed appropriate in this situation. Then began walking backward, slowly at first, then faster, which got the shark’s attention. When the fin turned on a line to follow him, the man swore again. “Holy shit!”

Mr. Chatham was fretting over his antique fishing rod, which had been damaged by the collision, so he was oblivious, his legs dangling in the water, when he demanded, “What’s the problem now?”

The problem was that the shark would have to cruise past both men before it got to me and might attack one or both of them instead of the tarpon I was reviving—an injured fish, I felt certain, that the shark had scented and was its actual target. There’s no telling what a feeding shark will do in murky water, so I called to Joel, “Don’t watch the thing, just get in the boat!” I was already moving toward the shark, pulling the tarpon along beside me, its streamlined body buoyant in my right hand.

Once again, the shark submerged, this time in the hole where Mr. Chatham had nearly drowned, water so deep its wake disappeared and I lost track of the thing.

“Where’d it go?” Joel sounded anxious when he shouted, and no wonder. He had reached the boat but was too much of a gentleman, apparently, to leave a woman behind.

“He wants this tarpon, not me,” I called, raising my voice for the first time. “Do you know how to handle a boat?”

“Why?”

“Get in and start the damn engine!” I yelled, and began pulling the fish toward the boat, taking leaping strides in the slow-motion way that water requires. My language must have surprised the man because he vaulted immediately aboard and was already lowering the motor while he asked again, “Where the hell did he go?”

Rather than answering, I continued my slogging stride because I didn’t know. The whole time I was debating whether to leave the tarpon behind or try to save it. The fish’s tail was moving, its gills were working, but it was in no condition to sprint for its life. I’m not sentimental when it comes to fish, but the sight of a rolling tarpon never fails to produce a glow in me. They’re such lean, powerful creatures. They’re never uncertain in their movements, and their scales reflect the sky like mirrors, so a six-foot tarpon is as close to liquid sunlight as anything alive. I’ve got nothing against sharks—well . . . except their goatish eyes and brutal ways. Even so, it seemed wrong to allow such a pretty fish—and one that had injured itself on my boat—to become an easy meal.

As I grabbed for the transom, I yelled, “Pull the anchor!” then felt silly because Joel had already done it—all but the last few feet of line, which had just broken free. The man had the line coiled in one hand and was leaning with an outstretched arm to pull me aboard. I refused to let him do it, though, until I’d yelled to Mr. Chatham, who was standing at the controls, “Put the boat in gear—slow idle. You know how to do that?”

“Look at the
size
of that thing!” I heard Chatham whisper, looking down at the water, which made me jump, so I was safely over the transom but still hanging on to the tarpon when the shark appeared behind us, the boat idling forward now.

A great hammerhead shark, twelve feet long, a couple of hundred pounds, its space-alien eyes were separated on a stalk of gray as wide as a broomstick. The shark had its bearings. Knew exactly where the wounded fish was and accelerated toward us with the slow stroke of its tail.

“A little faster,” I told Chatham, then said to the younger man, “Help me slide him onto the deck.” Meaning the tarpon. “Put a few hundred yards behind us, we can finish reviving him. No guarantees, but at least he’ll have a chance.”

“Smart,” Joel replied, and got on his belly. Then, when we had the fish braced between us, he looked at the slime on his clothes and said, “It’s going to take you days to clean this boat.”

No, it took only an hour because my clients insisted on helping. The three of us had survived an adventure and rescued a fish, which changed the mood from businesslike to friendly. It was Mr. Chatham who suggested they help, saying, “How about we take a break, then finish the trip when we’re done? Where can we find some towels and a hose with freshwater?”

My childhood home, where my mother, Loretta, still lives, that’s where—and only two miles from Captiva Rocks. It’s an old house of yellow clapboard on a paw of land where three thousand years ago people built shell pyramids as temples. Tourists new to Florida are always surprised to hear this, but it’s true. From the water, the remains of those shell mounds looked like rolling, wooded hills as we approached. There was also a row of tin-roofed cottages—cabins, really—built along the bay, and docks where mullet and stone-crab boats floated, which raised Mr. Chatham’s spirits even more.

“That could be a scene from the nineteen hundreds,” he said, reaching for a camera. “What’s the name of the place?”

“Sulfur Wells,” I told him. “It’s an old fishing village, and not easy to get to by car. Because the lots are so small, folks call the cabins Munchkinville. Most only have one bedroom.”

Mr. Chatham was nodding as if he were way ahead of me. “Sure, Sulfur Wells. My family used to own property here, but it’s been years since I’ve come by water. That’s why I didn’t recognize it. Good call, Hannah!” The man smiled at Joel Ransler, and added, “I told you I chose the right fishing guide.”

