Gone

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.”

“Jake’s niece,” I corrected as we shook hands, listening to the man introduce himself as Cordial Pallet, which made sense once I noticed the Star of David around his neck, the big jaw and deep-set eyes that resembled dozens of other Pallets in the area. The family was well known among commercial fishermen because they’d owned packinghouses and a string of shrimp boats before federal fishing laws chased most the shrimp fleet to Mexico. What was left of the fleet was docked right here, bayside of Estero Island, in the shadow of the Sky Bridge that hurdled Estero Pass onto Fort Myers Beach. Mr. Pallet smiled as we talked and exchanged a few more names, but then the smile faded abruptly. “You say your name’s Hannah Smith?”

Before he could pursue it I told him, “You might be thinking of my late Aunt Hannah. She died ’bout nine years ago.”

“Boat explosion,” the man nodded, thinking back while he inspected me. “I’m not one to speak bad of the dead, but some say that girl had a wild streak. That she got mixed up with bad men. Excuse me for talking straight, but I’m starting to wonder the same about you.”

I didn’t know how to respond. It was 9:30 Saturday morning and was aware I didn’t look my best. And I certainly didn’t feel my best because I hadn’t slept well in Mr. Seasons’s guest cottage, particularly after overhearing an argument between him and Martha Calder-Shaun-she was convinced he’d given me the expensive blouse. Then, around three a.m., the woman had come tap-tapping at my door, wobbly drunk, wearing only a T-shirt and panties.

After that, I hadn’t slept at all.

Before sunup, my boat was pointed south toward Fishermans Wharf, the next barrier island down, running free in the chill of a glassy blue morning, eager for wind to clean away the tension and upset I felt after a night at Lawrence Seasons’s place.

“My aunt was a strong-minded woman,” I said finally, wanting my words to sound sharp. “I wish I had half her spirit-not that it gives anyone else the right to judge how she lived her life.”

“Now, don’t go gettin’ mad,” Mr. Pallet said, apologizing with his tone. “Reason I said it is, why in the world you down here asking about Sybarite? I know they’re advertising what they call a ‘server’s’ position, and a mate’s job, too. But those ain’t jobs for you, young lady. Unless”-the man took a slow step back to get a better look at me-“unless you’re on hard times. Unless you took to smoking them damn drugs like half the island kids I see stumbling around. I’ll have no hand in getting you work on a boat like that. Now, tell me the truth, and I promise I won’t call no cops. You in trouble, I’ll do what I can. My people know people who specialize in helping young folks outta this sort of bad business. By gad, I’ll give you a job myself before pointing you toward a berth aboard Sybarite. It’s the least I can do for your uncle.”

The old man said the vessel’s name as if it were a profanity, so I finally understood why he’d thought the worst of me and had said what he’d said about Hannah Three. It caused me to chuckle, and say, “You’re a nice man, Mr. Pallet. But you’ve got nothing to worry about when it comes to me and what you might be thinking.” I motioned toward the generator he’d been working on. I could see he’d changed the water filter and had the sort of tools laid out on a towel that told me the engine still wouldn’t start. I asked, “You find water in the fuel?”

Instead of answering, the man pressed, “It just doesn’t make sense you asking about Sybarite. There’s no need to lie to me, girl. I haven’t talked to your mamma in years, but I’d know her if I saw her. Met your daddy once or twice before he-” The man was about to say before he ran off but stopped himself in time to finish, “-and your granddaddy was a fine man, too.”

There was a moment of awkwardness, which I shrugged off without much effort. I had no memory of my father. He’d left Loretta when I was three-an insult I’d fumed about until I was old enough to understand my mother’s irritating ways better. The fact that Loretta continues to blame me with her snide comments about my gift for losing men only makes it less of a mystery why a handsome, smiling Army paratrooper would slip out the back door, desperate for freedom.

I knelt by the generator, looking at clamps the old man had removed from the fuel pump’s tubing, and the nut to the high-pressure fuel line. I said, “If you want, I’ll explain my business while I help you bleed the air out of these injector lines. It’s easier with two people. Or have you already tried the lines?”

Mr. Pallet had a lot of kindness and wisdom behind those rheumy eyes of his, and he still appreciated women, judging from the quick peek he stole down my blouse as he squatted beside me. “Dang kraut engines,” he said. “I had to drive all the way back home and get metric wrenches. Guess I should’a tried burping her first.”

“No, sir,” I replied. “Water would have been my first guess, too.” Actually, I would have checked to make sure there was fuel in the tank first, but I didn’t want to insult the man.

