Gone (10 page)

TEN

F
ROM BEHIND ME,
M
R.
S
EASONS’S VOICE SAID, “
O
LIVIA
doesn’t look anything like her old photos now,” which caused me to jump, I was concentrating so hard. To reassure me, he patted my shoulder, which was unlike him, then opened the computer, adding, “Here comes Martha—finally.”

The woman’s jewelry—a wrist bracelet, it turned out—made a rhythmic maraca sound as she came through the shadows, returning from the marina, which my ears tracked while I looked at the computer screen. It showed a page of thumbnail photos, mostly of Olivia, but some of Olivia and a few friends.

“She hated having her photo taken,” Mr. Seasons explained as I opened the first photo, then began swiping through rows. “Olivia never considered herself attractive. I don’t know why it mattered so much. She was decent-looking enough. Not beautiful, obviously, but not ugly. She could have been popular in the way some young women hope to be if she’d only tried. Even my late brother—Olivia’s father—would admit that after a few drinks. Olivia chose to be an outsider. That’s the way she’s always been.”

My face starting to warm, I said, “Her own father said she wasn’t pretty?”

The man started to reply, then raised his voice to speak to Mrs. Calder-Shaun. “Sorry to pry you away from your new cabana boy, Martha! But Hannah and I have been waiting. I didn’t bring the scotch, you’ll have to go upstairs for that. Or ask Carlotta.”

Yes, the man was definitely perturbed at her for some reason.

Silhouetted by the pool lights, Mrs. Calder-Shaun called to me, “Pay no attention to the old crab. He’s not mad, he’s just thirsty—pour him a drink. Can’t wait to hear what you’ve found out, kiddo!” The woman was still laughing as she hurried toward the stairs.

“She’s a first-rate lawyer but can be a first-rate pain in the ass, too,” Mr. Seasons said, watching her go. “Martha has a few drinks, then starts shopping for new boy toys. Like it’s a sport because she’s not in the city.”

I caught myself before asking why a married woman would behave in such a way, but the man must have read my puzzlement because he said, “Don’t be naïve, Hannah. In the business world, people spend more time in hotels than at home. I’m not saying it’s right—but Martha’s more . . . open-minded than most. Everything she does, she does to extremes.”

The man’s strong words were unexpected, and I wondered for the first time if there was something more between the two than just business. He simmered for a moment, then returned his attention to me. “Where were we?”

“I’d asked about Olivia’s father—”

“No,” he interrupted, “the important question is, is Olivia in danger? Is she doing this because she’s bitter about her father’s death and trying to get attention? Or because some construction worker is forcing her? Unusual behavior is typical for that girl—that’s why it’s hard to be sure. Take a look at the pictures, they’ll tell you.”

Rather than letting me look, the man pivoted the computer away and opened a new page of thumbnails. “Olivia has always been angry. Angry because she’s not pretty. Angry at her father because she lived a privileged life. Angry at his wealthy friends. That attitude of hers caused her to rebel early on, which some of these photos show. She went through a Goth stage—piercings but no tattoos, thank God. Then drugs and an abusive boyfriend, but that lasted only a few months. Organic foods and anorexia came next. For the last year it’s been religion, almost nunlike, and raising orchids. Painting oils and watercolors, too—her Georgia O’Keeffe period, that’s the way I think of it. She’d damn near become a recluse by the time—”

“I don’t need to see more pictures to answer your question about safety,” I cut in. I’d been itching to say what I was about to tell him and was done waiting. “You should call the police tonight. That’s my opinion. And have them find your niece as soon as possible. You don’t need to pay me. Do whatever it takes to get Olivia home—that’s how sure I am she’s in a bad way.”

“Police?” the man said, distracted by Mrs. Calder-Shaun, who was descending the stairs, a drink in hand. “Hannah . . . we need more than personal opinion to get the local sheriff’s department involved. I’ve called them, Martha’s called them, we’ve had friends of friends try. But Olivia’s not a missing person by their definition. If you have some personal juice that I don’t have, by all means light a fire under them, I’m all for it.”

