Gone (6 page)

I whispered,
“Shit,”
a word I seldom use. It was because I know how sound carries across water, so the man had definitely heard me. I shoved the computer bag into Nathan’s hands, then slammed my boat into gear, eyes locked straight ahead. Because I’d surprised Nathan, though, the bag dropped to the deck, which caused the sheaf of papers to spill around our feet.

I didn’t care. Putting distance between us, that beautiful boat, and Mr. Seasons was all I could think about. Even when Nathan knelt to gather the papers, asking me over and over, “What’s wrong? Hey, what’s the problem?” I ignored him and drove.

A couple of minutes later, though, when he said, “Does this guy have anything to do with the missing girl?” I had calmed enough to stop behaving like a statue, so I turned and gave him my attention. Nathan had gathered the papers Mr. Seasons had given me and was looking at a photo. I recognized the photo easily enough. I had spent time memorizing it the night before.

“He’s the man they hired to build the seawall,” I said. “They can’t be sure Olivia went off with him, but it’s what they suspect. His name’s Ricky Meeks.”

Nathan was still examining the picture but was now pursing his lips. “His name’s not Ricky. Or maybe it is, but Mrs. Whitney called him something else. Mike . . . Matt . . . it began with an
M
.”

“You
know
him?” I said, startled but also pleased because Mr. Seasons put a lot of stock in the value of local knowledge. Maybe I was already earning my money.

“Mick,”
Nathan said. “Yeah . . . Mick, I’m pretty sure that’s it. A woman named Mrs. Whitney used to bring him to the restaurant sometimes. This was back around New Year’s. For a week or so, those two came almost every night, usually just drinks. She always paid, of course, because she’s a lot older—and she’s rich.” Nathan looked at the photo again. “Or Mickey, maybe. Which at least rhymes with Ricky, so it’s the sort of fake name a guy would use.”

I said, “You can’t be sure from just looking at one picture,” which I didn’t believe but, suddenly, I felt uneasy because so much good luck was piling on me all at once.

“Nope, it’s him all right.” Nathan turned to me. “You’re doing some kind of reverse jinx thing, right? Hannah, how can someone smart as you be so damn superstitious?”

I replied, “I just want you to be sure, that’s all. Plus, you have to sign that confidentiality form before I can even let you see those papers.”

Captiva Island, less than five miles long, isn’t much more than an ancient sandbar built up over centuries, shaped by current and waves. Now it’s rooted to the Gulf of Mexico by multimillion-dollar properties, sea oats, palms, and a couple of bayside marinas. We were approaching Jensen’s Marina now. Nathan’s photographer friend, Darren, lived to my right in a house with a pool and studio so beautifully designed, they blended into the island’s foliage like elegant, storm-tossed shells.

Darren had gotten famous in New York, photographing rock stars and actors, but now he mostly lived and worked on the island. He was a handsome man, willowy as a fashion model, and always had a whiskey in one hand, a cigarette in the other. We’d spoken only a few times, but Nathan liked Darren a lot, and his self-confidence had improved a bunch since they’d met. My friend seemed happy, and that’s all I cared about. When we were close enough to Darren’s dock, I reversed my engine . . . popped it into forward, spinning the wheel . . . then I switched off the key, and let my skiff drift itself to a stop, nudging the pilings as if it belonged there.

That’s when Nathan, his shyness showing, patted my shoulder and assured me, “I might be wrong about the guy’s name. But not about him and Mrs. Whitney. I remember ’cause the dude’s so mean-looking. He, uhh . . . it made my hands shake sometimes when I waited on their table. Nervous, you know?”

Nate is the size of a pro wrestler, but he’s timid as a bird, so I tried not to smile as I stepped out and tied the boat.

Ricky Meeks—the name I associated with the photo after studying it—was indeed a scary-looking man. The photo had been taken outdoors at a place where there was snow and a parking lot, possibly backdropped by a bar or strip club. Nothing in the picture to prove it, just a feeling I got. The man’s sleeves were rolled tight, biker’s tats and muscles on display like trophies, a deliberate spit curl calling attention to a face that leered at the camera as if he’d just insulted the photographer and knew the guy was too scared to fight.

“He has kind of a dirty redneck look,” Nathan said, handing me the photo. “You think? And smelled bad, too. Sweat and cigarettes, but mostly this terrible, cheap aftershave. The dollar-a-gallon stuff you buy at Walgreens. Like limes mixed with cough syrup.”

I asked, “What in the world was Mrs. Whitney doing with a man like him? I’ve never met her, but I know she’s wealthy. It’s the same family that started the cereal company, right? That’s what I’ve heard, anyway . . . and they own a place—”

“Right there,” Nathan said, pointing toward a screen of hedges a hundred yards down the seawall where there was a dock that was boatless, some busted planks hanging in the water. “I haven’t seen Mrs. Whitney for a while. Months, probably. A lot of the owners are seasonal, so maybe she went north for the summer. I can ask Darren.”

