Gone (16 page)

SEVENTEEN

T
HE TIKI BAR IN
C
AXAMBAS WAS NAMED
R
UM ’
N
’
C
OKE,
which had the dirty sound of smugglers and meth addicts, so fit a tile room with fake palm thatching, two video games, and initials carved into the tables.

“Heart attack in a basket,” Nathan said, disappointed by the menu. “Why not stop in Marco and get a smoothie? There’s a vegetarian restaurant, too. Lots of decent places to eat.”

It was hard to believe that Marco Island, with its million-dollar sky-rise condos, silver beaches, and golf courses, was five miles north of this trailer park village, separated only by mangroves and a shell road. To the east was Goodland, an historic fishing village, another nice place my uncle liked, but not as close by boat.

“The lady’s grandson said he’d have her call,” I reminded Nathan. “I’d hate to come all this distance and leave without something new to tell Martha.” I was referring to the Caxambas postmistress, who wasn’t at work, of course, this being Sunday. We’d asked half a dozen locals before finding the right house, then knocking on the postmistress’s door. A snotty-nosed ten-year-old had answered, telling us, “Maw-maw will be back soon, write your number on this matchbook.” Turned out the kid’s Maw-maw was a notary public who did weddings when she wasn’t sorting mail.

This was after the disappointment of confirming that no one at Caxambas marina had gotten even a glimpse of a passenger on the white Skipjack cruiser with blue canvas that showed up Mondays for fuel. The same was true of Cordial Pallet’s friend, a nice old man who smoked a pipe and had hands the color of sugar-cured ham from being in the sun, fishing pompano and pulling crab traps, all his life.

“Martha, huh?” Nate said, smiling up from the menu. “You sure mention that woman’s name a lot for not liking what she did in the swimming pool. Come on, be honest. You didn’t tell me
everything
.”

“Now I’m sorry I said anything at all, the way you’re acting,” I replied, tapping my foot on linoleum, looking from my menu to the woman ignoring us behind the bar. “The least she could do is bring napkins and water,” I said. Then raised my voice to call, “Excuse me, miss! Could we get a couple of iced teas over here? Sweet tea if you have it.”

Nate wasn’t going to miss this chance to goad me about secretly preferring women, a topic he enjoyed and often hinted at. “I think Martha’s gorgeous,” he said, “but in a frosty, ball-breaker sort of way. You said yourself you find her attractive.
And
that you were flattered.”

Being honest has its risks, and my friend had caught me at a soft moment during our ninety-minute drive south. First, he’d impressed me with background information on three ex-cons who
might
be using the name Ricky Meeks, as well as a paragraph that seemed to describe the unusual gun I’d found. Twenty years ago, a gun-customizing company named Devel had produced a concealment weapon for a State Department agency that was still classified. Fewer than two hundred of the guns had been made. The weapon was a shortened Smith & Wesson with a hooked trigger guard and “window” grips, plus some other tweaks for fast shooting.

“I’m not sure if the name’s pronounced
Dee-vel
or
Devil
,” Nate had added, telling me with his tone that he preferred the second. There was no photo, but it sure sounded like the mysterious weapon I’d brought along for him to see.

Then my muscular friend had softened me more by giving me a photo of Barbara Stanwyck framed in polished aluminum. The frame was too modern for my taste, but I was touched by his thoughtfulness and loved the picture. It was different from the one in Darren’s magazine, but I’d seen it on the Internet when researching the actress. I’d never been compared to a beautiful Hollywood star before so, naturally, was hopeful of finding other similarities that would support Darren’s compliment. To my surprise, I’d discovered a couple that even the skeptical girl inside me couldn’t deny.

As I’d told Nathan, “Barbara Stanwyck’s father ran off when she was a little girl, too. Went to Panama or someplace when she was barely three, never saw him again. And she was a real outdoorsman. Owned a ranch, rode horses, and loved to trout-fish. Plus, she lived most her life as a single woman after divorcing. Didn’t feel the need to hook her star to a husband to be happy.” As a secret compliment to myself, I’d almost added, “She was an independent lady. A
man’s
woman,” but unfortunately did not.

