Gone

THIRTEEN

THAT AFTERNOON, I WAS STANDING WITH NATHAN INSIDE Olivia’s “room” and had just seen for myself that Gabby Corrales was right about Port Royal. Every mansion was a gated island, crowns of brick or stone poking through the trees, with winding driveways shaded by oaks or, in Olivia’s case, a quarter mile of royal palms, solid as cement, the trees spaced like shaggy utility poles.

Voice low, Nathan said to me, “Even he can tell. Did you see the way he stared? We need to get you home and put you to bed before he says something. Or calls the DEA.”

My friend was referring to the uniformed guard who had signed us in at the security pavilion after stubbing out his cigar. Then he’d let us into the Seasonses’ mansion, using keys he had taken from a lockbox, and was now stationed at the door.

“I am not stoned,” I whispered for the umpteenth time, which was untrue, possibly because I now at least imagined feeling spooked and sort of fuzzy. When I saw that Nathan was grinning, though, I slapped his shoulder and told him, “Stop doing that… please. You’re making me paranoid. Look around the rest of the house… or wait outside. I need time to concentrate.”

Nathan was doing a slow three-sixty, still marveling at the spaciousness of Olivia’s suite and also the monkish way she had stripped the walls of decorations and painted everything white.

“Chastity and virtue,” he said. “That’s the message I’m getting. And a ton of guilt-you two ladies have a lot in common.”

“Olivia goes through phases,” I explained, ignoring the gibe. “Mr. Seasons said a Goth stage back in high school. In her mid-twenties, she got into yoga and meditation, then drugs and nightclubs for a while-but only a few months, it didn’t take her long to snap out of it. Because she was dating some guy, he says. Lately, it’s religion. Religion, growing orchids, and painting. He says Olivia lives like a monk. Or did before Ricky Meeks came along.”

“A monastery,” Nathan agreed, “that’s what this place reminds me of. But where’s all her personal stuff? Things she doesn’t want anyone else to see?” He motioned toward a rostrum in the corner that held a lone orchid. “A single flower-the only color in the whole damn room, which would drive Darren nuts. And her paintings? Where’re her paintings?”

Looking at the orchid, I shrugged, no answer to offer. The orchid’s petals were white ivory fringed with pink, not much color left. Wilting from lack of sunlight and attached to a vertical base, the plant leaned like a shepherd’s crook… or a weary question mark. It felt strange to be in Olivia’s room, talking about her, poking into her privacy with only her uncle’s permission. I wouldn’t have tolerated it. Even reminding myself it was for Olivia’s own good didn’t make me any less eager to get this over with. But it would take a while. Her part of the house consisted of most of the mansion’s east wing, which included an office, a bathroom with a bidet and sauna, a living room that opened out onto a waterfront porch and orchid house, a full kitchen, and a vaulted-ceiling bedroom with a walk-in closet that was larger than any two bedrooms I’d ever had.

“Why would anyone run away from this?” Nathan asked, then opened venetian blinds to look out a window. “Christ, she’s even got her own lap pool and Jacuzzi. How do you think you’d handle it? Being this rich.”

Rather than answering, or explaining the difference between rich and wealthy, I put my hands on his back and steered the man toward the door. “Out! Get serious and try to find something useful. This girl’s in real trouble. Hasn’t that sunk in yet?”

On the drive to Naples, I had shared what Gabby had told me about Ricky Meeks. She had not only seen Meeks on several cruises, she’d asked Robert Simpson to ban him from the boat after clients had complained about his behavior.

“Robert wouldn’t do it, of course,” Gabby had said, then explained the reason.

“Ricky is what we call a ‘teaser pony.’ He finds a woman who’s super-wealthy, talks her into a cruise, and Robert pays him a percentage or maybe a flat fee. The woman never knows, of course. Even I wouldn’t know for sure if I didn’t tally the bar receipts after a cruise. All the guy’s drinks are comped-what’s that tell you?

“I’m guessing we have maybe a dozen teaser ponies,” she’d continued, “mostly women and gays who do five or six cruises a year. Regulars who’re good at what they do, never cause any trouble. Ricky is more of a freelancer. He did some bottom work on Sybarite a few years back. You know, went down with tanks and scraped barnacles or something and has been around ever since. Robert says he’s good at that sort of work. Lifting, painting, boatyard stuff, so he’s useful. But why he puts up with the guy’s bullshit on cruises, I’ve got no idea.”

The problem with Ricky Meeks, Gabby told me, was that he was pure West Texas trash, nothing classy about him, although he could act the part up to a point. The more he drank, though, the meaner and louder he got. That wasn’t all bad, depending on the clients, because “rough trade” was Ricky’s specialty, a term the girl had to explain to me, which was embarrassing. The look of disgust on my face had obviously amused her.