He said, “You sure you’re not after quick money working aboard that dang boat? ’Cause if you are-”

I interrupted to ease his mind, saying, “I’m looking for a missing woman. She’s the niece of a friend of mine. I’ve got reason to think the man she’s with might have tricked her into booking a night aboard Sybarite. Might even try to get her to do it again. If one of the crew remembers the woman, maybe they’ll have an address written down or something. That’s the only reason I’m here, Mr. Pallet. I promise.”

“What’s the girl’s name? I’ve still got a good memory for faces and names.”

“The family wants the name kept private,” I told him. “Plus, if word gets around I’m looking for her, she might just run harder.” Sensing the man’s approval, I added, “But I’ll trust you because of who you are.”

When I’d told him Olivia’s name, he said, “Beach people,” which is how old-timers refer to wealthy families who’ve wintered on the islands for generations.

“Her uncle has a place on Captiva, but Olivia lives in Naples. Port Royal. I brought a picture of the man she might be with if you wouldn’t mind having a look.”

“Beach people,” he repeated, meaning it didn’t matter where they lived. As I reached for my equipment bag, though, he said, “Show me later. Meantime, you can explain some important left-out details while we burp these lines. Like why’d a rich family put someone like you on the girl’s trail, not a hired detective or the police?”

As I explained, I was thinking that Lawrence Seasons had been righter than I’d suspected about the value of local contacts and local knowledge, which is why I added, “Main reason they hired me is because of people like you, Mr. Pallet. And that’s the truth.”

In reply to the puzzlement on his face, I added, “You want me to crank the engine while you pull lines? Or I’ll pull lines while you crank. I don’t mind diesel on my hands if that’s a worry.”

The old man liked that. “Good for you. I can’t abide people who waste time yapping away while they could be doin’ something useful.”

So that’s what we did. Talked while we got the generator running.

–

AT A BOARDING RAMP that angled up onto Sybarite’s deck, Mr. Pallet said to a man who looked more like a Colorado ski instructor than a boat captain, “I told this girl I’d skin her alive if she took the mate’s position you’re advertising, but she’s a stubborn one. I’ve made the introductions like promised. Now I’m washing my hands of the whole danged matter.”

The old shrimper and I had become friendly during the thirty minutes it had taken us to get the diesel running. Now he was trying to help me, but his bold approach was unexpected.

Mr. Pallet’s comments, however, struck the good-looking captain as humorous. In the patient way some use when speaking to the elderly, he chuckled, “If you spent more time working, less time listening to gossip, Cordie, you might be able to afford shoes. Maybe a clean shirt to go with it. Cordie…? Cord!” Cordial Pallet had already pivoted and was striding away but finally stopped to listen when the man yelled, “Hey… I’m talking to you, old man!”

Mr. Pallet did a slow turn, his expression blank, but his eyes had the glittery focus of a pit bull watching a trespasser climb a gate. “You talking to me?” he asked, voice soft. Then raised it just enough to interrupt the man’s response, saying, “The name’s Cordial-Captain Pallet to you. Unless you wanna go home and explain to your mamma how some old man stripped the skin off your ass with a strap.”

Mr. Pallet didn’t have shoes, but he was wearing a leather belt and he began unbuckling it, which surprised me because I could see it wasn’t an act. The boat captain realized it, too, which is why he said uneasily, “I was joking, for Christ’s sake! I wanted to ask a simple damn question, that’s all”-the man paused to swallow before adding-“Captain Pallet.”

The old man nodded, his expression showing nothing, but began rebuckling his belt. “What you wanna know?”

The boat captain made a few joking remarks to convince me this sort of exchange happened all the time between him and Mr. Pallet, who he called “this salty old coot,” but Mr. Pallet, stone-faced, finally interrupted, “You got a question or don’t you?”

Sybarite’s captain swallowed again, a nervous man for having a body so tall and lean, muscular-looking in his nautical slacks, canvas belt, and a white short-sleeved shirt, Capt. Robert Simpson embroidered above the pocket. “Is she qualified?” he asked, forcing a tough tone. “Does she have papers and is she qualified? Or does that piss you off for some reason, too?”

Pallet took a slow look at Sybarite, an exotic-looking passenger yacht, three decks high, with sleek black windows that gave the steering room and cabins a secretive look. There was also a tower of electronics spaced between radar cones high above the flybridge where there was what looked like a service bar and a Jacuzzi.