It seemed like a pleasant compliment until I learned that Delmont Chatham was from a well-known family in neighboring Sematee County—Chatham Chevrolet, Chatham Citrus & Cattle—and they owned a lot of property. His deference to Ransler suggested that he had inherited the name but not the money, which wasn’t unusual. Mr. Chatham collected antique fishing equipment, it turned out, which is why he’d been so upset when the tarpon shattered his vintage rod. His hobby, and his family’s history, gave us something to talk about, because my great-grandfather—who’d built the yellow house—had also been one of the area’s first fishing guides.

It got better after I tied up at the dock because my mother was on her way out. She and her friends were taking a courtesy van to play bingo, as they always do on Fridays, so there was no time to explain why a strange man—Joel—was escorting me up to the house. I was relieved. Loretta has never been an easy woman to deal with, and the stroke she had three years ago has not made her any less of a trial to me, her only child.

•   •   •

I FELT LUCKY
the rest of the day. And my good luck held into late afternoon, when, at the hospital, a woman physician interrupted my story about the hammerhead shark and dispelled Tomlinson’s warnings about giant fish and messages from God. “Your biologist friend has to take it easy,” she said. “No strenuous exercise. But he’s done with hospitals for now. I’ll see him in a few weeks.”

Tomlinson had been so relieved, he’d hugged the physician, and told her, “Float on, honey!” which was the sort of thing Tomlinson says even to heart surgeons.

The previous few weeks had been difficult for all of us, particularly Marion Ford. In late February, the surgeon had spent two hours removing the tip of a stingray barb from Ford’s chest, then repairing what she had described in the waiting room as “a tiny laceration of the right ventricle.” To comfort the dozens who had gathered there that night, she had added, “All he needed was a simple stitch or two—we’ll know more in a few hours.”

What the doctor knew, what we all knew, was that Marion Ford had nearly died. The week that had followed had been a roller coaster of good news, then complications that included one awful night that Ford had spent on a ventilator in ICU. Looking through a window at a person you love being inflated and deflated like a child’s toy is painful and proves the line between life and death is as thin as a newborn’s skin.

Now, six weeks later, I felt lucky indeed—as did Ford’s many friends at Dinkin’s Bay, on Sanibel Island, where we returned at sunset to share the good news.

That night, though, the biologist chose not to stay late at his own party. Instead, he invited me, alone, to his house for a “quieter celebration.” We shared a bottle of wine and attempted to make small talk until the tension I felt made it impossible to speak a coherent sentence. After that, there was no talking—no conversation, anyway—despite the doctor’s orders about strenuous exercise.

I didn’t slip into my own bed until first light.

My mother peppered me with barbs and questions, saying things like, “Is that a bounce in your step or are you walking funny?” And, “Because you didn’t phone last night, I worried about a car wreck or worse. Are you in some kind of trouble with the law?”

I’ve lived on my own for years, I didn’t have to explain, but it was the opening I’d been waiting for. “No, Loretta,” I replied, “but I’m tempted to call the police right now. I was in the attic yesterday while you were at bingo. The big trunk was open and some of the family things are missing. Know anything about it?”

I’d discovered it while attempting to show Delmont Chatham the fishing tackle stored in the attic, particularly a reel that had been given to my great-grandfather by Teddy Roosevelt. Roosevelt had come to Captiva Island in 1917 to harpoon giant manta rays and he’d been impressed by the young boy who would become Captain Mason Smith. The former president had also written a small book about the trip called
Harpooning Devilfish
, in which he had mentioned my great-grandfather. The book was gone, too.

Yes, Loretta knew something about it. I could tell by the way she sniffed and instantly changed the subject.

“Have you noticed that idiot dog’s not barking?”

She was referring to the neighbor’s toy Pekingese. The question was irksome because, fact was, I
had
noticed the unusual silence. My mother continued, “It’s because of what happened last night. An owl snatched that dog while he was outside weeing and carried him to the tree above my bedroom. The moon was so bright, I saw the whole thing.”

I sighed. Another one of my mother’s stories. And, really, I didn’t care. Nor did I care about my neighbors. They had finished their warehouse-sized concrete-and-stucco a few months earlier, after flattening a centuries-old Indian mound in the process, but had only recently moved in. The destruction of what had once been a shell pyramid was repellent, but I wasn’t going to be lured off on a tangent.

“We were talking about that missing fishing reel,” I insisted.

“How’s a woman who gets no sleep expected to remember anything?” she said in an accusing way. “Lord A’mighty, you’ve never heard such a terrible yowling in your life, and pray you never do. You’ve seen that monster owl—he roosts in the oaks behind the house.”

No, I hadn’t, but I’d heard him calling, a baritone
boom-boom-boom
that was sometimes answered by owls on neighboring islands miles away. “Maybe some sweet tea will improve your memory,” I said, and went to make it.