Now I was watching Mrs. Calder-Shaun, too, her auburn hair worn long for the first time. It was surprising how striking the woman looked in a white satin blouse and beach skirt compared to her starched appearance on my fishing boat. I hadn’t realized she was so fit and busty under all the clothing she’d worn to protect her skin from the sun. The satin top revealed her bouncing breasts when she walked, which the woman knew and was enjoying as she crossed the deck in the Caribbean glow of the pool.

“Isn’t that a gorgeous blouse, Hannah dear!”

For a short, dumb moment, I thought the woman had figured out why I was staring at her. Wrong. She was speaking of the blouse Mrs. Whitney had given me.

“This?” I touched my fingers to the top button, worried I should have undone only one, not two. “This was a gift from . . . someone. First time I’ve worn it and I haven’t even had a chance to—” I was about to say
look in a mirror
, which was true but would require some explaining.

No matter. Mrs. Calder-Shaun was already saying to Mr. Seasons, “You’re right about her. She has an unusual sort of beauty—so obvious when she isn’t wearing fishing clothes. And so natural. Who’s the designer, Hannah? I could swear I saw something similar at a boutique in the Village.”

I remembered the name on the label of the blouse because I’d looked at it closely, searching for directions on how to wash it. “Dolce and Gabbana,” I said. “Maybe I didn’t pronounce it right, I’m not sure.”

I’d never heard of the designer, but Mrs. Calder-Shaun undoubtedly had. It caused her to stop in her tracks, give Seasons a sharp look, and then take a moment to recover. “It’s pronounced
Gah-bannn-yah
.”

After another glance at the man, she added, “What a wonderful present, and it certainly shows off that body of yours. Who’s the friend? He must be special to be so generous.”

I didn’t like the woman’s tone, but that was okay. I’d already thought about how I’d handle the situation if she tried to trick me into revealing Mrs. Whitney’s name. “Just a friend,” I replied, which should have been the end of it.

Not for a tough one like Mrs. Calder-Shaun, though. I realized I’d have to be just as tough, or spend tomorrow rebooking charters I’d canceled—and, worse, worrying about Olivia, whose photo had just hooked me into her life in ways I could not yet guess. The woman was smiling, not catty, more like a challenge. “A hunky young man, I hope,” she continued. “Larry told me you don’t date much—but he’s so oblivious to women, I’m not surprised he got it wrong.”

Mr. Seasons started to speak, but I told him, “It’s okay. It’s natural to be curious—” Then turned to Mrs. Calder-Shaun. “The friend’s name is personal—and that’s the way it’s got to stay. There’s no point in me saying much more if you’re not okay with that.”

The woman raised her eyebrows, pretending surprise but her flinty expression was telling me
You don’t know who you’re dealing with.

That was okay, too. Growing up around rough fishermen, their wives and girlfriends, a hard look from a woman doesn’t faze me any more than a hard look from a man. However, I also know that once I’ve stood my ground, it’s smarter to offer a friendly hand than to make an enemy. So I added, “I don’t mean to be disrespectful. And I do appreciate the compliment about the blouse. Olivia’s what I came to talk about—her and convincing you that police need to start looking. Once I explain, I think you and Lawrence will agree.” The man’s name slipped out as if I’d said it a thousand times but only because I was trying so hard to hide my irritation.

“Really,”
the woman said in a flat tone, but giving me a look that now seemed to show admiration for the way I’d stayed strong.

“Really,” I replied, then nodded to an empty chair, meaning she should sit. The beautiful Martha Calder-Shaun could fault me later if she wanted. But first she was by God going to listen to what I had to say.

ELEVEN

A
T
F
ISHERMANS
W
HARF, WHERE THE SHRIMP FLEET DOCKS,
I said to a man who was barefoot in the shade of a ficus tree, working on a diesel generator, “I’m looking for a boat called
Sybarite
. I was told she’s moored somewhere around here.”

