Deceived (A Hannah Smith Novel) (3 page)

The little man was getting nervous, a bit of sweat showing above his lip, and I expected Deputy Tupplemeyer to put me in my place with something stern. Instead, she said, “I’ve never heard of Indian mounds in Florida,” sounding cop-like and cynical but also interested.

“You’re standing on one,” I replied. “Pyramids made of shell before the Spaniards arrived.”

The deputy turned to the little man. “She’s kidding, right? I thought they were hills.”

He was remarking on the subject’s unimportance when his phone buzzed, which allowed the deputy to ask me a couple more questions before explaining, “I spent two weeks in Guatemala. The ruins there. Mayan—it was for a course I was taking. Copán, too. Three weeks, that trip, then a month when I was in college.” She had her hands on her hips, looking at the topography, maybe trying to imagine if what I’d told her was possible.

I asked, “East-west pyramids, is that the way the Maya built their cities?”

“You’d have to see for yourself to understand the attraction,” she replied as if mishearing. But then added, “Yeah, the Maya were astronomers.”

“Same with the people here,” I said, then pointed to a distant island. “See the high trees? That’s the western pyramid. The first day of spring, the sun sets right over it. We’re standing on the eastern pyramid—what’s left of it anyway. Farther east, there’re three burial mounds.”

The deputy looked at the man, who was putting his phone away, then at the house next door, her eyes taking in the terraced lawn, construction residue, insulation, broken stringers stacked by the road. The tracks of a bulldozer, too, used to flatten the mound and load dump trucks that had waited in a line. Then she asked him, “How could they get away with something like that?”

The man shook his head, getting more nervous by the second. “Permits and variances don’t go through my department,” he responded, which was an attempt to distance himself, but it also confirmed the truth as far as the deputy was concerned.

“A thousand years old,” she said, thinking about it.

“Some artifacts, they’ve dated back four or five thousand years,” I told her.

“Here?”

“Right where we’re standing, pottery and shell tools—the artifacts the neighbors didn’t have hauled off to the dump, or wherever they took it. About fifteen or twenty tons of shell mound, just disappeared.”

“There’s something
very
wrong about that,” Deputy Tupplemeyer told the little man. Then had to show her authority over me by adding, “You shouldn’t be digging a garden either. Like the law says. Not if this is an archaeological site.”

I was explaining that my grandfather had raised pineapples on the plot where vegetables now grew, so it was too late to apologize, we couldn’t go back in time, but we had drawn the line at bulldozing history. That’s when I noticed that the neighbor woman had come outside and was watching. Alice Candor was her name, a medical doctor, local gossip claimed. She had a dog leash in one hand and was using the other to talk on a cell phone. A tall woman, bulky but not obese, with whom I’d never spoken but had seen a few times, distinctive in her appearance, always wearing dark baggy clothes. Often caftans, and she liked scarves. She was dressed that way now, whispering into the phone and watching, until she realized I’d spotted her, then spun her back to me.

That’s when a little light went off in my head. “That’s who complained about the garden, isn’t it? The new neighbors reported us, that’s why you’re here.”

“Who?” the deputy asked, then became official. “Doesn’t matter who did it, the names are confidential.”

The man said, “Of course they are,” but gave it all away when the neighbor woman suddenly knelt to retrieve something off the ground, froze for an instant, then bolted away, shrieking, her screams so piercing they spooked crows from the trees.

The man panicked and began to jog after her, calling, “Something must have bit her! Dr. Candor’s hurt!”

No, the doctor had found her missing Pekingese.

When I returned to the house to check on Loretta, she was pacing and looked upset, but it wasn’t because of the neighbor’s shrieking. It was because she couldn’t locate a childhood friend and bingo partner of hers, Rosanna Helms, whom everyone called Pinky. Of special concern was that Mrs. Helms’s answering machine didn’t come on, and three of her other bingo partners hadn’t answered the telephone either.