“I’m not going to sit here and lie,” she continued, pressing her advantage. “I didn’t like that ugly ball of hair. He’d hike his leg on my collards and pooed in the garden—any wonder I haven’t made greens lately? That new neighbor woman and I had words about that, believe me! But the dog hasn’t been born deserves to be eaten by a giant bird.”

My mother sat back in her recliner, reached for the TV remote and added, “Suppose I could use something cool to drink, darlin’. This time, don’t be so stingy with the sugar.”

I had no idea, of course, that the missing reel would turn out to be significant or that its disappearance would convince me that my mother and her friends were being victimized by thieves whose conscience had been replaced by sickness, and who were capable of theft, and even murder. So I allowed my attention to waver. Had Loretta actually seen an owl swoop down and grab the neighbor’s pet Pekingese? The woman’s damaged brain followed strange branches and was sometimes confused. However, she was also smart enough to use that impairment to disguise her true motives or to conceal her own bad behavior. Truth was, I suspected that she’d probably sold the reel or traded it for marijuana, which she had never admitted using but was quick to praise as a healing drug. Loretta had always been tricky when it suited her needs, a trait I’d found irksome even as a little girl.

“There’s no reason to make up stories,” I warned, ice crackling as I poured tea into a pitcher. “I just want to know where the family antiques have disappeared to.”

The reel and the book weren’t the only items missing from the attic.

“The dog’s dead,” Loretta repeated. “You’ve been here, what, an hour? How many times you heard that little rat yapping?” She motioned toward the pitcher. “And don’t forget the sugar!”

It was true that the dog barked all day most days, including yesterday when my clients had followed me up the shell mound to the house. But on this warm April afternoon, I’d yet to hear a peep.

“That is kind of strange,” I said.

“Biggest owl I’ve ever seen,” my mother replied, as she’d just proven her point.

“Maybe I should go next door and ask about him.”

Loretta sat up straight. “Don’t you dare! Say anything, those people will suspect I had something to do with it. Besides, they probably started drinking already. Afternoons, they sit on the porch and play tropical music. I can practically smell the booze.”

My mother’s tone forced an awful possibility into my head. “Loretta, please tell you didn’t hurt their dog.”

My mother didn’t make eye contact. “What in the world you talking about?”

“You heard me. Did you run over that poor little thing last night or take him somewhere? Someone used Jake’s truck—don’t think I didn’t notice it’s been moved.” Yesterday, my late uncle’s old Ford had been in the carport where it belonged. Now it was parked in the shade of an avocado tree.

“How could I?” she answered. “You took my keys and cut up my driver’s license.”

The part about cutting up her license was fantasy, but I was thinking,
Uh-oh.
“
Someone
used that truck,” I said, “and it wouldn’t be the first time you snuck out on your own.”

My mother glared. “Now you’re accusing me of being a dog killer
and
a liar!” She got to her feet and shuffled toward the counter, where I let her slip past, then watched as she poured her own tea and dumped in half the sugar bowl.

“A neighbor borrowed it, if you have to know,” she replied after a sip. “Check the yard for owl pellets. Also pieces of curly red hair and a blue ribbon. Bound to be spread all over the property. Probably a collar, too, but I doubt owls eat rhinestones.”

Incredible,
I thought,
she means it,
and had to fight back a smile. The ugly fact was, I wanted to believe her story. The Pekingese had been as mean-natured and snappish as the new neighbors themselves. Twice the little dog had cornered me on our dock, yapping his shrill head off, then nipped at my ankles as I went by, once breaking the skin. Had I filed a lawsuit, as some suggested, my worries about paying my mother’s medical bills might be over because the neighbors were rumored to be wealthy. I didn’t sue, of course. Didn’t even bother to do a background check on the people to confirm if the rumors were true. My late uncle’s business is a licensed, bonded private investigation agency, so I know how to access such information, but snooping into people’s private lives is not a privilege I abuse.

One last time I tried to steer the subject back to the missing reel but gave up after listening, instead, to how Loretta’s vegetables would prosper now that the Pekingese was gone. She had never been a particularly affectionate mother, we’d never been close, but I couldn’t deny she was a first-rate gardener and loved tending her plants. First thing she did each morning was carry her coffee out to visit her collards and squash, then confirm the tomatoes were properly staked. The garden was her last call every evening, too, even on Wednesday nights when she had church.

I didn’t want to hear about the garden right now, though, and I was about to manufacture an excuse to go outside and check my boat when an excuse was provided for me. A knock came at the screen door: a little man in a suit, holding a folder under his arm. Behind him was a deputy sheriff—a woman deputy, red hair, petite, one nervous hand tapping at her holster, a name tag that read
L. Tupplemeyer
on her uniform.