“Live and let live,” Gabby had warned. “If I judged people by their secret fantasies-knowing some of the crazy things I’ve seen on our trips?-I’d be afraid to leave the house. That’s one thing I’ve learned working aboard Sybarite. Even the nicest, best sort of people-men and women both-have a dark little place in their brain just aching to be itched.” The girl had looked at me for a long second before asking, “Are you saying you’re any different?”

No, I could not-particularly after what I’d experienced when a drunken Martha Calder-Shaun had come tapping at the guesthouse door last night, wearing only a T-shirt and panties. I hadn’t admitted that to Gabby, of course. I hadn’t even shared it with Nathan and wasn’t sure I would, although I had debated it in my head for the hour it took us to get to Port Royal. If anyone would understand, it was him.

“Robert’s gay,” Gabby had informed me after talking awhile about people’s behavior in a way that sometimes sounded mean but more often fair and thoughtful, which had impressed me. “He won’t admit he’s gay, of course-and Ricky goes both ways, which I know from at least one trip for sure. So maybe that’s the answer. Ricky probably has something on Robert. Plus, he brings in money. That’s what it always comes down to, sweetie: money. If anyone tries to tell you different, they are totally full of mierda. Money, money, money. Know what that means?”

Even if I didn’t, I’d have understood from the way she said the word.

–

ALL OF THESE THOUGHTS and snatches of conversation were colliding inside my head while I attempted an orderly search of Olivia’s rooms, occasionally taking photos with my cell phone to help me remember what I was seeing. It was difficult to keep my mind focused, and the little I found was upsetting instead of helpful, although it meshed with what I knew about the girl.

“You come from opposite backgrounds,” a buzzed Lawrence Seasons had confided last night, “but Olivia and you strike me as similar in at least a few ways. Subtle similarities, unusual, and hard to put into words. You both have a sort of attractiveness that… well, it takes some time to appreciate. Unique, you know? And the look in your eyes when your attention wanders. Olivia was detached from people, even in a crowded room. My guess is, the same’s true of you.”

Unusual similarities despite our differences. That part, at least, was soon confirmed.

Olivia’s dressing room closet, which was large enough to stock a women’s department store, was so empty my footsteps echoed off the tile floor. Inside were hundreds of empty hangers but only a few simple dresses, mostly in earth colors-which I happen to prefer-and several careful stacks of shorts, jeans, and blouses that were suitable for gardening and hiking-or even fishing-all neatly folded.

I snapped a few photos, which was useful because the flash revealed something my eyes had missed. Against the far corner were three overstuffed garbage bags covered by a white sheet, which caused them to blend in with the walls.

Donations to Goodwill was the first explanation that came to mind. If so, Naples had the luckiest store in Florida, judging from what I found. Inside were some of the most beautiful jackets, dresses, blouses, and women’s suits I’d ever seen. Rather than hurry, I began transferring garments to hangers, telling myself that creating an orderly display from the jumble was better than scattering Olivia’s personal things on the floor. It showed respect, and also provided a cleaner overview of the girl as a person-the way her mind worked, her private preferences.

This was the first discovery that proved how similar our tastes are. Or were. Olivia was a jeans girl who liked her pants snug fitting, low on the hips, tapered lean at the calves, which is best for wearing boots. Same with me. She preferred understated clothing to the ornate. Many of the designer labels were foreign, but some I recognized from clothes I had admired in stores and catalogs but were too crazy expensive to buy-several Versace blouses among them. A few labels I knew from my own closet: Calvin Klein, Polo, and a cocktail dress that was almost exactly like a black Donna Karan I’d discovered on sale at T.J.Maxx and had guarded on my way to the checkout as if it were stolen treasure.

I snapped more photos, then couldn’t help but carry Olivia’s version of the dress to a mirror and hold it up to see how it would fit. She was a tall girl, too, but thinner-a diagnosed anorexic, Mr. Seasons had told me. Even so, I liked what I was seeing. The dress was elegant but informal… and sexy in a tasteful, flirting sort of way, so I’d yet to find an occasion, or the nerve, to wear it.

As I looked into the mirror, I imagined Olivia modeling this same dress right here where I was standing-she undoubtedly had. I imagined her striking similar poses, her face replacing my own so totally that I had to give my head a shake. To clear my mind, I thought about tomorrow night’s party and remembered that Gabby had told me to wear something classy but comfortable-a black cocktail dress would work.

“Maybe,” I whispered to the girl staring at me from the mirror. “We’ll see.” Then I returned to the closet to check the other garbage bags-a decision that affected me in a way that was more emotional than expected.

