Gone (9 page)

EIGHT

I
DLING MY BOAT THROUGH DARKNESS, ALONG THE BACK
side of Captiva, my cell phone flashed in its waterproof case. Lawrence Seasons had replied to my text. When I took a look, I discovered he’d actually sent the text more than half an hour ago.

Call soon as possible, even after midnight.

The man used punctuation and spelled-out words, unlike most. It struck me as classy and solid, a person who took time to do even small things right.

I touched a button on my rubber watch and saw that it was a little after ten. The Seasonses’ estate was ahead; to my left dock lights glowed in pools of green water, showing the Marlow’s starboard side, cabin windows silver but dark inside. The temptation was to pull up to his dock and call from there in hope we could speak face-to-face. I was troubled by what I’d learned tonight but also rather proud I’d uncovered important information in such a short time. It might be enjoyable to watch how the man reacted, possibly see some sign he was impressed.

I shifted the engine to neutral and let the wind drift my skiff until soon I could see the lighted windows of Mr. Seasons’s house through trees, and the blue undersides of palm fronds told me swimming pool lights were on near the guesthouse and the screened area. It was tempting to dock, yes, until I lost my nerve and told myself it was too bold a move to surprise a new employer without an invitation. Not at this hour, even though it was a Friday night and the island appeared lively. From the tiki hut at Jensen’s Marina, a local band, the Trouble Starters, were doing “Old Captiva,” electric guitars and vocals crooning a laid-back Grateful Dead sound. A mile north, a sixty-five-foot party cruiser,
Lady Chadwick
, was a village of yellow windows, steel drums and laughter reaching my ears even from that distance.

Hearing that laughter filled my chest with an unexpected hollow sensation. I was alone, on a small boat, on a weekend night, when so many others were having fun. It caused me to take another look east, where I saw sparking channel markers, wind, and miles of darkness that was made cavelike by stars and radio towers in the far, far distance. They were miniature towers from where I stood, but so tall they flashed red or white strobes to warn planes.

I had made that crossing at night, alone, many times. Usually—especially if seas are rough—I get a giddy, wild feeling about midway that causes me to laugh aloud and sometimes sing. It is a powerful feeling to have the confidence to thread a boat through so much shallow water in darkness, relying only on memory and range markers, a thing not many watermen would risk. But I wasn’t looking forward to it now.

Fact was, my whiskey glow was fading, and I suddenly felt as alone as Elka Whitney in her Spanish palace. When I imagined what she might be doing, the stories she’d told returned like a weight, bringing back the hurt and anger we’d shared, the two of us sitting, talking about events so ugly they had brought even me close to tears, and I don’t cry easily. Not among strangers, anyway. So I’d spared the woman the embarrassment by concentrating on my anger while I listened to her talk.

Ricky Meeks was a mean man, smart and sneaky enough to bleed the self-respect out of a woman while also denting her banking account in legal ways the police couldn’t touch. In my mind, he’d become a monster who didn’t actually scare me—not much, anyway—but it was frightening to imagine what he now might be doing to another woman. Olivia Seasons, for one, if she was with him.

To shake myself out of my low mood, I whispered, “Find Olivia, stick to business,” which brought back some of my spirit. Then told myself,
Stop pitying yourself, she’s the one in trouble,
which raised my spirits a little more, as it always does when I focus on other people’s problems rather than my own gloomy thoughts.

My client had told me to call and that’s what I decided to do. Just as I reached for my cell, though, it rang, flashing
Lawrence Seasons
, whose number I’d stored the previous afternoon. When I answered, I heard the man ask, “Did you just pull away from the Ottofurd dock? Maybe you don’t understand how anxious we are to hear the new information.”

Ottofurd was Darren’s last name. I shouldn’t have been surprised Seasons had kept an eye on my boat since the properties were so close, and it certainly explained why the man sounded peeved.

“I was going to make some notes first to keep the information straight,” I lied, which is the sort of silly lie I use too often even when I’ve done nothing wrong.

“Look toward my house. You’ve got your running lights on, I’m sure that’s you.” Then he said, “See this?”