“Second day in a row Pinky didn’t call,” my mother said, “but yesterday, at least, her damn machine answered!”

At the time, of course, I had no reason to suspect that Mrs. Helms had been given our family antiques or to fear that the woman had been murdered. Like most adult daughters, I assumed my mother’s anxiety was baseless, which is why I treated her with the same gentle impatience she had shown me as a little girl. “You’re worried for no reason, please calm down,” I told her.

“Something’s wrong, I
know
it,” Loretta insisted, while I steered her toward the recliner. Which caused me to remark that her day nurse, Mrs. Terwilliger, would soon return, so why not swallow her five p.m. meds a little early?

“It’ll settle your nerves,” I added.

My mother pursed her lips to refuse my advice. “Pinky and me talk every afternoon, you know that. Especially today—she was expecting a new wig in the mail.”

“Maybe she forgot,” I said.

“Nope! When the game shows are over, that phone rings. She never missed a day until yesterday. Then I always call Becky Darwin and Jody and Jody calls Epsey Hendry and what’s-her-name, the woman I can’t stand. Now they’ve all disappeared!”

“All five of your friends?”

“What’s-her-name is a damn gossip, not a friend. It’s the other four I’m worried about.”

“Loretta, you’re upsetting yourself for no reason.”

Angry and near tears, my mother wailed, “Pinky’s hurt, maybe dying—that’s not cause to be upset? Hannah Smith, you listen to me! Just a few minutes ago, in my mind, I heard her crying for help! At least drive to the old Helms place and check.”

The poor woman looked frantic, rusty hair hanging in strands over her face and housecoat, her hands balled into pale, knobby fists. The sight of her so frail and frightened squeezed at the heart. My mother had once been sharp and sure and bullheaded, but now the years and a brain embolism had sapped the best part of her away. It had made her so childlike, I wanted to hug her close to let her know she was safe and protected. So that’s exactly what I did before returning with a pillow and a fresh glass of sweet tea, then apologized to her because it was the right thing to do. It was also a way of explaining the cries for help she’d heard.

“I was wrong to doubt you about that Pekingese, Mamma. What you told me was true about the owl. Just now, the neighbor lady found what was left—not far from the oak grove, like you said. That’s what you heard, not Pinky. The woman started screaming. There’s a deputy sheriff trying to calm her right now.”

Loretta’s eyes flashed for an instant, a triumphant look, which I expected, but I didn’t expect her to reply, “Think I don’t know that? I was watching from the porch when that evil bitch found the collar, then picked up a piece of his tail or whatever it was she slung into the bushes. Her bawling has nothing to do with Pinky.” Then again pleaded, “Hannah, please drive me so we can check. Pinky might be dying right now!”

I sighed, unsure if I should take Loretta seriously. There were times, as a girl, when I’d wondered if my mother was a mind reader. Even during my teenage years, Loretta’s intuition had been maddeningly accurate—although often aided by her snoopy behavior.

The grandfather clock opposite the fireplace was tocking solemnly. It read 4:20 p.m., which meant it was nearly five. At sunset, which was around eight, I had a date with the biologist, whom I’d allowed myself to phone only twice since leaving his bedroom in the early hours of the morning. Sunset was less than three hours away, and I still had to finish some work in my late Uncle Jake’s office before I showered, changed, and then boated across to Sanibel Island. Marion Ford lived there in an old stilthouse next to Dinkin’s Bay Marina, where, every Friday night, there is a party. I didn’t want to be late, nor did I want to give Ford the impression I was a slave to the whims of my addled mother. What kind of man would tolerate such a partner?

What to do?

“Lord A’mighty,” Loretta gasped, breaking into my thoughts. “You’re in love with that fish doctor! That’s why you’re refusing to help poor Pinky!”

“I am not!” I shot back and instantly regretted my denial. It invited bad luck, as lying often does, and somehow cheapened the good feeling inside me. But I wasn’t going to allow my mother to poke around in my private thoughts without a battle, so I stuck by the lie, saying, “What’s Pinky’s number? If she doesn’t answer, I’ll take the truck and knock on her door. But you’re staying right here. Mrs. Terwilliger just pulled into the drive.”

