Gone (15 page)

“At some bar on South Beach probably,” Martha answered. “But at least he didn’t balk at giving names to the people paying his salary.”

The woman was a ball breaker, just as Nathan had described. I stayed calm, determined to promote my innocence by playing innocent. “Since I don’t know all the rules about ethics—what clients have a right to expect, that sort of thing—I don’t fault myself for protecting the people who helped me. Martha . . . ?” I paused as if not sure how to ask what I wanted to ask. “. . . There
is
something on my mind you might be able to help with.”

The woman sensed my uneasiness but confused her own guilty feelings with what was bothering me. “This isn’t your last job, kiddo, not if Larry and I have any influence.” She said it with forced confidence that is something confident women do only when they’re nervous. Then she proved it by adding, “If you’re worried about what happened in Larry’s pool last night—or
didn’t
happen—forget it, for Christ’s sake! It’s all so fuzzy, I can’t remember the details anyway. And I’m sure you can’t either.” After a tick of silence, she asked the question again: “
Can
you?”

Her lie was so obvious and purposeful, my line of thought was successfully derailed for the moment. Instead of staying strong, I responded, “It happens sometimes when people’re drinking,” and was instantly irked by my eagerness to please a woman who had manipulated me so easily.

“In the money world,” Martha lectured, “the higher you climb, the smaller the net. You reach a certain level, all we want to do is let our hair down and relax when we get the chance. I’m telling you because this
isn’t
your last case. You’ll be dealing with Lawrence’s problems again, or the problems of people who are on the same financial level. And there are some things you need to by God understand about our crowd.”

I said, “I’m starting to,” careful not to give it an edge.

“
Good.
I had too much to drink last night. Maybe you did, too. Who cares? Business is business, fun is fun. Never confuse the two—or apologize for what you do when you’re off the clock. Money doesn’t give a damn about morality, success can’t afford a conscience, so it’s not something I judge people by. What I don’t have time for is the passive-aggressive types who think being polite is more important than speaking plainly. You with me so far?”

“I think so,” I replied. By exonerating herself, Martha was letting me off the hook with a slap on the wrist, but in a way that was troubling. Unprincipled behavior was preferable to narrow-mindedness, that was her point.

“Far as I’m concerned,” she continued, “there’s nothing wrong with experimenting with personal . . .
pleasures
. It’s nobody else’s goddamn business! Or helping someone else enjoy themselves, it’s the same thing. Work hard enough, people earn the freedom to do whatever the hell they want when they’re not doing business. Does that help?”

No. But it did help me turn my question into a statement. “I was worried it wasn’t fair of me to accept the deal we worked out, the bonus Lawrence offered. After only a few days’ work, I mean, if we find Olivia on Monday like I expect—”

“She hasn’t signed the papers yet,” Martha reminded me, sounding like herself. “Until it happens, spend more time concentrating on your job and less thinking about how you’ll fix up that damn moldy boat Larry promised. Just keep on doing what you’re doing.”

“I planned to anyway,” I replied, again fighting the habit of looking at my shoes when being scolded.

“Tomorrow’s Sunday, a whole day to gather more information in case Meeks doesn’t show on Monday. You do
work
Sundays, don’t you?”

Without mentioning I would have to first take Loretta to church, a weekly ritual, I said, “Of course.”

“Then go to that party in Port Royal. I think it’s a good idea—just don’t say anything obvious that’ll tip off the guests . . .
or
embarrass Larry’s family more than that idiot girl’s already put them through.”

I felt my face beginning to warm but said nothing.

“Olivia mailed the check from Caxambas less than two weeks ago, remember? You have time to work the phones or interview your sources in person. You
have
already figured out why that’s important, I hope?”

I had, but let Martha cement her authority by explaining, “Somebody had to see Olivia get on or off that asshole’s boat. One of your fishing guide buddies, or some distant uncle’s cousin who married a niece. One of your good ol’ boy pals maybe.
Someone
saw her.”

My face was red, I could feel it, but the woman’s tone suddenly changed while I fought the temptation to stiff-arm her with a sharp response. “Hannah?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied, settling on sarcasm.

“Oh, come on, now, grow up. Don’t get pissed off at me, dear. This is business. Remember what I just told you? Maybe
you’re
the one who should’ve been making notes.”

That did it. I couldn’t hold myself back any longer. “Ms. Calder-Shaun,” I replied, “I stopped taking tests when I left school. I didn’t grow up in a double-wide—although I know some fine people who did. And I don’t happen to find it businesslike to lecture the woman who you said yourself accomplished more in two days than a high-paid attorney and a Miami investigator managed in two weeks. Now, if you have something to say, say
it—that’s
my
definition of acting grown up. Otherwise, I’ve got important calls to return.”

