Gone (17 page)

Schneider rewarded Nathan with a fraternity boy cackle, then lowered his voice to stress the importance of what he was saying. “A few weeks back, some local Crackers
might
have seen Ricky’s boats anchored back side of East Drake Key. Sure. His Skipjack cruiser, and he’s got an over-powered little jon boat. But that was two weeks ago, and these know-it-all Crackers don’t work after sunup like me.”

A jon boat is a flat-bottomed aluminum skiff built for running fast in shallow water. This was the first I’d heard of Meeks owning anything more maneuverable than his thirty-foot cruiser and a blue dinghy, but I didn’t want Schneider to know the information was useful. “You remember Drake Keys,” I said to Nathan. “They’re south of here, part of Cape Romano.”

To Schneider my friend said, “So far, you haven’t told us anything new.”

“Biggun,” Schneider said, getting impatient, “I’m not finished yet. What I’m trying to tell you is, I fish around Cape Romano a lot. I know Drake Keys like the back of my hand, and Ricky’s not there anymore. I know where he went, though—but you’ve never heard of the place. Dismal Key. It’s southeast a few miles but hidden so far back in the islands you couldn’t find it if you tried. I’d have to take you—if we come to some agreement.”

If Uncle Jake hadn’t taken me to explore Indian mounds on Dismal Key—an island dense with cactus, mosquitoes, and heat—I would have thought Eugene had stolen the name from a movie or was making it up. Dismal Key was a real place, though, and there was never a more accurate name. Now my brain was telling my mouth
Don’t say anything stupid, keep him talking.

“Interesting,” I responded as if I wanted to believe this drunk with angry pale eyes. “What you’re saying is, you expect us to pay you for your help.”

“The guy owes me five thousand cash. How else you expect me to recover what I lost? Either that or tell me the truth about why you’re looking for Ricky. If you’ve got enough dirt on him—or receipts for the money he owes you—maybe the cops will listen if we join up together.”

Schneider was still lying. If the locals had told him my name, they’d also told him we’d been asking if there was a passenger on Meeks’s boat, not looking to recover a bad loan. But why? The man wanted something—money, of course. Or maybe he was just nosy and liked being the center of attention. Ricky Meeks wasn’t the type to win loyal friends, so Schneider had no reason to put us on a false trail. But after taking our money, he could always claim that Meeks had moved to another spot when we failed to find him.

“I’m kind of fussy about who I do business with,” I said, no longer worried about making the man mad. “Nathan, instant tea is all the lunch I’ll get if we stay here. You ready to find a place that’s more particular about its customers?”

Eugene Schneider’s temper had been sparking all along. Now it flared. “You little bitch!” he snapped, pushing his chair back. “I ought to slap you across this room for that.”

Nate was instantly on his feet. “Shut . . . shut your mouth, mister!” he stammered, looming over the little man. “Lay a hand on Hannah and . . . and you’ll regret it!”

I’d never experienced such behavior from my friend before. It was so unexpected, I couldn’t speak for a moment, then had to hide a smile because of the way Schneider was cowering, looking at his dirty fingers, the table, anything but Nate’s red face.

“Now, now, boys,” I said in the tone of a grade school teacher, then waited until Nathan had taken his seat. “Eugene? You need to be careful who you taunt. Nate doesn’t get mad quick, but he’s a dangerous man when it happens.” Not making eye contact with Nathan was the only thing that kept the smile off my face.

“Smart-ass woman,” Schneider mumbled, his expression sullen. He was still inspecting his fingers.

I told him, “There’s no reason I should tolerate that sort of talk, but here’s what we’ll do. Tell me who Ricky’s got on his boat and there might be a business arrangement. But no promises.”

“Lady, you just got all the free information out of me you’re gonna get. I have things to do this afternoon, but I’ll run you down to Dismal Key after sunset. You can see for yourself—but it’ll cost you . . . a thousand dollars. Five hundred if his boat’s not there.”

Nathan answered for me. “We can’t. Hannah’s going to a yacht party, but maybe tomorrow—”

“Party?” Schneider interrupted. “I’d know about it if there was a party on a boat anywhere near here.”

“Fishermans Wharf, not Caxambas,” Nathan explained, laughing because he was nervous. After showing such strength, my friend seemed to be seeking peace through camaraderie. I didn’t appreciate him mentioning my personal business to a drunk, but I was busy thinking about Schneider’s offer to take us to Dismal Key. Not that I intended to go with him, of course, but we could rent a boat at the marina ourselves. I’d just have to get approval from Mr. Seasons for something that expensive.

The problem was, Schneider had told us so many lies it was impossible to pick out the small bits of truth—if any. If Ricky Meeks had been anchored off the Drake Keys, why would this local drunk reveal the exact name of Ricky’s new hiding place? Schneider either didn’t suspect I could boat to the place on my own, or he was intentionally trying to nudge us off the trail until he’d had time to warn Ricky to move—not out of friendship, but because of what remained of Olivia’s fifty-thousand-dollar checking account.