Now what?
I wondered.

•   •   •

“MRS. SMITH?”
the man asked.

“That’s right,” I replied, not hesitating to lie. It was a way of shielding my mother from involvement. Loretta gets jumpy when policemen come around—a guilty conscience, I’ve always suspected—which has only gotten worse since her stroke. “Let’s walk outside to talk,” I suggested, and let the two follow me away from the porch.

When we were near the carport, the man put a paper into my hand and said, “You’ve been notified.” Then handed me several more sheets stapled to a yellow tag. “If you have questions, I can explain the basics or you can have your attorney contact our office. We don’t have a lot of time today, sorry—lots more stops to make.”

Deputy Tupplemeyer had parked her squad car around the bend, I noticed, midway between the house and a row of bayside cabins—
Munchkinville
, as I had told Mr. Chatham. The cabins had been built during the same period as the fish shacks and some weren’t in great shape—unpainted boats on blocks, cast nets hanging among stacks of wooden stone-crab traps. Apparently, Loretta wasn’t the only resident the man had plans to visit.

“Why in the world would I need an attorney?” I asked, reading what appeared to be a cover letter.

“That’s something you should ask an attorney,” he replied, which irritated me.

The letterhead read
Florida Division of Historical Resources, Bureau of Archaeological Research.
The first paragraph, which struck me as threatening, began
You are hereby ordered to repair/replace/remove the structures and/or vegetation as listed on the pages attached. This must be done within 5 business days . . .

I flipped a page to skip ahead and looked up, my eyes moving from the little man wearing the suit to the county deputy. “This isn’t from the local zoning department,” I said. “Who are you?”

As the man told me his name, I flipped another page and soon felt my face coloring because of what came next:
You are in violation of ordinances that: 1. Prohibit planting exotic vegetation. 2. Disturbing/altering property designated as archaeologically or historically important . . .

That was enough for me, no need to continue.

“I think you have the wrong address,” I said. “My family has owned this property for longer than you’ve been alive and we don’t plant anything more exotic than jasmine or bougainvillea—which are flowers, in case you don’t know, not illegal plants. Unless this is about the vegetable garden, which would be silly.”

The smug look on the man’s face told me
It is about the garden.

“You can’t be serious?” I said.

The man confirmed that he was with a nod. “Unless you planted native species, a vegetable garden doesn’t belong here. In your packet, there’s a phone number for the extension agency. This island has been redesignated and the agents know it, so they’re expecting a lot of calls.”

Which made me mad enough to forget I was impersonating Loretta. “Redesignated
historical
—I know that. It happened more than a year ago.”

“Then you should be in compliance by now, shouldn’t you?” The man smiled.

I’m not a violent person, but I wanted to slap the smug look off his face. “This is ridiculous. My mother could have another stroke if she sees this letter. You should have better things to do than pick on invalid ladies who enjoy gardening.”

The man proved he didn’t by studying my late uncle’s truck, which was parked in the shade, then spoke to the deputy. “That tree? It’s an avocado. That wasn’t mentioned in the report, but it has to go. Avocados, mangoes—it’s the same as citrus. They’re all exotics. We should check the backyard before my next stop.”

“That tree’s a hundred years old!” I argued, which might have been true but probably wasn’t. Then asked, “Is that why
she’s
here? You’ve got to bring an armed deputy to protect you?”

The petite woman gave me a tough cop look that she’d probably seen in movies and spoke for the first time, her accent unmistakably Boston. “The state of Florida doesn’t want any trouble with locals. That’s why I’ve been assigned—
ma’am
.”

I shot her a hard look of my own and replied, “Then the state of Florida should relocate to a place that doesn’t attract hurricanes—or tourists from Massachusetts.”

It took Deputy Tupplemeyer a second to remember where she had been born. “Hey! Are you looking for trouble?”

“No,” I told her, “I’m looking for a reason not to order you off my property and I can’t think of a single one.” I indicated the neighbor’s new house, a mountain of concrete that dwarfed the poinciana and coconut palms separating our properties. “
Those
are the people you should be serving papers. They trucked off most of an Indian mound to build that house, then terraced the landscaping. Where was your agency then? They dumped a thousand years of pottery and artifacts somewhere—they won’t even tell the archaeologists. But no one from the government said a word! Now you’re bothering me about avocados and some pole beans? If I had either one of your jobs, I’d quit and do something I could be proud of.”

To signal I was done reading, and done with the conversation, I folded the sheath of papers but also used those few seconds to tell myself,
Calm down.
Right or wrong, arguing with a police officer is always a bad choice, and I didn’t want to push it too far. Plus, my mother’s garden was at stake, and Loretta, who does have her sweet moments, didn’t have much in life but tending her plants, putting up canned vegetables, and bingo.