From an area near where the swimming pool turned palm trees blue, Mr. Seasons was blinking a flashlight at me. I reached to grab my boat’s spotlight to return the signal but realized in time how stupid that would have been.

I replied, “You’re on the patio?”

“Pool courtyard,” the man corrected. “Martha’s down listening to the band—she flew in late this afternoon—and I came back to make another batch of drinks. Can you stop by?”

It took a moment to remember that Martha was Mrs. Calder-Shaun and that she was at the marina, where the Trouble Starters were playing. I said, “Sure,” feeling better already. But then I remembered that my hair smelled of Darren’s cigarettes, and I’d been wearing the same clothes since early that morning, so I added, “Give me ten minutes or so because I need to—”

“You can freshen up here,” the man said. “Martha uses the in-law suite, so the pool cottage is yours. I’ll have Carlotta lay out towels and things.”

Carlotta must have been evening shift because I remembered the maid’s name as something different. The man’s tone was so flat and sure, it was clear he didn’t expect an answer, but I didn’t want him to see me even for a minute the way I looked and smelled.

“I appreciate that, Mr. Seasons, but it’ll still take me about ten minutes. I need to check something on my boat, then I’ll be right there.” Which contained enough truth that I didn’t consider it an actual lie. What I wanted to check was the change of clothes I always carry in a waterproof bag in the anchor locker. Since I almost always stern-anchor when fishing, that little locker beneath the bow is neatly packed with extra clothes, a well-equipped first-aid kit, mosquito repellent and netting, bottled water, flares, a headlamp for reading, a sleeping bag, and enough military surplus food for two days.

Not many watermen will admit they’ve run aground after sunset and had to spend the night waiting for the tide. But it has happened to me, as I suspect it has to most everyone who makes their living on the water. Twelve hours on an open boat, stranded miles from nowhere, can be a cold, buggy, boring, and thirsty space of time, so I always carry extra provisions.

After I’d hung up the phone, I idled away from the channel toward sandbars that lie north off Jensen’s Marina, where the band was playing a different song now, something cheerful I didn’t recognize. A derelict sailboat, long ago demasted in a storm, was anchored off the channel and has served me as a bathing screen on more than one occasion. When I was east of the sailboat, shielded from anyone on shore who might be watching through binoculars, I dropped anchor, stood and opened the anchor locker, hoping I’d packed something decent to wear.

I had, but the selection could have been better. I chose jeans instead of green linen cargo shorts because it was night and jeans seemed more formal. There was a clean bra, plain beige, unpadded, and cotton panties that were more like boy’s briefs, but they were burgundy with white stripes. The mismatched colors told me I should pay more attention in the future when packing for emergencies. But they would work okay, barring a ride in an ambulance.

I wasn’t as lucky when it came to a blouse. There were two T-shirts, one long-sleeved, and also a button-down blouse of gray chambray I’d bought at Target. It was soft and nice but had paint stains on the collar—the only reason it wasn’t still hanging in my closet. I didn’t want to walk into a millionaire’s house wearing a T-shirt or a blouse stained the same color as the bottom paint on my boat.

I whispered,
“Shit
,
”
for the second time in a single day, feeling harried because ten minutes isn’t a lot of time. That’s when I remembered what was in the bag I had carried from Mrs. Whitney’s house: the Chantelle demi-bra, and a sheer black blouse made by Dolce & Gabbana, a label I’d never heard of, but the material felt and looked expensive. It was new, too, tags still on it, but didn’t fit her, Mrs. Whitney had said, a present from someone in Paris who was unfamiliar with American sizes. She was all for me washing it and trying it on.

I took the garments from the sack and held them up to the stars. They smelled clean and fresh from the dryer I’d used, and the blouse was folded so carefully it wasn’t wrinkled badly. But would it look odd wearing jeans with such a fancy top? I decided it was better than paint stains on a shirt from Target and that I’d wasted enough time worrying about it.