As I sat there thinking, the party aboard
Sybarite
no longer seemed important . . . but that suddenly changed. It changed when I noticed how curious Schneider was about the name of the yacht hosting the party.

“Nate!” I interrupted. “Eugene was about to tell us who else is on that Skipjack cruiser. You mind letting him answer?”

Schneider was disappointed. I could see it. The man finished his beer, his mind working hard at something, no telling what, then finally said to me, “I know the person you’re talking about.”

“On Ricky’s boat?” I countered.

“She’s a woman about your age. A rich young woman, or so that asshole claimed. I only got a quick look at her—she was coming out of the post office. Her and Ricky together. She reminded me of a stork, all bones and legs. Can’t imagine what the dude saw in a piece like her.”

My face warming, I replied, “We can’t all be short and soft, now can we?”

The man missed the sarcasm. “This was . . . two weeks ago or so. But she took off.”

I said,
“What?”

“You offered to pay if I told you about Ricky’s passenger. So I told you. He had a woman with him—I just described her—but that was a while ago.” The man’s eyes moved from Nathan to me to see how we accepted the news. “I’ll be damned!” he said after a moment. “
She’s
the reason you’re here! Well, you’re wasting your time, darling. The woman got pissed off at Ricky, or he got bored and kicked her out. Who knows? But she’s been gone at least two weeks.”

“Gone
where
?” I demanded.

The man was shaking his head. “If you want more details, it’ll cost you . . . two hundred dollars cash. Now.”

Confident after seeing my reaction, Eugene Schneider was smiling again, back in control. Within a few hours, I’d get my first look at Ricky Meeks whether I paid or not, but there was no way of knowing that. No way of predicting or even guessing at events that would soon follow.

So I did what I thought was prudent. As I reached for my wallet, the little man was signaling for another beer.

EIGHTEEN

M
ORE THAN AN HOUR BEFORE SUNSET,
I
TIED MY BOAT AT
Fishermans Wharf, dressed for the party aboard
Sybarite
, but I was not in a party mood. As I crossed the bay from Sanibel, my cell phone had buzzed, so I had shut the engine off and drifted so I could hear Lawrence Seasons.

“Hannah! I’ve got something important.” In contrast to the man’s urgent tone, a few yards from my skiff a pod of dolphins rolled in slow unison, their blowholes spraying a genie mist into a silver June sky.

“You found Olivia?” I asked. Part of me hoped it was true, part of me felt guilty because of my disappointment.

“Listen closely,” Lawrence replied. “The P.I. from Miami we hired, the first guy on this case? He’s just been listed as a missing person. Officially. His agency called, state police are looking. I had a feeling something was wrong—that’s why I was so tough on you today.”

I replied, “Martha told me the guy was an alcoholic. Said he was probably barhopping on South Beach.” As I spoke, gulls hovered above the dolphins, bickering about who owned the rights to any bait that was flushed. Watching the birds, I recalled how odd the news about the investigator had struck me earlier, yet Martha hadn’t seemed bothered.

“That’s what the agency manager told her. The guy has a history of binge drinking, so they were giving him a last chance—and probably time to surface. But it’s been a week. They found his dog half starved. Even his family hasn’t heard a word. According to the logs, he planned to rent a boat in Everglades City but hasn’t been heard from since. How far’s that from where Ricky Meeks buys fuel?”

Everglades City was only a short drive from Marco Island, which I told Mr. Seasons, but didn’t mention it was ten very complicated miles by water to Dismal Key, plus a few miles more if the investigator had actually gotten a boat and tried to find Cape Romano.

“Understand now why I couldn’t let you do it?” Lawrence was explaining again why he’d refused to authorize the expense of renting a boat in Caxambas. I’d been so disappointed, I would have paid the money myself if Nate and I could have pooled the five-hundred-dollar cash deposit required. It was because of what Eugene Schneider had told us—or hadn’t told us. After listening to the surly man, my hopes and fears for Olivia were more mixed than ever, and I wanted to find out the truth with my own eyes. Was Ricky Meeks still anchored near Cape Romano, hidden in a bay formed by the Drake Keys? Or had he really moved his Skipjack cruiser to Dismal Key, where there was a dock, as I remembered, and the remains of a shack? More important, was Olivia still with him?

Maybe Schneider actually believed the girl had left the area two weeks before, maybe he didn’t. Either way, it didn’t matter. Ricky Meeks could have lied to him about Olivia being gone, hoping the rumor would spread among the Caxambas fishing community. If Ricky had done something bad to Olivia—a crime even worse than the way he had treated Mrs. Whitney—it was a way of buying time. I didn’t want to wait another twenty-four hours before joining sheriff’s deputies on the docks, hoping Ricky Meeks would bring his cruiser and the truth to Caxambas.