That was the slip that had led to prying questions from Nathan, then me revealing how Martha had tried to seduce me. Worse, I’d admitted I had found it flattering—as unwelcome as Martha’s behavior was—to be picked out by such a successful, attractive woman when there were plenty to choose from on a night when live music was being played at Jensen’s Marina just down the road.

I’d sworn Nate to secrecy! Instead, he was jabbing me with more questions, and in a public place, where the woman ignoring us behind the bar could hear if she’d bothered to put down her cell phone and pay attention.

Now he was asking, “After she tried to kiss you, what happened? Jesus, Hannah, the details! You
slapped
your boss. What’d she say?”

Yesterday, I would not have revealed to Nate, or anyone else, the exchange that took place between Martha Calder-Shaun and myself two nights ago. What the woman said had troubled me so much, I’d left the Seasonses’ estate sleepless and was still wondering about my feelings the next day. But that was no longer true.

Even so, teeth clenched, I leaned forward and spoke in a low voice, saying, “I
pushed
Martha’s hand away—more of a whack than a slap. Then the two of us agreed to forget it. If you’re so darn nosy, I’ll tell you the details—but later, when we’re in the truck. I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. It’s kind of funny, really.”

“Oh, come on! Tell me now.” Nate’s huge head swiveled toward the bar. “Our waitress is too busy texting to hear.”

I sighed, confirmed that it was true, then wiggled my index finger to summon him closer. “You’re a mess, you know that?” I said.

“Please?”

“Okay!” I hissed, then whispered what the New York attorney had said after I’d knocked her hand off my breast.

“Hannah, you beautiful, unusual girl. Ninety percent of all women are bisexual, they just don’t know it. It’s the most natural thing in the world. You’re afraid to let go . . . risk finding out how sexy and tender it can be. Why? Because you
know y
ou’d love it.”

To Nathan, I added, “Those aren’t her exact words. But close. It isn’t true, of course.”

Nate said, “That’s awesome! The woman’s crazy about you. My God, she was still trying to get in your knickers even after you slapped her.”

“Martha isn’t one to quit easily,” I agreed. “You don’t get to her level unless you’ve got some grit.”

“Listen to yourself! You’re defending her!”

“A woman who comes right out and says what she thinks? I admire that. I wish I was more like her. Why not?”

Nate was loving it. “You were
tempted
to let her kiss you, I can tell. Just a little? Admit it, Four.”

I shrugged and shook my head, comfortable with what I was about to say. “Like I told you, I was flattered. Sure, I’ve thought about what it would be like. Do something that’s fun and feels good—especially with someone I admire—I don’t see anything wrong with that. But my body makes the rules—so far, at least—and I don’t see that changing. My body tells me I’d have a lot more fun and feel a lot better with a man who has something between his ears and between his legs.”

I shrugged again, adding, “There’s no doubt in my mind about what I like.” Which wasn’t a lie—especially after last night, sitting in a small, warm room with the biologist, listening to his voice and watching the way his hands and shoulders moved. If Dr. Ford had a woman in his life, there was no evidence of her in his manner, or in his bathroom shower soap caddy. I’d checked.

Nate parroted Martha’s words, wanting to remember them:
“Ninety percent of all woman are bisexual, they just don’t know it.”
Then asked the same question I’d made the mistake of asking: “What about the other ten percent?”

I quoted Martha Calder-Shaun, getting it almost perfect. “They’re lesbians, kiddo. Don’t fret—most of them are a hell of a lot happier than we are.”

The dumb grin on Nathan’s face told me he was trying to commit the conversation to memory, but then his expression changed. I realized he was looking beyond me at a man who had just come through the door. Short man, with muscled forearms, wearing a turquoise Miami Dolphins cap and white rubber fishing boots.