I took a quick look around. I’m not modest, but neither do I like people watching me undress. I removed my blouse and shorts and stored them in the sack. After another quick look, my underwear came off, then I went naked over the side into waist-deep water that sparkled like green fire, sparks clinging to my arms and body when I submerged. The bay often glows on moonless nights when stirred by a propeller or a streaking fish. Fishing guides call it phosphorus, but it’s actually caused by billions of tiny sea creatures that throb like fireflies when disturbed, as the Sanibel biologist had explained when we’d negotiated for my skiff.

It was a delicious feeling to be in warm seawater that sparkled when I moved my arms. It was as if I held a magic wand. On my skiff’s gunwale, I’d placed a bar of Kirk’s Castile soap and a bottle of Prell shampoo, which are best for sudsing in saltwater. I washed, rinsed, washed and rinsed again, then spent five minutes with a heavy cotton towel before trying on my new clothes.

Once I got the straps adjusted, the bra was such a soft pleasure, the way it held me, I experimented with the new blouse by using one less button near the neck, then two. If I’d had a mirror, I might have risked three—but this was a business meeting, I reminded myself. Not one of my rare Friday-night dates.

I tucked the blouse into my jeans and liked the way it sculpted a sharp angle chest to hips. After listening to a phone message from Loretta, asking, “Has the rich man from Captiva tried to get the pants off you yet?” I sat and texted Nathan that business required me to speak with Mr. Seasons. I’d be just down the road if needed.

Starting my engine, I steered toward shore.

NINE

S
ITTING NEXT TO THE SWIMMING POOL, SIPPING A FROZEN
margarita, I listened to Mr. Seasons ask, “Is your hair wet? Please tell me you weren’t out there swimming. For Christ’s sake, you know sharks feed in that channel at night. Big hammerheads sometimes—I’ve seen them.”

After explaining I’d spent the day with people who smoke cigarettes, a smell I hate, the man started to tell me the guest cottage had a full bath, for Christ’s sake, I should have used that. But then he shook his head in an
I give up
sort of way and told me, “You’re a stubborn one. Can you at least call me Larry? Or even Lawrence? We’re in business together now, so let’s drop the formalities.”

Mr. Seasons wasn’t drunk, but he’d had a few. It made him seem less dignified but also less intimidating, and I relaxed a little. Not completely, though. I still felt some tension because of what he’d said the previous afternoon about seeing people in a different light and also because he was paying me money to do an important job. The margarita seemed to help. I took a longer sip, then another, before trying his name aloud, saying, “Lawrence feels more comfortable than . . . than the other. Should I wait for Mrs. Calder-Shaun or tell you now?”

The man was going through a folder he’d brought on a tray with glasses, a pitcher of margaritas, and a bottle of what might have been brandy. He placed the folder in front of me, then the thinnest laptop computer I’d ever seen. “Take a look at this while I text her. Martha will want to hear. Plus, she has documents for you to sign.”

More documents? Mrs. Calder-Shaun had already sent two attachments by e-mail, a fee agreement and a contract of confidentiality that consisted of five pages, not one, like the contracts I’d found in Uncle Jake’s office. Instead of wondering about it, though, I opened the folder, which contained a second folder and a single sheet of paper. It was a copy of Olivia’s American Express credit card statement for the previous four weeks. I looked at the statement, then looked at Mr. Seasons, who nodded, meaning I should start with it.

There wasn’t much to see—at first, anyway. Olivia had used her card only three times. In late May, there were charges at two Naples restaurants, one for more than eight hundred dollars, so it must have been an extravagant place. She hadn’t used the card again until June 9th, paying $5,753.
97 to a company called Monkey Business ’12 LLC. Today was Friday, June 17th, so that had been more than a week ago, near the end of her billing cycle, but there was no hint as to what she’d bought.

I couldn’t ask Mr. Seasons about it because he was busy texting, so I noted Olivia’s personal details on the statement to pass the time, not expecting to find anything interesting. But I did. The credit card Olivia carried was nothing like the card I keep in my wallet. It was an American Express Centurion, which meant nothing to me until I saw the spending limit. At first, I thought I’d misread the numbers, the limit was so high, more than a million dollars. The statement also informed me that Olivia had an annual spending
obligation
of a quarter million dollars—a minimum she had already satisfied, according to the figures.