Lawrence Seasons, though, was a stubborn man when he’d made up his mind. In the conference call I’d made from Nathan’s truck, I had shared Schneider’s claims with him and Martha as well, but neither would budge. “I don’t want you anywhere near Meeks,” Lawrence had told me for the second or third time. “We’re paying you to find Olivia, not some con artist who might be dangerous. Until tomorrow, at least, we’re assuming the drunk you talked to was telling the truth. Olivia is free, finally. She’s safe.”

When I tried to argue, the man had cut me off, saying, “
Think
about it, Hannah—his story fits with Olivia’s credit card records. Two weeks ago, she started using the Centurion card again. Why? Because she’s traveling alone. Without Meeks looking over her shoulder, she doesn’t need to be so careful about covering her tracks. Your theory had merit, but you were wrong. Is that what this is about? If that’s the problem, get over it. It’s time to shift your focus and move ahead.”

To Lawrence Seasons, that meant calling the list of Olivia’s friends he had sent by e-mail. To Martha, it meant sticking with my plan to attend the party, where I might run into someone from Port Royal who had seen or spoken to Olivia recently.

I wasn’t convinced. First, Olivia disappears, then a trained private investigator? The possibilities my imagination conjured up gave me a shaky feeling in my legs, made it impossible to focus on anything but what the girl might be suffering now . . . this
instant
. I’m not the sort of person who can force a fake smile and pretend to have fun when someone I care about needs help—help I might be able to provide.

Which is why I wasn’t in a party mood as I strode along the seawall toward the dock where
Sybarite
was moored, its sleek hull and black windows glowing like molten metal, caught in the spotlight of a west-setting sun. On the vessel’s top deck, a few elegant-looking couples were already lounging against the rail, sipping drinks, while another half dozen guests made their way up the boarding ramp. Greeting them was a lean, busty woman in a white summer uniform consisting of slacks and a collared blouse.

It was Gabrielle Corrales, who had phoned me four times that afternoon, she was so excited about the party.

—

“
H
ANNAH?
”
G
ABBY CALLED
when she spotted me. “Hannah!” Soon the girl was galloping down the ramp, saying, “
¡Mi mejor amiga!
So glad to see you, honey!”

I didn’t expect my old classmate to fall into my arms so I could swing her around, but that’s what happened, which wouldn’t have bothered me if I wasn’t in such a sour mood. Worse, couples on the top deck were pointing at us and whispering, probably guessing that Gabby was either stoned or drunk.

I pulled away and blocked a second bear hug by stepping back to inspect the girl, saying, “You told me you weren’t wearing a uniform—not that you don’t look sharp. ’Cause you do.”

“It’s just temporary,” Gabby confided, but without much confidence. “Only until all the guests are aboard—I
hope
. Then I’ll change. It’s because most of the crew’s been invited, and Robert’s pissed off he’s so shorthanded.” The powdery smell of marijuana on the girl’s breath, I noticed, was as mild as her perfume.

Gabby was embarrassed about being dressed like hired help, not a guest, so I tried to reassure her, saying, “If I looked as nice, I wouldn’t bother changing. White’s such a good color on you.” The compliment had a purpose, but it was also true.

Gabby had been right about
Sybarite
’s
tailored clothing. Creased slacks, crisp cotton blouse, sleeves the perfect length, and a firm starched collar that framed the girl’s pretty face. Buttons on the blouse, I noticed, had been spaced in such a way that it was impossible not to show cleavage—particularly on someone like Gabby, who was proud of the way success had improved her body.

“Aren’t they awesome?” she said, just a touch of Cuban accent. I wasn’t sure if she was talking about her uniform or her breasts until she explained, “I’ve got my formal blues in the crew quarters. Later, after we’ve had a few drinks, I want to watch you try them on just to prove how hot you’ll look. My slacks’ll be too short, but—” The girl hesitated, seeming to look at me for the first time. “Hey . . . why aren’t you wearing your cocktail dress?”

In my apartment, I’d spent twenty minutes admiring how the sheer black dress transformed me into a shapely woman who had taste but wasn’t afraid to show off a little or hint she might look even better naked, taking a bubble bath, or in some strong man’s bed. But I had decided against it. The fact I was traveling to Fishermans Wharf by boat wasn’t a problem—I almost always wear a dress to church. Problem was, the cocktail dress had a carefree look to it, which was the opposite of how I felt.