In my head, my courage was having an argument with my brain, saying it was too early to begin questioning people and that I hadn’t done the proper research. But then my eyes swiveled toward Mr. Seasons’s dock, a quarter mile away, where the Marlow Prowler was a pretty black blossom that glittered in the heat.

“Don’t bother Darren yet,” I told Nathan.

“Still intimidated because he’s famous?” my friend chided. “Darren likes you, Four. His feelings are hurt because you never come up for a drink. My God, a few weeks ago the man practically begged to photograph you! That doesn’t tell you something?”

It was all true, but that wasn’t the reason I didn’t want to ask Darren. I said, “Later, I’ll stop and say hello, sure. But first I’m going to walk down to Mrs. Whitney’s place. You know, find out for myself if she recognizes the photo.”

“If she’s still on the island,” Nathan replied, sounding like he hoped she wasn’t. Even so, he fell into step. We followed the bike path toward Blind Pass, past three driveways to a wrought-iron gate the size of a mall entrance. A bronze plaque read
Battle Creek Bay-N-Beach
, which was the sort of clever name owners call their estates on Captiva Island. I guessed it referred to the cereal town in Michigan.

“Gate’s locked,” Nathan said, rattling the bars, “unless you know the code.”

“That’s for people with cars,” I replied. I paused to check for traffic, then slid between the gate and a hedge, onto Mrs. Whitney’s property. “You going to let me trespass all by myself?” I asked. “Or you coming along?”

FOUR

B
Y THE WAY
M
RS.
W
HITNEY REACTED TO THE PHOTO OF
Ricky Meeks, I knew the man scared her and had somehow hurt her, too, even though she denied knowing him at first. Maybe not physically hurt her, but hurt her in the way a certain type of rough man can damage a woman who is twice his age and has lost everything that’s solid about herself including her looks and self-respect.

“I really don’t see the point in discussing some handyman I paid minimum wage to . . . well, I can’t even remember what I hired him to do. Staff come and go, even on a property as small as this.” Mrs. Whitney skated Ricky’s photo onto the table, but I noticed that her eyes lingered on the man even as she reached for an ebony cigarette case.

I said, “Small?” We were in what felt like a Spanish palace with twenty-foot ceilings where arched hallways opened into more rooms and hallways, floors of pale marble, and a sound system that played Johnny Mathis, volume low.

“It’s a winter house,” Mrs. Whitney replied, exhaling and giving me a sharp look through the smoke. “But let’s back up. Are you sure you’re not here because this person”—she gestured at the photo—“is trying to get in touch with me? Two or three months ago, I had my contact information changed. Phone, e-mail, everything—my attorneys insisted, for security reasons. But if the man wants to come back . . . I suppose there’s a possibility.”

“He’s not trying to contact you,” I interrupted, and watched the woman’s expression waver between relief and disappointment. “Your name didn’t come up until today, Mrs. Whitney. Someone said they’d seen you two at a Sanibel restaurant. They thought the man’s name is Mick, or Nick, but he also calls himself Ricky Meeks.” I kept it vague because the woman had yet to recognize Nathan, who was standing behind me, or even look at him, which I found strange.

“Ricky?”
the woman said like she’d just tasted something bitter. “I can’t keep track of every minimum wage drifter we hire. But ‘Mickey’ sounds more familiar.” When she tapped her cigarette on an ashtray and added, “As in Mickey Mouse—that’s the only reason I remember,” I knew she’d had feelings for the man, and maybe still did.

I watched her flick the photo toward the middle of the table as if to create some distance. No . . . that wasn’t the reason. Mrs. Whitney
was
disappointed, I realized, which told me a part of her, at least, had hoped Meeks wanted to see her again. Her pride was hurt, and now the anger inside was starting to build. “Then I’m confused,” the woman said, her tone sharper. “You’re a fishing guide on the island?”

“I’m Hannah Smith,” I repeated for the third time. “I pick up some clients at South Seas. Sometimes Jensen’s Marina. Mostly, though, I work out of my house.”

“Then why the questions like some kind of cop?”

Before I could explain, the woman shushed me with a wave of her cigarette. “Let me guess. You’re carrying his photo because the guy knocked you up, then dumped you. Which fits from the little I remember about that bum. Or you lost a bar napkin with his phone number.” The woman blew smoke toward the ceiling. “God spare me the trailer park dramas of the island locals. It’s one of the blessings of money.”