I’m not as crazy about shopping and clothing as some women, but I do have a love for shoes-boots especially-as well as fine purses and wallets. The odor of soft leather and the feather lightness of shoes or boots beautifully crafted can lift my spirits faster than anything I know. More than once when feeling depressed or lonely, I have bought new shoes or a handbag I couldn’t afford, indifferent to the guilt I knew I’d experience the next day when I returned it.

Olivia was much the same, which was soon obvious, but wealthy enough to avoid the humiliation of standing in line at the return counter. I found dozens of pairs of shoes-sandals, espadrilles, heels, and boots. My God, the boots! Beautiful hand-sewn leather from Italy, butter-soft in my hands, several pairs I would have loved to own. Especially a pair of black butch-looking faux biker boots that were ankle-high with silver pirate buckles on the sides. I’d coveted a similar pair at Saks-eight hundred dollars! Thank God, Olivia wore a size 9, which was a size too small for me or I’d have been tempted to try them on. There were also purses by Kate Spade and two fine wallets, one exactly like the brown clutch wallet I’d bought for my birthday only a few weeks ago. T.J.Maxx again. On sale, half retail.

As I took more photos, I wondered if Olivia had enjoyed the same feeling I got when finding such treasures in a store. Of course she had. The proof was right here. The connection gave me a strange feeling, but not so strong it erased obvious questions. Why would Olivia dispose of so many beautiful things in garbage bags? Tired of wearing them? That struck me as improbable. Every garment smelled and looked so new. More likely, it had to do with her recent monkish behavior. Even so, no matter how religious, it didn’t make sense. A pious woman who had gained or lost a lot of weight might donate fine clothing, stuffing it into garbage bags, but no woman in her right mind would part with a pair of classic boots.

In her right mind…

Was that the only explanation?

No. I wouldn’t let myself believe that a girl who was about my age, with similar tastes, had actually lost control of her own brain. Olivia had been lonely-I could relate. She had some neurotic quirks-who doesn’t? But insane? Just thinking the word gave me a chill.

It took a while, but I settled on other possibilities. Olivia had been so unhappy, she’d decided to sever herself from the person she had once been, so she had thrown away her finest clothes to prove she no longer cared about material possessions. Or… or she’d done it as a form of penitence, a way of punishing herself for whatever guilty things she had done or imagined. That possibility, at least, might explain why she could allow herself to fall under the power of an abusive man like Ricky Meeks.

I thought about it as I finished with the closet, then went from room to room, snapping pictures, but found nothing else interesting or revealing. Finally, I entered Olivia’s office and sat at the desk, where, as I already knew, Mr. Seasons had found the laptop computer and the few photos he’d shown me. The office chair was on rollers, covered in soft stressed leather. I leaned back, put my feet on the desk, and let my mind wander.

Where are the things she doesn’t want anyone else to see?

Nathan had asked that question and he was right. Everyone has a secret place where they hide their most personal possessions-myself included. Unless Olivia had anticipated her rooms being searched, I had missed something. What?

I sat up and took a closer look at the desk. It was an antique office desk made of oiled oak, too masculine for most women but exactly the sort of thing I liked. Had Olivia sat here when she’d made entries in her journal? It still bothered me that her diary had ended so abruptly. Two entries on the same page, dated the week Ricky Meeks had arrived, then only blank pages afterward. Was it possible that she had written about their relationship but had torn the pages out for safekeeping? Yes. More likely, though, it was Meeks who had found the diary and destroyed any entries that had incriminated him.

I scooted the chair away from the desk and looked at the floor. For a diary, Olivia had used a common spiral notebook like students use in school. The kind that scatters tiny shards of paper when a page is ripped out. On my hands and knees, I found several such shards scattered like confetti beneath the desk, hidden from the maid’s broom.

Did it prove someone had taken pages from the diary? No… but it was evidence that it might have happened. If so, where were the missing pages?

I took a photo, then stood and checked the trash basket. Empty. Meeks wouldn’t have hidden the missing pages inside the desk, but Olivia might have done exactly that if the desk contained a safe hiding place.

I sat in the leather chair and went to work. One by one, I opened drawers, testing each for a false bottom. There were no secret compartments, but the large bottom file-sized drawer was locked. It didn’t take me long to find the key, which was hidden on a hook beneath the desk.

Inside the drawer was the private cache I’d hoped to find minus the missing diary pages-at first glance, anyway. There were several packets of letters tied in bundles with red ribbon. One batch might have been from the guy Olivia had dated during what Mr. Seasons referred to as “her rebellious stage,” the short period where she’d experimented with drugs-the dated postmarks matched up. They contained greeting cards or birthday cards, from the looks of the envelopes, the sort of stuff people don’t send by e-mail. There was a smaller stack from Olivia’s father-one letter from France, two from Monaco, one from Madrid-along with a few dozen envelopes that dated back to her middle school years, all from what were probably old girlfriends.