“I think that guy’s following us,” Nate whispered. “He was hanging around the marina. Then drove past when we were at the door where the postmistress lives. Remember the old pickup with the loud muffler? Red one. I saw his face.” My friend made a subtle hushing motion with hands. “
Quiet.
Here he comes.”

To balance Nathan’s timid body language, I sat taller on my seat and didn’t disguise my interest as I watched the man stop for a moment, silhouetted by the bright day outside. His eyes moved around the room until he found me, then he smiled, teeth whiter and straighter than expected.

—

“
Y
OU’RE THE FOLKS
been asking questions,” the man in the Dolphins cap said when he got to our table. “We’re looking for the same guy, I think. Ricky Meeks. That crook owes me money. How much he owe you?” Spreading like a cloud over our table floated the smell of beer and lighter fluid or what might have been sweat.

Nathan was a foot taller when he stood to shake hands, which caused the man to puff up and try to appear larger, his eyes still fixed on me. “Name’s Eugene. And you’re Hannah Smith. Don’t look surprised. I sell fish to the marina, and the boys told me what a famous family you come from.” He still hadn’t craned his neck to look up at Nate but said to him as an aside, “Place as small as Caxambas, people talk. Everybody knows everybody else’s business. That ain’t always a bad thing . . . unless you
do
bad things—like that boy you’ve been asking about. Mind if I sit down?”

I couldn’t place the accent. It was Southern, but not Central Florida, and definitely not Deep South. One of the Western states, maybe. Something else I couldn’t put my finger on was why I felt an instant distrust for this drunken man who, so far, had been open about why he was looking for us. Unless . . . he was lying.

The waitress, at least, liked him. She called him by name, still ignoring Nathan and me, but soon Eugene had a beer in front of him while I sipped sugarless tea that tasted of plastic. Nate had made a safer choice ordering bottled water.

“What’s your last name again?” I interrupted when the man went right back to the subject of Meeks owing him money. The way he hesitated before responding, “Schneider . . . Eugene Schneider,” caused more suspicion, which must have registered on my face.

Like a curtain falling, the man’s genial manner disappeared with his smile. “You got a problem about something, darling?”

Nathan winced, but I felt right at ease. “I’m not your ‘darling.’ And you’re the one who came to find me. If you’ve got something to say, say it.”

Schneider pushed the cap back on his head, his expression broadcasting disbelief. “Just ’cause you’re sitting with muscle boy here doesn’t give you call to be snooty . . . darling. Especially to a man who’s only trying to help.” For the first time, Schneider looked up at Nate, whose face I noticed was mottling just like in school when older boys picked on him. “What about it, biggun? Your girlfriend always this ornery?”

“Always,” Nate said, “except for when she’s worse.”

“There you go!” Schneider’s smile reappeared as he toasted the ceiling with his beer. He took a sip, spread his arms to claim more table space, then returned his attention to me. “You want to find this Ricky Meeks character or not? Cops won’t listen to me because I loaned the guy five thousand cash and didn’t get a receipt. If you’ve got something in writing, though,
I
know where the guy is.” The man leaned closer. “Trust me, he’s not staying where some folks might have told you. I know that for a fact.”

I didn’t believe for a moment that Eugene Schneider had ever owned five thousand in cash, but his claim was worth exploring, so my brain told my mouth not to say anything else to offend the liar. Instead, I tried a lie of my own, saying, “If someone told us where to find Ricky Meeks, it’s because they trusted me and I trust them. So I don’t see how we can help each other.” I gave Nate a look to make sure he understood what I was doing. He understood.

Standing, my friend said, “Thanks for the offer, but we’ve already found out what we need to know.”

Eugene ignored the outstretched hand, preferring to keep his drunken eyes on me. “You sure you don’t want to at least listen? Might save us both some time.”

I exchanged another look with Nate, who handled it exactly right. “Wouldn’t hurt to hear what the man has to say, Hannah. Besides, if he leaves, the waitress probably won’t be back to take our order.” My friend, playing the good cop, grinned and took his seat as a way of answering for me.