Because I’d helped my uncle with his businesses, I knew that the fiscal year, for most, begins and ends in February. It was now June, midway through the calendar. How had a thirty-year-old woman who lived in her father’s home managed to spend more than $250,000 in only six months? And why in the world would she use a credit card that
required
her to charge at least that much annually?

“What do you think?” Mr. Seasons had finished texting Mrs. Calder-Shaun and now placed his hands on the back of my chair to look over my shoulder. He stood so close I could smell what might have been soap or a hint of aftershave. The tension I was feeling peaked momentarily, then began to ebb when he became more businesslike, saying, “We finally managed to freeze the card, but it took Martha’s people a week to do it. Thank God, Olivia didn’t use the thing more than she did after she met the guy.”

I said, “Maybe I’m reading this wrong. Your niece spent this much”—I placed my finger beneath the figure—“since February or January?”

Mr. Seasons said, “Hannah, you’re missing the point. That particular card requires substantial yearly expenditures, so everything gets billed. Taxes, investments, everything. So don’t worry your head about numbers. What’s interesting is, Olivia used the card twice just before that man finished the seawall—three days before she took off. But she’s only used it once since. What’s that tell you?”

I couldn’t yet feel the tequila in my drink, so I was honestly irked at Mr. Seasons for telling me not to worry my head about numbers like I was some stupid girl.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” I replied, “until I know more. Does she have any other credit cards?”

“Of course, but she hasn’t used them. We’d know because all statements are billed to my office. I have no idea how much cash Olivia had on hand before she left, but I’m sure it would have been a substantial amount. The point is, the statement suggests a certain intent—”

Maybe I was wrong about feeling the tequila because I interrupted, “I understand what you’re saying, Mr. Seasons. Your niece didn’t use the credit card because you could have tracked her. The places she’s been staying, buying gas, food. That’s obvious. What I’m asking is, could she have a credit card you don’t know about? And, if she does, would it have had a credit limit lower than this?” I touched my finger to the charge of $5,753.97 to Monkey Business ’12 LLC posted two weeks ago.

I felt the man remove his hands from my chair and stand. “I’ve never heard of a limit lower than ten or fifteen thousand. What are you getting at?”

There was no reason to tell him my card maxed at eight thousand because I’d found out what I needed to know. I wasn’t happy about what I had learned, though. In fact, I felt a chill that was partly suspicion, partly because I felt sure I was right.

“The last time Olivia used this card, she did it for a reason,” I said. “If she has a card you don’t know about, she could have used it if the limit was over six thousand. Or maybe even paid cash. But she didn’t.” I took another look at the statement. “American Express Centurion. Is this card well known in circles where people have money?”

Mr. Seasons was giving me that look again like he was inspecting me, trying to gauge my intelligence. “I suppose so,” he said, then made a sound of exasperation. “
Of course
it’s well known. A Centurion card is the most prestigious card in the world. Only a few thousand people qualify. It’s called the Black Card.”

“A business owner would be impressed if a new client or customer pulled it out?” I asked. “Or said, ‘I’ve got a Centurion card,’ over the phone?” I was thinking about what Darren had said about booking a cabin aboard
Sybarite
. You had to be invited, recommended, or prove you were someone very, very special.

The man was paying attention now. “Why does it matter?”

I answered, “It might be important or I wouldn’t bother. Would a Centurion card impress even someone who dealt with wealthy people on a regular basis? That’s what I’m asking.”

“You have no idea. Salesclerks get shaky in the knees. Maître d’s at restaurants. I’ve seen it. The reason I wanted you to look at the statement, though, is what you figured out very quickly—the pattern of avoiding a money trail. It suggests that Olivia was with that man for three weeks at least. What I’d hoped you’d also see is that she started using the card again. Or was until Martha had it frozen. We think Olivia got rid of the guy somehow, Hannah. We think it’s good news.”

I pushed the margarita away, deciding I’d had enough alcohol for one night—until we were done with business, at least. “Mr. Seasons, hate to say it, but I think you’re wrong. Her using that card isn’t the worst news in the world, but it’s not good news. You still think we should wait for Mrs. Calder-Shaun?”