A commercial yacht—no matter the size—wouldn’t be easy to find in the two hours I had before Nathan arrived in his truck and drove me to Olivia Seasons’s home in Naples. Mr. Seasons had arranged for me to have a look at Olivia’s bedroom and personal stuff, and I expected it to take a while. Fishermans Wharf isn’t a huge place, but it’s busy. There’s a clustering of maritime businesses, storage barns, and piers set among a forest of sailboat masts, net seiners, barges, and charter boats. Three marinas, plus a restaurant called Doc’s Rum Bar, all offered dockage, so I was trying to narrow my search.

I had no choice. Unfortunately, Mr. Seasons had been right about the sheriff’s department. He’d even suggested I speak to a missing persons officer myself. So I did—spent twenty minutes on the phone that morning before leaving in my boat. Now I was more determined than ever to find the girl.

When I spoke, the old man glanced up from the generator, eyes gathering information from my gray chambray shirt, paint-stained, my fishing shorts, the worn Top-Siders, and the canvas bag I carried over my shoulder. Then his eyes moved to a nearby slip where I’d just tied my boat. “That your skiff? I’ve seen it before.”

“Yes, sir, it is,” I told him, being polite to this seventy-some-year-old stranger because that’s the way I was raised.

“Scientist what lives on Sanibel used to own it. Quiet sort of guy with glasses. He comes here sometimes, goes out with the shrimpers to see what they cull from their nets. Nice man—but I wouldn’t cross him.”

The old man obviously didn’t want to discuss
Sybarite
until he’d figured out who he was talking to. I replied, “That’s Dr. Ford. I took over my uncle’s charter business two years ago. Can’t imagine a better boat for the sort of fishing I do.”

“You’re a good friend’a his, I suppose.” The man was testing me, which was just fine. Truth was, I’d been trying to invent a reason to talk to the biologist again, who was a solid-looking man with a strong face, but I had yet to summon the courage. Maybe this was my chance.

“My Uncle Jake knew him better. I haven’t seen Dr. Ford since we made the deal, but I’ve got his number on my cell if you want to call and ask about his skiff.”

The man took that as proof enough, which was a disappointment. He glanced at the bag I’d placed on the ground,
SAGE FLY RODS
emblem showing, and asked, “You got sponsors, huh?”

“A company in Washington State that makes really fine reels and fly rods,” I answered, not expecting the old man to be impressed.

He wasn’t. “Kills me these days how some supposed guides dress like race car drivers. They pay you?”

I told him no, but I got to try all the new gear, plus I made a little doing casting clinics, then added, “I’m one of the few women field testers in the country.” It was something I was proud of and didn’t mind letting it show.

The man thought about that for a moment before getting back to a subject he knew about. “Strictly bay fishing, I suppose.”

I replied, “This time of year, I go offshore for tarpon sometimes,” aware this was another test. “Tripletail and mackerel if it’s glassy. Tarpon’ll eat a fly in deep water even better than on the flats. Some of my clients won’t believe it till it happens.”

The man’s face showed distaste. “Wouldn’t waste a minute on tarpon, what good’s a fish you can’t eat?” which was typical of old-timers who’d made their living on the water and refused to accept fishing as sport. I was talking to one of those people now. He had the thick, heavy hands of someone who’d pulled their share of nets and crab traps, and brown eyes fogged blue from too much sun off the water. Those eyes focused on me for several seconds before he said in a friendlier voice, “Took over your uncle’s charter business, you say?”

I nodded.

The man’s face brightened. “By gad, you’re Jake Smith’s daughter!”

I smiled at the mistake but let the man talk.

“Jake spoke about you sometimes. I heard he’d passed away, but I’ve stopped goin’ to funerals. Figure a dead friend wouldn’t want me to waste what time I’ve got left in a graveyard. I sure as hell don’t want ’em to waste time coming to mine.”

