lives in those mangroves.”
Crabs, snakes, feral hogs, rodents—I didn’t think about it for long.
“Enough,” I said. “Poor Mrs. Helms.” Then we both sat in the silence of an April morning while, nearby, baitfish panicked beneath a sortie of pelicans and warring seagulls.
“There is one thing that might make you feel better,” Ransler said finally. “The pamphlets you saw but were missing? Deputies found a stack wadded in a trash bag behind the house. Under a pile of junk.”
“Trying to hide them,” I said. “Why do that?”
“Irrational people do irrational things. What interests me . . . Well, if we’d found one pamphlet, no big deal. But Mrs. Helms had a whole stack. It has nothing to do with her death but might lead to something you could maybe help me with. I have a couple in my briefcase, if you’re interested . . . and have the time.”
I said, “Time to do what?”
“Consumer fraud is a big issue for my office. Especially schemes that target the elderly. It’s a billion-dollar business in Florida, but I’m so short-staffed I need to hire outside help to—” Ransler was interrupted by the ping of his cell phone, which he looked at before saying, “Sorry, I’ve got to take this.”
I busied myself rigging new fishing leaders while the special prosecutor stepped away to talk but was wondering if the man had come because he had a romantic interest in me. Or had he come to give me the news about Mrs. Helms, then offer me a job?
I spun a Bimini twist around my knees and waited to find out.
• • •
JOEL RANSLER had called the previous afternoon, saying he and Mr. Chatham wanted to do some fly-fishing and also take more photos—concentrating on the area between Sulfur Wells and where the Sematee and Charlotte county borders met. Did I know the water and was I available?
• • •
I HAD ANSWERED yes to both. He was referring to a short stretch of coastline, less than five miles, all shoal water and mangroves, as Ford had described it. Access to the area was through a tricky slalom of cuts and creeks, and I had been looking forward to the challenge because it would give me a break from worrying about Ford. Instead of thinking of him, I would have to concentrate on running my boat and then finding fish in a series of bays where limestone reefs were a threat—an oddity in Southwest Florida. Ransler had arrived dressed for work, though, not fishing, in his blue pin-striped shirt and tie, and he was alone, so I figured the trip was off.
Which is why, when he finished his phone call and had returned to the dock, I offered him a bottle of water, saying, “I feel sick about Mrs. Helms, but I appreciate you driving down to tell me. I know you’re busy, Joel, so let’s make it another day.”
“Rance,” he corrected me, “and what gives you the idea I’m canceling? That was Del on the phone. He’s dealing with some family issues, so it looks like it’ll be just you and me.” He knelt to take the bottle of water and opened it. After a sip, he asked, “Is that okay?”
Do a fishing trip so soon after Mrs. Helms’s body had been found—just the two of us? My uneasiness must have shown because the man gave me a look that mixed patience and understanding. “I’m just the prosecutor. There’s nothing I can do about the person who assaulted you until the cops have their ducks in a row. And there’s nothing either one of us can do for Mrs. Helms. In my job, I see some of the most horrific stuff you can imagine, but life goes on, Hannah.” He smiled. “Right?”
I tried the only excuse I could come up with. “I’m worried about my mother—you know, leaving her alone so soon.”
Ransler looked toward the house. “She doesn’t have a nurse?”
“A sitter, yes, but—”
“Then your mother will be just fine—unless she wanders off in the mangroves. But, tell you what, I’ll have the deputies keep an eye on the place for another few days if
Crabs, snakes, feral hogs, rodents—I didn’t think about it for long.
“Enough,” I said. “Poor Mrs. Helms.” Then we both sat in the silence of an April morning while, nearby, baitfish panicked beneath a sortie of pelicans and warring seagulls.
“There is one thing that might make you feel better,” Ransler said finally. “The pamphlets you saw but were missing? Deputies found a stack wadded in a trash bag behind the house. Under a pile of junk.”
“Trying to hide them,” I said. “Why do that?”
“Irrational people do irrational things. What interests me . . . Well, if we’d found one pamphlet, no big deal. But Mrs. Helms had a whole stack. It has nothing to do with her death but might lead to something you could maybe help me with. I have a couple in my briefcase, if you’re interested . . . and have the time.”
I said, “Time to do what?”
“Consumer fraud is a big issue for my office. Especially schemes that target the elderly. It’s a billion-dollar business in Florida, but I’m so short-staffed I need to hire outside help to—” Ransler was interrupted by the ping of his cell phone, which he looked at before saying, “Sorry, I’ve got to take this.”
I busied myself rigging new fishing leaders while the special prosecutor stepped away to talk but was wondering if the man had come because he had a romantic interest in me. Or had he come to give me the news about Mrs. Helms, then offer me a job?
I spun a Bimini twist around my knees and waited to find out.
• • •
JOEL RANSLER had called the previous afternoon, saying he and Mr. Chatham wanted to do some fly-fishing and also take more photos—concentrating on the area between Sulfur Wells and where the Sematee and Charlotte county borders met. Did I know the water and was I available?
• • •
I HAD ANSWERED yes to both. He was referring to a short stretch of coastline, less than five miles, all shoal water and mangroves, as Ford had described it. Access to the area was through a tricky slalom of cuts and creeks, and I had been looking forward to the challenge because it would give me a break from worrying about Ford. Instead of thinking of him, I would have to concentrate on running my boat and then finding fish in a series of bays where limestone reefs were a threat—an oddity in Southwest Florida. Ransler had arrived dressed for work, though, not fishing, in his blue pin-striped shirt and tie, and he was alone, so I figured the trip was off.
Which is why, when he finished his phone call and had returned to the dock, I offered him a bottle of water, saying, “I feel sick about Mrs. Helms, but I appreciate you driving down to tell me. I know you’re busy, Joel, so let’s make it another day.”
“Rance,” he corrected me, “and what gives you the idea I’m canceling? That was Del on the phone. He’s dealing with some family issues, so it looks like it’ll be just you and me.” He knelt to take the bottle of water and opened it. After a sip, he asked, “Is that okay?”
Do a fishing trip so soon after Mrs. Helms’s body had been found—just the two of us? My uneasiness must have shown because the man gave me a look that mixed patience and understanding. “I’m just the prosecutor. There’s nothing I can do about the person who assaulted you until the cops have their ducks in a row. And there’s nothing either one of us can do for Mrs. Helms. In my job, I see some of the most horrific stuff you can imagine, but life goes on, Hannah.” He smiled. “Right?”
I tried the only excuse I could come up with. “I’m worried about my mother—you know, leaving her alone so soon.”
Ransler looked toward the house. “She doesn’t have a nurse?”
“A sitter, yes, but—”
“Then your mother will be just fine—unless she wanders off in the mangroves. But, tell you what, I’ll have the deputies keep an eye on the place for another few days if
Similar Books