Instead, the photo of Barbara Stanwyck, in its brushed-aluminum frame, had told me what to wear. I’d chosen low-cut jeans tapered at the calves enough so as not to hide my Laredo boots of maple brown. The closest I could come to the actress’s wrangler blouse was a cross-dye shirt with Navaho patterns, copper and desert primrose, I’d bought with Uncle Jake at the Clewiston Rodeo, which is a big affair in Central Florida. I seldom wore the shirt because of its Western pockets and buttons, so I had forgotten how soft the material felt against my skin and how the Arizona earth tones and ancient symbols added a gloss to my black hair.

I couldn’t wear boots on my skiff, of course. Dark soles scuff white fiberglass. So I had carried them, changing out of my Top-Siders only after I’d reached the dock. Gabby was eyeing my boots now, but I was wrong about her reasons.

“I’ve got boat shoes,” I offered, “if you’re worried about those varnished decks.”

The woman laughed, hooked her arm around my waist, and walked us toward the dock. “We’re going to have so much fun together, honey. I was admiring your outfit, that’s all. Envious, really. I wish I had the balls to dress so butch. And I would if I thought I could pull it off. But I can’t—not like you. Think we could go shopping maybe Wednesday or Thursday? Weekends are bad for me, but I could sure use your help doing the jeans-and-boots thing because . . .”

As Gabby talked on about clothing, then switched to the wealthy guests we were about to meet, I felt her hand squeeze my waist, then slide to my ribs, which caused a moment of tenseness that my mind instantly blamed on Martha Calder-Shaun. My uneasiness didn’t last, though. What did Gabby’s intentions matter if I had my own thoughts under control? Besides, I liked her. She was a tad wild, true, but the woman was making her own way in a hard world, and she had proved herself fair-minded when it came to judging people.

Even when Gabby gave me a soft pat on the butt, it was okay. It felt comfortable to be with a girl I knew, especially with so many well-dressed strangers filing out of the parking lot toward
Sybarite
. I had never seen so many attractive couples in one small space—nor so many expensive cars. There were Bentleys, a bunch of BMWs, a Rolls or two, plus a few makes I couldn’t identify. Sleek luxury rockets as shiny as trophies, designed to impress, or as bedroom lures, not meant for practical transportation.

“They make my ’Vette seem sorta plain,” Gabby said when she noticed where I was looking.

“My legs wouldn’t fit into that little maroon job,” I observed. “Never mind fishing rods or grocery bags after shopping. How much you think it cost?”

“A Ferrari Testarossa?” The girl raised her eyebrows in a way that told me it was better not to know.

“I’ve got a Ford Explorer with a hundred thousand miles, so I’ve been thinking about a truck,” I said. “You seen the new GMC short beds?”

Laughing, Gabby squeezed me closer, which felt natural. Her family had been just as hard-up for money as mine back in school, so it was a sisterly bond we shared. “Robert gets his rocks off strutting through that lot before a cruise,” she smiled. “Just watch him! He does it every time. That’s why he makes the crew park way the hell down there.” She motioned toward a chain-link fence separating the marina from the road. A moment later, though, because I hadn’t responded, Gabby pulled away and asked, “What’s wrong? Hannah . . . ?
Hannah!
”

A rusty old pickup truck that I recognized was turning in to the marina, that’s what was wrong. A red truck I’d seen earlier that day in Caxambas, a lone man behind the steering wheel. Even from a distance, I could tell it wasn’t Eugene Schneider.

I took Gabby by the elbow. “Did anyone call this afternoon and ask if I was on the guest list?”

Flustered, the girl stammered, “I don’t know . . . and what’s it matter? You’re my date, no one’s going to care.”

“It matters, Gabrielle. Or I wouldn’t ask.”

On the shell road, the truck was kicking dust, the driver indifferent to speed signs, one hand on the wheel, the other holding what might have been a cigar.

Gabby said, “This is a private party, so I’m not even sure there is a guest list.” A moment later, she grunted. “Hannah, you’re hurting me!” then yanked her arm free. “Honey, who’s in that truck? What in the hell is going on?”

Ricky Meeks was driving the truck, which Gabby confirmed after watching him park among the expensive cars. “Oh, because of
that
creep. Now I get it. And . . . my God”—Gabby was staring at me—“you’re
afraid
of him, honey. Why?”

She said it because I had pulled her closer to an aluminum storage shed so we could watch Ricky without being noticed. “I’ve never seen him before,” I replied. “Just that picture I showed you.” For some reason, my chest had tightened. It felt harder to breathe.

Hands on hips, Gabrielle studied me for a moment. “
Chica
, tell me the truth. He scares the hell out of you—it’s on your face.”

“Not really—not for myself, anyway,” I replied, which wasn’t true, and Gabby knew it.

“That son of a bitch! He hurt you somehow, didn’t he? You weren’t snooping because he owes a friend of yours money. Ricky did something to you.
What?
Don’t lie to me anymore, Hannah. We can’t be friends if you lie.”