“Jake’s niece,” I corrected as we shook hands, listening to the man introduce himself as Cordial Pallet, which made sense once I noticed the Star of David around his neck, the big jaw and deep-set eyes that resembled dozens of other Pallets in the area. The family was well known among commercial fishermen because they’d owned packinghouses and a string of shrimp boats before federal fishing laws chased most the shrimp fleet to Mexico. What was left of the fleet was docked right here, bayside of Estero Island, in the shadow of the Sky Bridge that hurdled Estero Pass onto Fort Myers Beach. Mr. Pallet smiled as we talked and exchanged a few more names, but then the smile faded abruptly. “You say your name’s
Hannah
Smith?”

Before he could pursue it I told him, “You might be thinking of my late Aunt Hannah. She died ’bout nine years ago.”

“Boat explosion,” the man nodded, thinking back while he inspected me. “I’m not one to speak bad of the dead, but some say that girl had a wild streak. That she got mixed up with bad men. Excuse me for talking straight, but I’m starting to wonder the same about you.”

I didn’t know how to respond. It was 9:30 Saturday morning and was aware I didn’t look my best. And I certainly didn’t feel my best because I hadn’t slept well in Mr. Seasons’s guest cottage, particularly after overhearing an argument between him and Martha Calder-Shaun—she was convinced he’d given me the expensive blouse. Then, around three a.m., the woman had come tap-tapping at my door, wobbly drunk, wearing only a T-shirt and panties.

After that, I hadn’t slept at all.

Before sunup, my boat was pointed south toward Fishermans Wharf, the next barrier island down, running free in the chill of a glassy blue morning, eager for wind to clean away the tension and upset I felt after a night at Lawrence Seasons’s place.

“My aunt was a strong-minded woman,” I said finally, wanting my words to sound sharp. “I wish I had half her spirit—not that it gives anyone else the right to judge how she lived her life.”

“Now, don’t go gettin’ mad,” Mr. Pallet said, apologizing with his tone. “Reason I said it is, why in the world you down here asking about
Sybarite
? I know they’re advertising what they call a ‘server’s’ position, and a mate’s job, too. But those ain’t jobs for you, young lady. Unless”—the man took a slow step back to get a better look at me—“unless you’re on hard times. Unless you took to smoking them damn drugs like half the island kids I see stumbling around. I’ll have no hand in getting you work on a boat like that. Now, tell me the truth, and I promise I won’t call no cops. You in trouble, I’ll do what I can. My people know people who specialize in helping young folks outta this sort of bad business. By gad, I’ll give you a job myself before pointing you toward a berth aboard
Sybarite
. It’s the least I can do for your uncle.”

The old man said the vessel’s name as if it were a profanity, so I finally understood why he’d thought the worst of me and had said what he’d said about Hannah Three. It caused me to chuckle, and say, “You’re a nice man, Mr. Pallet. But you’ve got nothing to worry about when it comes to me and what you might be thinking.” I motioned toward the generator he’d been working on. I could see he’d changed the water filter and had the sort of tools laid out on a towel that told me the engine still wouldn’t start. I asked, “You find water in the fuel?”

Instead of answering, the man pressed, “It just doesn’t make sense you asking about
Sybarite
. There’s no need to lie to me, girl. I haven’t talked to your mamma in years, but I’d know her if I saw her. Met your daddy once or twice before he—” The man was about to say
before he ran off
but stopped himself in time to finish, “—and your granddaddy was a fine man, too.”

There was a moment of awkwardness, which I shrugged off without much effort. I had no memory of my father. He’d left Loretta when I was three—an insult I’d fumed about until I was old enough to understand my mother’s irritating ways better. The fact that Loretta continues to blame me with her snide comments about my gift for losing men only makes it less of a mystery why a handsome, smiling Army paratrooper would slip out the back door, desperate for freedom.

I knelt by the generator, looking at clamps the old man had removed from the fuel pump’s tubing, and the nut to the high-pressure fuel line. I said, “If you want, I’ll explain my business while I help you bleed the air out of these injector lines. It’s easier with two people. Or have you already tried the lines?”