The woman’s laughter was so genuine, my anger was instantly replaced by the embarrassment of having stepped into a trap I’d been expecting all along. “I wondered how far you’d let me push,” she said between breaths. “See how much time you waste being polite? Had to do it because I knew you’d missed my point.”

Teeth clenched, I said, “Martha, games are for playgrounds. Don’t ever do that to me again.”

“I know, I know”—the woman was still laughing—“but I
like
you, kiddo. You’ve got a temper and you’re tough as nails when you need to be. You’d make a hell of an attorney—the pasty-faced Wall Street types would dribble down their legs when you walked into a room.”

That was a compliment, I realized, but I still had to say, “Talking mean about a person’s family isn’t funny. Keep your mouth off my friends and family ’cause I won’t tolerate it.”

A smile still in her voice, the woman became serious. “That’s all the more reason to be friends, kiddo. I don’t have many who’d stand up to me like you just did. Two . . . ? Hell . . . maybe none.” She sighed. “It’s living in that damn city. Money has no conscience—I wasn’t being dramatic. It’s true. Not that it’s always a bad thing in the real world. Just keep it in mind.”

I cleared my throat, not sure what to say, which is when my phone chimed again, this time the caller unexpected:
Dr. Marion Ford
. It was the biologist I’d bought my skiff from—maybe Cordial Pallet had told him to telephone for some reason.

“I need to take this one,” I said. It was a good excuse to end a conversation that was making me uncomfortable.

“Of course, dear. But just one more thing. Truce, right? We’ve got all our little misunderstandings cleared up?”

“I appreciate what you and Mr. Seasons have done for me,” I replied, my tone formal. “I’ll call tomorrow, okay?”

The hint wasn’t strong enough. Martha kept talking. “You sound restless for some reason. Why don’t you stop by tonight for a drink? The guest cottage is still yours, and the pool’s still warm as soup. We can discuss the case with Larry. Let him hear your story firsthand.”

I listened, feeling rushed, although I expected my phone to chime several more times before it went to voice mail. Wrong. Three rings was all the biologist waited before hanging up. An impatient man, apparently. In my mind, I whispered,
“Shit.”

“I’ve got calls to return,” I reminded the attorney. “But later . . . around sunset, maybe we’ll get together.” I was eager to ask Lawrence Seasons about the pistol, but I now had a private agenda, too. Captiva Island is connected by bridge to Sanibel, where the biologist lived. I’d only spoken with him a few times, but he was an interesting man. Solid-looking, all muscle and sharp eyes, a man to be trusted or avoided depending on a person’s intentions.

Martha was right. After discovering the gun, seeing Olivia’s paintings, then fast-forwarding through her DVDs, I was restless.
Very
restless. And my need to move didn’t improve any after I’d returned the first of four calls.

“Instead of Port Royal tomorrow, my friends are having their party aboard
Sybarite
,” Gabby Corrales told me, not actually squealing but close enough, she was so excited. “Just a sunset cruise—not enough time to have any serious fun—and no crew. But a perfect chance to see why you’ll love being first mate!”

In any other mood, job obligation or not, I would have refused to leave the dock on a boat with such a dark reputation.

Instead, I heard myself ask Gabby, “You think a black cocktail dress will be okay?”

SIXTEEN

E
VEN THOUGH
I
GOT ONLY THREE HOURS’ SLEEP BECAUSE
I stayed late on Sanibel—the biologist had invited me into his lab—I awoke at sunrise on Sunday feeling as alive and full of energy as I’d ever felt in my life. At my antique vanity, I smiled into the mirror, then set about rehanging the dresses I’d tried on earlier that morning prior to bed. It wasn’t until Loretta called, though, that I remembered the shoe box. It was under my nightstand instead of in the closet where it was usually stored.

“You sound so light and cheery, honey,” my mother purred through the phone, “like someone lifted an anvil off your shoulders. Or you had yourself a real
special
time last night. Maybe there’s no need to hide the axe before you pick me up for church this morning—thanks to that snake Lawrence Seasons, I suppose.”

No, Lawrence had nothing to do with my good mood, although it was irksome to be read so easily, but that was nothing new. There were times as a girl I seriously wondered if my mother had X-ray vision. And I still have suspicions that God has gifted her with witch’s powers to compensate for the clot that damaged her brain. My strip mall apartment is separated from her home by condos, billboards, six miles of asphalt, and a Kmart, but after hanging up the phone I used a pillowcase to conceal the shoe box, then hid my private property on a closet shelf safe from Loretta’s prying imagination. As I did it, I imagined an approving smile from Olivia when we finally met, sure that she would have behaved the same.

