Deceived (A Hannah Smith Novel) Read Free Page A

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,