The keys to the truck, though, were gone from the storage shed, which was my latest hiding spot.

“Where are they, Loretta?” I demanded, which should have put my mother in a difficult position. If I was to check on her friend, she would have to admit she had been sneaking out and driving illegally or, at the very least, letting someone chauffeur her into town.

“How would I know?” my mother replied with some heat. “That poor little Thurloe boy is the one I let use the truck when he needs it. Ask him.”

“You’re making up another story,” I said, because it couldn’t be true. There was nothing “little” about Levi Thurloe. The man was the size of a field hand and older than me, but his development had been stunted by a fever in infancy or some accident. Local gossip varied. Levi walked everywhere, didn’t even own a bike. I’d seen him miles from the island, going to or coming from the mainland, head down, earbuds always plugged into his ears, using music to block the outside world. Walkin’ Levi, locals called him—or worse. He was a solitary young man, commonly seen on the roads, but he seldom spoke so was the target of jokes and nasty rumors that I, at least, didn’t find entertaining. More than once, as a girl, I had backed down some taunting bully, then been rewarded with Levi’s shy, “Thank you, miz.” The man was harmless in my opinion, but a poor choice when it came to loaning the family pickup truck.

“Levi doesn’t know how to drive,” I reminded my mother.

“People say the same thing about me!” Loretta countered. “He’s working for the new neighbors as a handyman, and I can’t say no to a half-wit who needs transportation. If you want the keys, find Levi—don’t believe he’s as dumb as some say. And for god’s sake, hurry up!”

Luckily, I checked the truck’s ignition before setting off on my search. The keys were there. So was Levi Thurloe. He was sitting on the passenger side, a big arm hooked out the open window as if already enjoying the ride. His sad, slow eyes stared straight ahead to avoid looking at me when I climbed in.

“You can’t go,” I said gently.

“Can,” he replied without making eye contact—something he refused to do.

“Please get out.”

“I
can
,” he said again but not forcefully. It was more of a request.

I looked at my cell phone to check the time, aware the sun had already begun its slide west. “Levi, you don’t even know where I’m headed.”

“Don’t matter,” he responded, staring at nothing beyond the windshield.

It was five miles to the Helms place, a spooky-looking house in the mangroves at the end of a shell lane. Because the last stretch of road was bad, getting there would take awhile. Levi wasn’t wearing his earbuds, I noticed, which was unusual, so I made him an offer. “Don’t you miss your music? We’ll go for a ride another day when you’re better prepared.”

The man shrugged but didn’t budge.

I sighed, thought about it for a moment, then started the engine. “Put your seat belt on,” I told him, “and keep your hand inside the window once we get moving.”

Levi didn’t speak again until we had crossed the line into Sematee County, driving north.

“
You’re
nice” was all he said.

•   •   •

“THE NEIGHBOR LADY
threatened to hire Mexicans to shoot the owl,” I told Marion Ford, cell phone cradled to my ear as I drove. “Then she threatened me. Said she’ll have me arrested if I pick up clients at Loretta’s dock because it’s not zoned commercial—doesn’t matter Uncle Jake chartered out of there before he died. Fifteen years? Longer—he was only forty when they retired his badge. Scariest thing is, the neighbor lady didn’t sound crazy, just mean. One of those women who’s used to getting what she wants.”

The biologist had called to ask if I would be at Dinkin’s Bay before dark, but his voice had assumed the role of comforter and counselor now that I was sharing details about my afternoon.

“I wouldn’t worry about the owl,” he said. “Mexicans, especially the illegals, are too smart to risk jail or their jobs. And the neighbor, it’ll dawn on her a sheriff’s deputy was there listening. She’s a physician? She’ll think it through and that’ll be the end of it.”