My mother’s stroke has at least softened her attitude about church, which is odd, but no odder than some of her other behavior. After ending a decade-long affair with a married man, Loretta became a devoted member of Foursquare Pentecostal, where guilt and anger could be purged by “happy rapture,” which is Pentecostal talk for speaking in tongues and Christ dancing. That church did the woman a lot of good, in my opinion, brought a peace to her mind that I envied as a girl but unfortunately didn’t share, although I did think highly of the minister and most of the congregation. Church rules were strict, which probably kept me out of more trouble than I realize even now. And it forced an orderliness into our lives that living around the schedule of a married man had all but destroyed. Loretta has never admitted her affair, of course, and I’ve never mentioned it, although it is a secret comfort to me to have such powerful ammunition in reserve.

Attending church is still an important part of Loretta’s life. Mine, too—a fact I don’t mind sharing when the rare person asks. By college, though, Foursquare Pentecostal’s uninhibited rejoicing made it an awkward place for an introvert. And the surgery to remove Loretta’s aneurism made it impossible for her to tolerate all that rapturous noise. So, during the last two years, we’d attended a smorgasbord of services but had recently settled on a white clapboard church that overlooks a cemetery on the beach, Chapel By The Sea, Captiva Island. Several Smiths are buried there, including Ann Savage Smith, who may or may not be a relation, but just seeing my family name chiseled on a tombstone has created a bond and causes me to leave flowers after every service.

On this Sunday morning, Reverend Nyman read from a Unity Church publication,
The Daily Word
, a lesson entitled “Empowered.” It was a strong message that promised guidance and protection to those who behaved boldly with faith when challenged by adversity. I liked the quote from the 91st Psalm so much, I found it in Loretta’s Bible, then stored it nearly word for word in my memory.

I will not fear the terror of night, nor the arrow that flies by day, nor the pestilence that stalks in darkness . . . A thousand may fall at my side . . . but evil will not touch me . . .

Afterward, in the cemetery, I left gold frangipani blossoms I’d picked from the yard, then returned Loretta home, where Mrs. Terwilliger, her day nurse, and four others were standing at the edge of the property, looking down into a pit the size of a swimming pool. Loretta hadn’t exaggerated about what her new neighbors had done. They’d hired a backhoe to dig up what remained of the Indian mound, hauling tons of shell, earth, and whatever artifacts it contained away in dump trucks. The house they were building had seven bathrooms, I’d heard, and required a septic tank.

As I walked my mother up the mound toward the porch, I saw that it was not a cheery-looking group. There were two local archaeologists, one of them a nice woman, Dr. Caren, who I could see had been crying. There was also an Indian-looking man in a Seminole jacket standing next to a skinny long-haired man I recognized. I’d met him the night before on Sanibel and had enjoyed a long talk—me listening mostly, of course.

“Tomlinson?” I called as if surprised, although I wasn’t. The man had been so upset when I’d told him about the backhoe’s digging, he had vowed to come view the destruction for himself. He had been floaty drunk, true, but I had seldom met a more sweet-natured person, nor a man with bluer eyes, so I was hoping he would remember come morning. Now here he was.

“Miz Smith!” he said to my mother in a comforting way, focusing instantly on Loretta after smiling at me. “No wonder you can’t sleep at night—all these voices calling out for help. Did
anyone
understand when you tried to explain?”

For an instant, Loretta shared my puzzlement, but then her expression changed as if realizing she’d finally found an ally. “Not my daughter, that’s for damn sure!” she said, giving me a triumphant look. “How’d you know about this god-awful nightmare I’ve been living?”

The skinny, hippie-looking man was tugging at a strand of hair while he frowned at the concrete monstrosity, and the pit the backhoe had dug. “It’s unholy what’s happened here. The sacrilege of too much money in the hands of the unenlightened—that’s a mausoleum they’re building, not a house. Defiled three thousand years of sacred ground, which is why only the purest of souls could help. So they chose you, of course, Miz Smith.”

“My Lord . . . it’s true!” my mother cried, walking toward Tomlinson with outstretched arms. “No one believed me even when I painted the truth on those cement walls. I
hear
them. I hear them dead Indians crying all night long!”

The man replied, “They used you as a conduit, dear lady,” lifting Loretta off her feet with a hug. “Now the cavalry has arrived. The Seminole have a purification ceremony—I’ll tell you all about it. The temptation, of course, is to zap these swine with a pestilence curse—but revenge is bad mojo. Soon enough, though, bad karma will infect them and anyone foolish enough to step inside that pre–death chamber, so leave it to the experts. I want you to meet a friend of mine, Billy Egret. He’s a Skin, a native shaman—” Tomlinson motioned to the man wearing the brightly colored Seminole jacket. “Hey, Billie, come meet my new sweetheart!”

