Gone

EIGHT

IDLING 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.