“She’s a hell of a lot more qualified than you, I imagine,” Mr. Pallet said finally. “What you’re really asking is, will I vouch for her? Answer is yes, she’d be first-rate-if I wanted her working for the likes of you and your owners. Which I don’t. But she’s a stubborn one, I wasn’t lying. Whether she takes the job or not, that’s up to her.”

For an instant, just an instant, the old fisherman flashed me a private glance that told me he was manipulating Robert Simpson, giving him a stronger reason to consider me for a job I had no intention of taking. Cause him to hire me just because Mr. Pallet didn’t want it to happen. Which was smart. In reply, I touched an index finger to the side of my nose as a private Thank you, then waved as he walked away, calling, “’Preciate it, Captain! If you have any more trouble with that engine, you’ve got my cell. I’ll be in touch.”

Which was true. In the time we’d spent working on the diesel, I’d grown fond of the man. He was smart, he actually listened to what I had to say and didn’t mince words, yet there was a gentlemanly quality about him that I appreciated-maybe because it’s so rare in men my own age. Whatever the reason, I trusted Mr. Pallet enough to tell him details regarding Olivia Seasons-minus Mrs. Whitney’s name, of course. He’d probably figured out right away why I wanted to get aboard Sybarite, but didn’t let on until I’d showed him the photo of Ricky Meeks. After wiping his hands clean on a rag, the old fisherman had held the photo close, squinting to get a sharper look, then said, “You did good to come to me first, young lady. Wouldn’t be smart to show a thing like this around the boatyards.”

I asked, “Do you remember what he calls himself? The man’s using a couple of names.”

Pallet had replied with a quick shake of the head, then used the towel again, wiping his hands until I’d slipped the photo into an envelope and zipped my canvas bag closed. “You sure he’s the one this rich girl ran off with?”

“No, sir. But my suspicions are getting stronger. You must’ve seen him around.”

The man nodded as I added, “He lives on a boat, maybe he’s got some friends. I wouldn’t ask about him right out, of course-”

Mr. Pallet interrupted, “It’s enemies you’ve got to worry about-man like him doesn’t have friends. People he owes money. Some mad husband who wants to chunk him on the head. Folks think you know a man like that, they’ll assume you’re trash, too. Or you’re an easy way to get some questions answered.”

“You met him,” I said.

Another shake of the head. “Didn’t bother. He owns a beat-up Skipjack cruiser, thirty-footer with a low flybridge, anchored here three or four times in the last year. Paddled ashore in a bluish sort of cheap dinghy. I know the kind’a man he is by the way he handles himself and handles that boat.”

A cabin cruiser with a dinghy stowed on the bow-it matched Lawrence Seasons’s description, I noted, listening to Cordial Pallet continue. “That sorta man, he’s all show and big mouth with women around. Otherwise, he stayed to himself, avoided men. That’s always a bad sign-remember that, young lady. A man without men friends, there’s usually something bad wrong about them. That one”-he had nodded toward my bag, which contained the photo of Meeks-“he reminds me of a thing with teeth that hides in a hole and waits for bait to swim by.”

After that, it was comfortable for me to tell Mr. Pallet what I had in mind. I wanted to board Sybarite in hopes of finding out if Olivia had gone on the Key West cruise, as I suspected, or had booked a future trip. It would confirm that I was right about why she had used her special credit card and that Mr. Seasons was wrong in thinking it meant she’d gotten rid of Ricky Meeks.

I didn’t expect anyone I met to name names, of course. And I couldn’t come right out and ask whether Olivia had been on the boat, but the guest list would be somewhere aboard if the boat’s captain kept proper records. And when Mr. Pallet manipulated the good-looking captain, Robert Simpson, into wanting to hire me, my hopes brightened. Like it or not, men tend to be sloppier about paperwork than women-a boat is no different than an office when it comes to that-so maybe a few months of names were hanging on a clipboard somewhere right out in the open.

That’s what was on my mind as Captain Simpson watched Pallet stride away, the scowl still on his face when he turned to me and said, “You helped him fix an engine? According to locals, there’s nothing that obnoxious old bastard can’t do when it comes to boats. What kind?”

Ignoring the insult, I told him the brand of diesel, saying it in a way that suggested I was being modest.

“You have your Coast Guard papers with you?” Simpson asked the question, trying not to sound impressed, but he was.

I had a copy of my Merchant Mariners 100 Ton Ocean Operator’s license aboard my skiff, which I explained as the good-looking captain waved me up the boarding ramp onto the boat’s deck.