I didn’t take photos of the envelopes nor did I open even one. The prospect of reading Olivia’s private mail gave me the creeps, so I refused to invent an excuse to do it. After placing the letters on the desk, I then took out an ornate wooden box that might have been a jewelry case. Maybe the missing pages of her diary were inside.

Not even close. When I opened the lid and saw what was inside, my ears began to warm from embarrassment for Olivia… plus a mixture of embarrassment and guilt for myself. The day before, I’d experienced a similar reaction. It was when Loretta had intentionally shamed me by talking about the “electric candle” she’d found hidden among my clothing. Olivia, though, had been smarter. Instead of shoving her pleasurable items into a drawer, trusting that all people are decent, she’d protected her privacy with a locked door and a hidden key.

I felt sneaky and rude when I realized what I had stumbled onto. Even so, my eyes couldn’t help lingering on the items the girl had collected. There were several what Loretta had referred to as “gadgets.” Different shapes, petite sizes, two of them so unusually designed that it took me a moment to decipher their purpose. Only one was cheap enough to rely on a plug-in cord-a brand available at most pharmacies but that also could be found in a shoe box I now kept hidden on my top closet shelf. The other objects, though, appeared either soft and expensive or as complicated as computer games, which possibly explained why they required wall chargers.

Good for you, I thought, feeling even closer to Olivia than when I had fixated on her photo as an awkward, unhappy child. No risk of disappointment, or guilt, or clumsiness.

How well I knew the freedom that the privacy of my aloneness offered… and the comfort only my own imagination could provide. Olivia’s life was the same in that way, too. She had experienced the same physical loneliness. Probably the same frustrations and fears as well. It was such a powerful secret to share that my feelings of sneakiness vanished. I would not take photos of what I’d found, of course, but it felt okay to do what I was doing.

No longer embarrassed, I noted what else the box contained, using just my eyes, not my hands. Wedged among the pleasurable items was a vial of lotion, several DVDs in plain paper sleeves, what might have been magazine photos, and sheer lace panties folded on the bottom. True, I felt more sisterly toward Olivia, but I wasn’t going to rummage through her intimate things for the sake of lace panties or pictures of movie stars wearing tight jeans. The DVDs, though, were a different story. They were stacked faceup, easy to see if I was willing to use an index finger to flip through them.

I was willing. The nosy, bawdy woman who hides inside my head, though, was soon disappointed. Instead of sensual, erotic titles, the DVDs were unlabeled except for one, upon which, in Olivia’s hand, was written Orchid House, along with the date May 17.

The date caught my eye because it was about two weeks after Meeks had arrived in Naples. Was it possible the girl had been recording the progress of her new orchid house and had accidentally-or intentionally-included video footage of Ricky?

Mr. Seasons had told me I could remove useful material from Olivia’s room as long as I cataloged it and returned it. I was holding several DVDs in both hands, my brain arguing with my conscience, when a voice asked from the doorway, “Find anything juicy? I did-maybe.”

The DVDs jumped from my hands and clattered to the floor, I was so startled. It was Nathan. Laughing as I knelt to retrieve the things, he said, “You’re not the only girl with a guilty conscience who’s sat at that desk. I found Olivia’s art studio.”

Too irritated to wonder what he meant, I replied, “How’s a man your size move so quiet? It’s not human-and just plain rude. Someone should tie a bell around your neck.”

Unfazed, Nathan was walking toward me, saying, “I didn’t risk asking the security guard why the studio’s padlocked. He was out back for some reason when I got there. So I had to wait until he was gone. Did you see him?”

I glanced at the window as I shook my head. Was there a chance the guard had seen me at Olivia’s desk? The possibility troubled me, but it was unlikely. I had checked the window several times.

“Her art studio’s the cottage next to the orchid house,” Nathan continued. “So I used a screwdriver and took off the hasp. He’ll never even know we were there unless you-” He stopped in midsentence, watching me slam the wooden box closed before he could see what was inside. “Hey,” he said, “what’d you find? You’re hiding something.”

Ignoring him, I returned the box to the drawer, stacked the packets of letters as I had found them, and then locked the drawer in too much of a hurry to remember I’d left the DVDs on the desk. “Turn your back,” I told Nathan.

“What?”

“You heard me. I found something of Olivia’s that’s private. And that’s the way it’s going to stay. Private.”

Exasperated but in a good-natured way, Nate spun around. While I hid the key under the desk, he couldn’t help chiding me, saying, “You’ll probably want to buy a new lock for her studio, too, if you’re feeling that protective. There’s a reason she doesn’t want anyone to see her paintings. You two ladies have a lot in common, Hannah. Just like I said.”