Mr. Pallet had a lot of kindness and wisdom behind those rheumy eyes of his, and he still appreciated women, judging from the quick peek he stole down my blouse as he squatted beside me. “Dang kraut engines,” he said. “I had to drive all the way back home and get metric wrenches. Guess I should’a tried burping her first.”

“No, sir,” I replied. “Water would have been my first guess, too.” Actually, I would have checked to make sure there was fuel in the tank first, but I didn’t want to insult the man.

He said, “You sure you’re not after quick money working aboard that dang boat? ’Cause if you are—”

I interrupted to ease his mind, saying, “I’m looking for a missing woman. She’s the niece of a friend of mine. I’ve got reason to think the man she’s with might have tricked her into booking a night aboard
Sybarite
. Might even try to get her to do it again. If one of the crew remembers the woman, maybe they’ll have an address written down or something. That’s the only reason I’m here, Mr. Pallet. I promise.”

“What’s the girl’s name? I’ve still got a good memory for faces and names.”

“The family wants the name kept private,” I told him. “Plus, if word gets around I’m looking for her, she might just run harder.” Sensing the man’s approval, I added, “But I’ll trust you because of who you are.”

When I’d told him Olivia’s name, he said, “Beach people,” which is how old-timers refer to wealthy families who’ve wintered on the islands for generations.

“Her uncle has a place on Captiva, but Olivia lives in Naples. Port Royal. I brought a picture of the man she might be with if you wouldn’t mind having a look.”

“Beach people,” he repeated, meaning it didn’t matter where they lived. As I reached for my equipment bag, though, he said, “Show me later. Meantime, you can explain some important left-out details while we burp these lines. Like why’d a rich family put someone like you on the girl’s trail, not a hired detective or the police?”

As I explained, I was thinking that Lawrence Seasons had been righter than I’d suspected about the value of local contacts and local knowledge, which is why I added, “Main reason they hired me is because of people like you, Mr. Pallet. And that’s the truth.”

In reply to the puzzlement on his face, I added, “You want me to crank the engine while you pull lines? Or I’ll pull lines while you crank. I don’t mind diesel on my hands if that’s a worry.”

The old man liked that. “Good for you. I can’t abide people who waste time yapping away while they could be doin’ something useful.”

So that’s what we did. Talked while we got the generator running.

—

A
T A BOARDING RAMP
that angled up onto
Sybarite
’s deck, Mr. Pallet said to a man who looked more like a Colorado ski instructor than a boat captain, “I told this girl I’d skin her alive if she took the mate’s position you’re advertising, but she’s a stubborn one. I’ve made the introductions like promised. Now I’m washing my hands of the whole danged matter.”

The old shrimper and I had become friendly during the thirty minutes it had taken us to get the diesel running. Now he was trying to help me, but his bold approach was unexpected.

Mr. Pallet’s comments, however, struck the good-looking captain as humorous. In the patient way some use when speaking to the elderly, he chuckled, “If you spent more time working, less time listening to gossip, Cordie, you might be able to afford shoes. Maybe a clean shirt to go with it. Cordie . . . ? Cord!” Cordial Pallet had already pivoted and was striding away but finally stopped to listen when the man yelled, “Hey . . . I’m talking to you, old man!”

Mr. Pallet did a slow turn, his expression blank, but his eyes had the glittery focus of a pit bull watching a trespasser climb a gate. “You talking to me?” he asked, voice soft. Then raised it just enough to interrupt the man’s response, saying, “The name’s Cordial—
Captain
Pallet to you. Unless you wanna go home and explain to your mamma how some old man stripped the skin off your ass with a strap.”

Mr. Pallet didn’t have shoes, but he was wearing a leather belt and he began unbuckling it, which surprised me because I could see it wasn’t an act. The boat captain realized it, too, which is why he said uneasily, “I was joking, for Christ’s sake! I wanted to ask a simple damn question, that’s all”—the man paused to swallow before adding—“
Captain
Pallet.”