Gone, page 10
part #1 of Hannah Smith Series
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?
TEN
FROM BEHIND ME, MR. SEASONS’S VOICE SAID, “OLIVIA 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
AT FISHERMANS WHARF, 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.”