“What’re your operating restrictions? We sail from here to Key West a couple of times a month, but sometimes we do a week trip to the Bahamas. And, about twice a year, the owners fly over to Campeche and meet the boat in Mexico. I make the decisions, but I expect my mate to spend a lot of time at the wheel. If your ticket doesn’t cover the area, we could maybe apply for an extension, but I’d rather have someone already qualified.”

I hoped to impress the man again by telling him my license was designated unlimited, meaning I had no operating restrictions-thanks to my Uncle Jake, who’d always pushed me-before risking a question of my own. “Who’s the owner?”

Simpson had been warming to me, I could sense it, but that changed instantly. He had opened the door to the main salon but now used his body to block my way before replying, “This is a private commercial yacht. Everything about it is private. That includes the name of the owners, the names of our clients. It includes what goes on before charters, during charters, and after charters. Especially during charters. Understand that? What’s your name again?”

I told him, trying not to be obvious about looking past him into the salon, where I was surprised to see a girl about my age whose face seemed familiar. A blond girl, thin as a fashion model, Havana-cream complexion, and what I suspected were grapefruit-sized breast implants straining against a white Sybarite blouse. She was standing at a bar that glistened with varnish, folding cloth napkins, the reflection in the mirror behind her showing the most ornate cabin I’d ever seen on a vessel, exotic inlaid wood, brass fixtures, spotless maritime glass.

“Hannah Smith,” Simpson repeated before saying, “The first rule aboard Sybarite is, my crew keeps their mouths shut. They don’t ask questions-not about the owner, our clients, nothing-unless the question has something to do with their job. If you don’t think you can do that, we might as well stop the tour right here.”

I looked into the man’s green eyes long enough to say, “A client’s privacy and safety, those are the two most important things, I agree,” then let my gaze drift past the girl to my shoes, which is something I did a couple of more times while Simpson continued to lecture me.

“Sybarite isn’t some head boat that hauls tourists a mile offshore to catch trash fish. We cater to an exclusive clientele who demand the best, Hannah, so I only hire the best. It’s way too early to start talking money, but I guarantee you won’t believe what my first mate makes in tips alone. In return, I demand total dedication to your job. That means total dedication to our clients as well. Understood?”

Maybe. The man said it in a way to suggest a double meaning that, knowing what I knew about Sybarite, had a whorish ring. I was more interested in the girl who had paused, an unfolded napkin in her hand. She recognized me, too, I realized. She was staring in my direction, her memory probably trying to do the same as mine, attach a name to a face I hadn’t seen since… college? No… high school, more likely. My time at community college was more like a day job than an educational experience. I hadn’t socialized at all.

Simpson had finally allowed me into the salon and was leading me toward the steering room, now saying Sybarite’s crew was more like a “close-knit little fraternity,” which caused the blond girl to roll her eyes as we passed by, her smile not bitter, exactly, but not cheerful either. That’s when the name came to me: Gabrielle Corrales, a popular, flat-chested girl (at the time) who had inherited a slight Cuban accent but not much of the language and who’d run for an office of some type, posting cardboard signs in the halls. When I stopped, though, wondering if I should say hello, Gabrielle used a panicked look and a quick shake of her head to urge me to keep moving. So I did. We hadn’t been friends in school, so I was neither worried nor hurt. Even so, I was curious about the girl’s behavior and determined to find a way to speak with her in private. A girl who folded napkins as part of her job had less to lose by talking about clients than a starched yacht captain who probably made a good living and who clearly was protective of the boat’s privacy.

It happened. Half an hour later, when I’d finished my interview and was crossing the parking lot toward the docks, Gabrielle pulled beside me in a red Corvette convertible, top up, engine running to stay cool in the June heat.

“Get in, chula,” she said, the window cracked only a few inches.

“What?”

“You heard me!”

Caught by surprise, I hesitated and checked my watch. Nathan would be arriving in twenty minutes to drive me to Olivia’s house, but the girl didn’t give me a chance to explain. She pushed the passenger door open and hissed, “Hurry up! Trust me, you don’t want him to see us together.”

Sybarite’s captain, Robert Simpson, I assumed.

I got in the car, which felt cramped with legs as long as mine until I found the power-seat adjustment. After that, riding in Gabrielle’s Corvette was more like riding in a spaceship.

“Where we going?” I asked, then was slammed back in my seat when she accelerated.

Upset enough that it fired her Cuban vocabulary, Gabrielle replied, “Someplace safe! We need to talk, chinga, or you’re screwed!”