He bent over the table. “What can you possibly see here that I don’t?” meaning the credit card statement. At the same instant, his cell phone made an old-fashioned ringing sound. “Wait—it’s Martha. Let me find out what’s keeping her.”

The man put the phone to his ear but then covered it with his hand long enough to tell me, “More photos on the computer, and here’s more stuff on Olivia.” He nodded at the file and laptop next to the bottle of what might have been brandy. “Have a look while I take this.”

Mr. Seasons turned and walked into the shadows, wanting privacy, so I busied myself by opening the file. In it were a few photos, a curriculum vitae Olivia had compiled after graduating college six years ago, and a spiral notebook that, I realized after opening it, was what amounted to her daily diary. It gave me a start to be looking at something so personal, so I immediately closed the thing . . . thought for a few moments . . . then opened it again so I could at least check the dates.

Olivia had started the journal in January the previous year, entering drawings and notes about an orchid house she was having built, but the notebook had gradually turned into something more personal. Or so it seemed as I leafed through the pages and saw that some of the longest passages were written in a sort of shorthand code that wasn’t easy to read but doable if I took my time. Shorthand or petite cursive—there weren’t a lot of entries. The girl had skipped whole months, sometimes offering explanations such as one from the previous year:
August/September—felt awful, four doctors apts.
But the notebook did more or less record what the woman was thinking and some things she had experienced over a period of fifteen months.

The last entries were dated May 3rd and May 5th, both written on the same page. There were simple notations about a book on Catholicism she was reading, then another about a church charity she planned to attend.

Church? I don’t know why it surprised me that a wealthy, single woman attended church, but it did. After that, the notebook contained only blank pages, more than a dozen.

Mr. Seasons had told me Ricky Meeks had moved his boat behind Olivia’s house the first week of May, but an exact date hadn’t been mentioned. He had lived there, on his boat, until May 24th, the day after he’d finished the seawall. Olivia had disappeared two or three days later. That meant Meeks and the girl had had at least three weeks living in the same space, no house staff around after five p.m., just them alone. Yet, during those three weeks Olivia hadn’t bothered to write anything about the new seawall, or the man who’d been hired to build it. To me, the fact she’d written nothing, not a single word, meant a lot more than a few dry entries. The emptiness of those dozen pages shouted out that something had changed in her life.

I took a look toward the shadows where Mr. Seasons was still on the phone, his voice too low to hear but sounding perturbed by something Mrs. Calder-Shaun had said. Out of politeness, I turned my chair to face the bay as if the light was better for looking at photographs I had pulled from the folder. Older photos that had been taken with a camera and printed on glossy paper. They were of Olivia when she was a girl.

There were only six. I shuffled through them a few times but kept coming back to one that meant more to me than the others. No telling why—or so I pretended at first. The photo was of an adolescent girl at some kind of school function, standing with two boys who were half a head shorter—an awkward time in a girl’s life that I could relate to. Olivia’s hair was glossy blond, expensive-looking for a girl her age, same with the formal dress she wore and elbow-length white gloves. She was so tall, she stood slope-shouldered to disguise her height. Not ugly but certainly not pretty—not at that stage of her life, anyway. With one gloved hand, I noticed, she tried to shield her mouth to hide her braces. With the other arm, she tried to cover her woman’s breasts on what the mirror must have told Olivia was a beanpole adolescent body.

What grabbed at my heart, though, was the expression on Olivia’s face.
Sullen
, is the way some would have described it, but she was actually showing the camera a whole stew of emotions that come with hormones and a girl’s first blooming. Self-doubt, impatience, anger, worry. The difference was, Olivia Seasons struck me as one who wouldn’t fast outgrow that clumsy, unattractive stage. If ever. Some women don’t. That truth was in her eyes. Old, wounded eyes that appeared sad and already weary with the life that lay ahead.

It had been a while since I’d seen similar eyes and that same expression. But I had many, many times . . . even though I’ve managed to leave that troubled girl behind—most days, anyway.

Had Olivia?