I don’t have much experience with jealous women insulting me, but that’s what was happening now. Mrs. Whitney had refused to unlock the door until I’d held up Ricky Meeks’s photo for her to see. After that, she’d hurried us inside to find out the connection—or because she was ashamed someone would make the association. That’s why I wasn’t offended by the woman’s mean words. She was revealing more about her relationship with Meeks than she realized.

“Admit it,” Mrs. Whitney pressed. “You’ve got what we used to call a ‘wet crush’ on the man—figure out for yourself what it means. Now you’re trying to find him. Am I right?”

In my chest, I felt regret because I knew she was talking about herself, not me. So I tried to reassure her by saying, “I’ve never met him, ma’am,” then immediately regretted using
ma’am.
It’s something an older woman doesn’t like, especially if that woman has invested in a face-lift, breast implants, and injections to make her lips so full that she had to feel to confirm her cigarette was in place before taking another long, aggressive drag.

“Sorry, kitten, don’t believe you. Besides, I don’t get involved with my employees’ personal problems.”

I replied, “I don’t work for you, Mrs. Whitney,” but the woman talked over me, saying, “If I hadn’t been expecting my shopper, I’d have never let you two through the door. Where in the hell is that absurd little fool?” Suddenly, the woman got to her feet, pulled her white silk robe tight around her neck, and crossed the room to the front window, apparently hoping her groceries had arrived.

Silhouetted by the window, Mrs. Whitney’s coil of orange hair had a chemical tint. Sunlight pierced the sheer robe so I could see that she was naked beneath it, her skeletal legs too frail to support the unhappiness I sensed inside her, let alone her melon-sized implants.

Nathan looked at me and mouthed the words
She’s drunk
, which was something I knew from the whiskey stink of the room and the glass of melting ice on the table. Maybe drunk for days or weeks, judging from the woman’s gray skin and shaky hands.

That wasn’t the only evidence that Mrs. Whitney didn’t have someone to look after her. Not even a maid. There were empty glasses piled atop magazines, volcanic ashtrays everywhere, clothing strewn on floors, and what might have been a Chantelle bra, raspberry lace and glitter, draped over a velvet divan. Seeing the bra caused me to feel even sadder because it was a pretty thing that Mrs. Whitney had probably had fun buying back in happier days. Near the door was a gorgeous mahogany secretary with feet sheathed in ornate copper. A month’s worth of mail had been stacked there until a landslide had scattered envelopes onto logs of sodden newspapers below.

Something I expected to see, but didn’t, were dirty dishes. If the woman had been eating, there would have been dishes, or takeout boxes, scattered among the litter. And she wouldn’t have looked so sickly skinny. The realization replaced the sadness I was feeling with a chill. Why didn’t a woman who lived in a ten-million-dollar palace have employees looking after her? That’s when Mrs. Whitney hinted at the reason by flinging the curtains closed and calling across the room to us, “That lazy son of a bitch! And my attorney wonders why I fire every goddamn person I hire!”

Nathan and I looked at each other before I said, “The Island Store’s close enough, we can be back in five minutes if there’s something you need—” Just in time, I caught myself before calling her ma’am again, but the woman wasn’t listening anyway. She was concentrating on her balance as she returned to the table, legs so wobbly that she zigzagged until she was close enough to reach out and grab a chair.

“Can I get you something to drink?” I asked, worried because Mrs. Whitney appeared woozy, tilting the glass of melting ice to her lips.

“A drink?” she said. “That’s a laugh! There’s nothing to drink in the whole goddamn house. The idiots I hire, they want my money, sure. But they don’t want to do a damn thing to earn it. This little man who calls himself a ‘personal shopper,’ he’s just another example. On the phone yesterday, he promised he’d be here no later than two. Three times, I made him promise! He’s got a five-hundred-dollar order, groceries and liquor. That’s worth how much to some out-of-work fool? A fifty-buck gratuity, just for starters. So where the hell is he?”

I noticed Nathan check his wristwatch, same as me, even though we both knew it wasn’t even noon yet. The person doing her shopping wasn’t late. Truth was, Mrs. Whitney didn’t know what time it was. There wasn’t much we could do, though, but sit and listen as the woman took off on a talking jag, ranting about undependable workers, then switched to the maid she’d fired a few weeks back for stealing.

Despite his size and all those muscles, Nate is sensitive. Loud voices make him wince. Angry voices cause him to retreat inside his head, often rocking where he sits, hands cradling his knees, even when he’s not in a rocker. Nathan was rocking now, I noticed, but then he did something that showed his improved confidence. He got to his feet, saying, “Maybe the maid didn’t put things where they’re supposed to be, Mrs. Whitney. Mind if I take a look in your kitchen?”

The woman looked at him for the first time, her eyes struggling to focus. “I know you,” she said finally. “I’ve seen you before.”