“A doctor of
some
type,” I responded. “I was tempted to do a background check through the office, but it seemed sneaky.”

Ford found me amusing. “It’s a poor private detective who lets ethics get in her way.”

The agency had been part-time even for Jake, which is why I replied, “I’m already the poorest one around. It hasn’t cost me my principles, though. And it gives me something to do when the wind’s blowing too hard to fish.”

“Good, keep your license current,” he agreed. “Personally, I wouldn’t hesitate to check out someone harassing your mother. First the vegetable garden, then the dock. You want me to have a talk with her? Tomlinson says Loretta’s a lot of fun, and it’s about time we met.”

Tomlinson, of course, smoked weed and said, “Float on, honey!” to charm-addled women. He didn’t mind escorting Loretta to the mounds at night to eavesdrop on her conversations with an Indian king who had been dead a thousand years. Ford, thank god, was from solider stock, which meant my mother would hate him at first sight.

“As soon as Loretta’s feeling better,” I lied. “She’s still all torn up about that little dog.”

“Sounds as softhearted as you, Hannah.”

There was no way for me to reply to that without another lie. Fortunately, the biologist in Ford saved me by inquiring,
What kind of owl?

As we chatted, Levi watched the scenery of Sematee County flow by: raw land that had been clear-cut decades ago, then had gone wild with palmettos and melaleuca trees, awaiting the next small-time developer to go bankrupt. Lots of billboards—
Chatham Subaru & Honda
, I noticed—then walls of vegetation that were interrupted by ATV trails or small housing developments, a couple of nursery farms, and a trailer park or two. The turnoff to the Helms place wasn’t marked, and I hadn’t been there in a year, so, after another few minutes, I had to tell Ford, “Mind if I call later?” Because Levi was sitting right there beside me, however, my words came out sounding formal and abrupt. It created a silence between us.

“You doing okay?” Ford asked. “After last night, I mean.”

“Never better,” I assured him, giving it all the warmth I could. Then abandoned my concern about Levi and said, “I bought something today I want to model for you. But maybe I should wait. The doctor was serious about no strenuous exercise.”

The man laughed as if we were conspirators, then replied with a suggestion so bawdy I was taken aback—but only for a moment because secretly, in my mind, I had already pictured that very thing happening. Ford, whom I had never heard speak crudely to a woman, or even to a man, had just opened a private door to me, it felt like. Better yet, his intimate thoughts mirrored my own, which encouraged me to speak freely about my own secret wants when and if the chance came. I’m picky about men, I seldom date, so what I felt was new in my experience.

“Did you just say what I thought you said?” I smiled.

“You’re offended.”

“I’m not!” I said. “The doctor ordered you to stay in bed, so someone needs to be handy. And I’ve got some ideas about tonight myself.”

Because my ears were warm when I put the phone away, I sat stiffly, both hands on the steering wheel. Didn’t risk a glance at Levi, who rode in silence, while I downshifted into second and watched for landmarks. Ahead, opposite a hand-painted
Acreage for Sale
sign, a mailbox gathered weeds at the intersection of a shell road. The box, which looked too small to hold mail-order wigs, had been shotgunned, the pellet holes rimmed with rust. Same with a yellow
Deer Crossing
sign and another that read
Dead End
.

“Redneck graffiti,” I muttered, turning onto the shell road, then downshifting again. The road was a mess of potholes and ruts. It hadn’t been graded for years—not since I’d brought Loretta to console Mrs. Helms after her son, Mica, had been sentenced to prison for operating a meth lab. Her daughter, Crystal—the sweetest, quietest girl in my fourth-grade class—was already in jail for other drug-related crimes, so Loretta had treated the occasion like a funeral, bringing along a basket of baked goods and a pan of lasagna. My mother’s actual intentions were to convince her childhood friend to move into the village, which Mrs. Helms had done, but she had recently returned to live alone in the family home. No idea why—the bay-front cabin she’d inherited was the nicest in Munchkinville.