Loretta was still grinning and acting girlish thirty minutes later when my strange new friend disentangled himself in time to intercept me as I headed for the dock. Nathan was driving me to Caxambas, so I could ask questions in person as Martha had directed.

“I’ve got a present for you!” the man hollered, waving, something in his hand. As he approached, he was smiling with sharp old eyes that looked inside me, but in a way that was kind, not nosy. What Tomlinson had was a small box, my name written in precise block letters on the label. It was the biologist’s handwriting, which I recognized from the night before. He’d left a notebook open in his lab next to a tank full of sea horses.

“Doc told me to give you this,” Tomlinson said. “He would’ve been here, but he had to split for Colombia before sunup. One of those last-minute deals.”

“Columbia, South Carolina?” I asked, opening a cardboard flap. The biologist and I had spent two hours together alone in his stilthouse and he hadn’t said a word about having to drive in the morning.

“Colombia, South America,” Tomlinson replied in a way that told me
Don’t ask
. “He wanted to come, though. The guy’s never been what you’d call talkative, but I gather you two, uhh . . . had a very good time last night.”

“He said that?” I tried not to sound overly hopeful, although I was. Sitting in Marion Ford’s laboratory, watching him work, listening to his voice, I’d never felt so comfortable and at ease with a man in my life. We hadn’t done anything improper, of course. He hadn’t even attempted a kiss when we hugged good-bye despite my best effort to make my lips an easy target. It was the memory of the biologist, the size of his shoulders, the shape of his hands, I had taken to bed with me after trying on my best dresses when I got home.

“Maybe that’s not the phrase he used,” Tomlinson muttered, trying to remember. “He said you’re . . . that you are a very nice lady. That you have a nice laugh. And to give you that.” He nodded at the box.

“Nice?”
I said. I was thinking,
So are cats,
but hid my disappointment.

“Trust me, that’s effusive for Doc. Oh!” The skinny man snapped his fingers, a look of discovery on his face. “There was something else. He said you’re a
man’s
woman. His exact words. A
man’s
woman—and there is no higher praise. Not from him, anyway. And that you were a competitive swimmer, so he might have a new swim partner.”

I nodded, pleased the biologist had spoken of me but also aware that Tomlinson was suddenly uncomfortable.

“Hannah, there is something I want you to know.
We
want you to know because Doc feels the same. It’s . . . not easy to talk about, which is why the coward couldn’t bring himself to do it. But the fact is—”

I interrupted to spare him discomfort. “My Aunt Hannah wrote about Dr. Ford in her journal. If that’s what you’re trying to tell me, I already know. I saw no need last night to mention her private business.”

“She
did
?”

I nodded. Actually, Hannah Three had written about both men, which was why, the night before, it had required a ton of willpower on my part not to go through my bawdy aunt’s diary and review her scoring system. I couldn’t remember the numbers she’d awarded the two men—if any—and truly didn’t want to know, although she had obviously preferred one man over the other. She’d put that in words, not numbers.

“And you’re . . . you’re still comfortable with having us as friends?” Tomlinson’s face had the kindly, weathered look of a marble angel, which made it impossible to enjoy his embarrassment.

“Sure . . . as
friends
,” I replied, stressing the word. “Apparently, I’m not as prudish as some folks who live alone on sailboats.”

That caused the man to grin, then look at what I’d taken from the box. The grin faded. “He gave you a
garage opener
?”

No, it was a spare remote for the wireless spotlight on the boat I’d bought. Dr. Ford had been meaning to get it to me, but it had taken a phone call from Cordial Pallet to jog his memory and also to provide my cell number. Stupidly, I’d gone off and left the thing—or so I pretended as I explained events to Tomlinson. In truth, the lapse was sneaky. It was intended to provide me an excuse to return to the biologist’s stilthouse, which was in Dinkin’s Bay, Sanibel.

“Doc said there’s a note in there, too,” Tomlinson offered, indicating the box.

I found it, a handwritten note, which I opened and read privately by turning my shoulder as if needing more sunlight.

You are valuable, Hannah, please remember what I said: If you surprise a dangerous man, expect to be surprised. Tarpon on Friday?

I folded the paper and gave Tomlinson a quick hug. “We’ve got a fishing date,” I said, grinning, then hurried off toward my boat. I was flattered the biologist was worried for me even though, as I’d explained to him, there was no longer a need. Early last night, the county sheriff’s department had finally given in to Martha’s pestering. If Ricky Meeks showed up at Caxambas to buy fuel and supplies tomorrow, there would be two deputies waiting—along with me, Martha, and Lawrence Seasons.

Now the only question left to answer was, would Olivia be aboard his boat? We’d find out soon enough, but pride told me I would come closer to earning my paycheck—and a year’s use of the Marlow yacht—if I provided my employers with that information, too.