“You usually drink Johnnie Walker Black, easy on the soda,” Nate replied. “But sometimes you’ll do a daiquiri, no sugar. Or Bloody Marys, if it’s early. How about I see what I can find?” My friend had a soft look on his face that told me he was worried about the woman, too.

“Good luck!” Mrs. Whitney laughed, sounding more cheerful, but it was scary the way she said it. Way too loud, with a warble of hysteria. As Nate disappeared into a hallway, she hollered, “I’ve been through every goddamn cupboard and cranny in this house. In fact”—she gripped the arms of her chair, ready to stand—“I’ll help you look.”

Because her balance was so poor, I was already on my feet and prepared when the chair went over backward. I threw my arms around the woman and lifted her clear, startled by the way loose skin moved over her bones and the birdlike lightness of her body. It was like catching something warm but barely alive in a plastic sack.

“Get your goddamn hands off me! What do you think you’re doing?”

If the woman was trying to wrestle free, she was so weak I didn’t notice. I held her by the shoulders until she seemed steady, then pulled the chair I’d been using under her. “Have a seat, Mrs. Whitney. Are you okay?”

“And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

I tried to calm her, saying, “Sometimes, when I get a head cold, it settles in my ears, and I can barely cross the room without stumbling. Have you felt some congestion lately? There’s something going around, that’s what everyone says.”

“If you hadn’t grabbed me, I’d have been just fine, you dope!” the woman hollered, but the anger was draining out of her, along with her confidence. She sounded frail, exhausted. Embarrassed, too, because she added, “Lately, I
have
had a sort of cough, which I figured was because of the cigarettes. But I would have managed perfectly well without you crushing the wind out of me!” That was as close as she could come to apologizing, I figured.

“I’m sorry,” I said, looking toward what must have been the kitchen. I could hear Nate opening and closing doors, then the suction sound that an expensive refrigerator makes when the freezer is opened. “Is your shoulder hurting?” Mrs. Whitney was using her fingers to explore an area near her neck, then her right arm.

“You’re as strong as a damn man,” she snapped. “Maybe you are—I don’t see how anyone could tell for sure.” The woman glanced at me, hoping she’d hurt my feelings or made me mad. She’d done both, but I wasn’t going to show it, especially when she added, “Baggy denim shirt and shorts, my God—you look like a damn housepainter. Or some dyke who works at Goodwill. Have you ever heard of something called ‘a hairstylist’?”

Loretta’s damaged brain, rather than hardening me to insults, has taught me that mean words are the only way a person in pain has of striking out and warning others to keep their distance. Not that Loretta doesn’t sometimes make me so mad I want to hurl a cup across the room. And not that all people can use that excuse. I’ve met men and women who’ve got so much poison in them, it’ll seep into everyone around them if you give it the chance. But Mrs. Whitney had the cloudy, glittering eyes of a wounded dog that didn’t want to be touched. She had secluded herself inside this house and inside herself. Now she was warning me not to come any closer.

There was no knowing what events had dragged this woman so low, but Ricky Meeks had done at least some of the damage, I would have bet on it. From the way Mrs. Whitney looked, from the amount of trash that had piled up around her, she’d been sinking for months, which fit with the time line I was piecing together in my head. Meeks had worked for the woman in February, March, and part of April, too, from what Nathan had told me. According to the folder on Olivia Seasons, Meeks had moved his boat to Naples during the first week of May to work on the seawall, spending his nights at the dock behind Olivia’s house.

I couldn’t be absolutely sure the man had something to do with her poor condition, of course, unless Mrs. Whitney was willing to open up. Yet, I felt certain enough to risk taking the woman’s hand in mine and saying, “After I’ve said what I came to say, I’d welcome advice on how to dress better. Thing is, Mrs. Whitney”—the woman was struggling to free her hand, so I released it and slid the photo of Ricky Meeks in front of her—“this man ran off with the niece of somebody I know. That’s what they think, anyway. She’s about my age but not a strong girl. Her family’s got money, and it’s made her sort of trusting and naïve. What I need to know is, is this man dangerous? If he’s dangerous, if you think he’ll hurt the girl, the family needs to do something.”

That got the woman’s attention but also might have wilted what little spirit was left in her. “My God,” she said softly. She’d turned her head as if not trusting herself to make eye contact with Ricky Meeks, whose careful spit curl formed a hook, I noticed for the first time, above his small black eyes. “My God,” she said again, then added, “he’s doing it to someone else now.”

The temptation was to ask,
Doing what?
but I decided it was better not to push. The woman was hurting inside and it showed—which had to be even more embarrassing for someone like Mrs. Whitney because she was revealing it to a me, a stranger, who had nothing in common with her. That wasn’t true of her and Olivia Seasons, though.