Gone

TWO

MR. LAWRENCE SEASONS PLACED A NAPKIN BENEATH HIS glass, scowled at the ring on the table, then summoned the maid, before telling me, “I invited you because we have a problem and a woman’s insight might be helpful. It has to do with my niece. She hasn’t disappeared, exactly. But we don’t know where she is and she won’t return our calls. Every two weeks, though, as required by the trust, she telephones the executor’s office-that’s my office. But then hangs up before my secretary can ask any questions.”

I said, “Hmmm,” as if I understood, but, of course, I did not. “How can your secretary be sure it’s your niece calling?”

“We gave her a list of test questions that only Olivia could answer. It’s the first thing she does when Olivia checks in.”

“Olivia…?”

“Olivia Tatum Seasons. My late brother’s only child.”

I asked, “Any close friends you could get to talk to her?”

“We’ve tried,” Mr. Seasons said. “Olivia doesn’t have many friends-not that she trusts, anyway.”

“What about Ms. Calder-Shaun? She seems like a nice lady. Or her mother? Sometimes a minister can talk to people when no one else can.”

He shook his head. “Her mother moved to Europe long ago. And Olivia’s stepmother is only ten years older than Olivia. She was an actress. Still is, I suppose. And, well”-Mr. Seasons swirled the ice in his glass-“she and the stepmother have never gotten along. You can see why it’s become a problem.”

“What about Olivia’s cell?” I offered. “Most phones have a GPS signal.”

The man attempted to cloak his impatience at what I realized was an obvious suggestion but was still polite enough to reply, “Yes, actually, we did think of it. She’s turned off the GPS service. Or gotten a different phone.”

To my left, outside the ballroom-sized enclosure that screened the swimming pool, a cabana, and an outdoor gas kitchen, I could see a dock through the foliage, and the shiny transom of Mr. Seasons’s expensive yacht. The vessel dwarfed my little skiff, which was tied in the shallows like a waiting pony. I was beginning to wish I was on my boat, and gone. But I tried again by asking the niece’s age and what she was like.

“As a person, I mean,” I said.

“Olivia just turned thirty-about the same age as you, I would guess. But her behavior is not as… solid?” The man thought about it for a moment, his silver hair catching the light. “No, that’s not the right word. Olivia has lived a privileged life, I’ll put it that way. It’s like mothers who use antibacterial soap. Their children don’t build up the necessary immunities-you know, out there wrestling in the mud, swapping germs on the playground. The same with Olivia. Her father’s wealth protected her, so now she doesn’t possess the immunities-street savvy, you might say-that a woman needs to function in the real world.” He paused when we heard the click of shoes on Mexican tile.

I had been doing my best not to gawk but the maid was marching toward us and I couldn’t help glancing beyond her into the library beyond. Through doors framed with pecky cypress, I saw a room that was a museum of artwork and antiques. A chandelier sprinkled light across a marble floor, then spilled over onto sculptures, Renaissance-looking paintings, an oriental carpet, and the largest fireplace I’d ever seen in Florida, or anywhere else.

I said to the maid, “Thank you, ma’am,” as she poured tea over ice, then returned my attention to Mr. Seasons. “I can’t imagine how I can help. But I’d be pleased to try.”

The man waited with exaggerated patience while the maid wiped the table and didn’t respond until she was out of earshot. The interruption prompted him to say, “Everything we say here is confidential-I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that.”

“Sure-of course,” I said, and tried the tea. It was unsweetened instant tea, weak as tap water. I was reminded that by boating five miles across the bay, I had entered a different world. I’d left behind what remains of Old Florida and was now in one of the wealthiest enclaves of the North’s southernmost state.

“You know, I’ve been very impressed by your competence as a fishing guide,” he continued. “I hope I didn’t offend by mentioning confidentiality. It’s not that I’m sharing some terrible family secret, it’s just-”

“First thing I learned,” I said, trying to help the man, “is my clients have a right to their privacy, whether they’re on my boat or a thousand miles away at home. What they say when I’m around leaves when they leave the dock. Fishing guides who aren’t respectful don’t last very long.”

“Exactly,” Mr. Seasons said, then sat up straighter and smiled as if a pleasing thought had just come into his mind. “I bet Captain Jake taught you that. Professionalism. He took a lot of pride in what he did.”

“My uncle knew his business,” I agreed.

“My God, I fished with Jake for almost twenty years before he got sick. All kinds of weather. I’ve always said you can learn more about a man’s character in eight hours fishing than you can in eight years at some damn office pretending to be something you’re not. That applies to women, too, of course. You are a very impressive young woman, Captain Smith.”

I smiled my appreciation, although I don’t particularly like being called captain. In my mind, a real captain stands at the wheel of a ship, not a twenty-one-foot skiff.

Mr. Seasons’s mind was still on the subject of fishing. “March and April were my favorite months because we’d hunt those big female tarpon at the mouth of the river. But we’d go holidays, too. Christmas was always fun, if the bay wasn’t too rough. I remember one afternoon-this was around Thanksgiving, I think-it was glassy calm, like summer, and Jake took me offshore looking for tripletail. Now, the tripletail is a very strange fish, isn’t it? Floats on the surface like a giant leaf. So convinced it’s invisible, you can scoop it up in a net, don’t even need bait. Some people are like that. Unaware of their vulnerability, secure in their own illusions. I’m afraid my niece, Olivia, might be one of them.”

I nodded, aware he didn’t expect an answer.

“Tell me, Hannah, have you done much fishing in the Ten Thousand Islands area?”

He was asking about a wilderness region forty miles south, a jigsaw puzzle of uninhabited islands, black water, and swamp that abutted the Everglades. I could picture the mangrove shadows and smell the brackish air as he continued, “I’ve fished there twice. Liked it, but found it a little spooky, too. For an outsider, I mean. All that unmarked water… all those little backcountry towns where people’re still suspicious of strangers. Everglades City, Caxambas, Goodland, Chokoloskee-do you know the waters down there at all?”

For some reason, I got the strong impression the question had more to do with his missing niece than fishing. I said, “Vacations, Jake would take me camping on Panther Key, just off the channel into Everglades. There’s a little strand of beach, and we’d fish the whole area. Refuel and sometimes eat at Chokoloskee, there’s a couple of nice places. You knew Mary, before they split up?”

“Jake’s wife, of course. A, uhh… a lovely lady.”

There was nothing lovely or nice about my uncle’s poisonous ex-wife, but I said, “She didn’t care much for being outdoors, so I filled in.”

Mr. Seasons liked something about the way I said it. It caused him to grin, and remember, “Jake always told me his niece was the son he’d never had. And he was the-”

The father you never had, is what the man meant to say but caught himself in time. Instead, without fumbling too badly, he finished, “-he was the best uncle he could be to his favorite niece.”

In that instant, I liked Mr. Seasons better than I had during the five or six times he’d chartered my boat. Thought it was sweet of him to worry about hurting my feelings as I watched his smile turn inward, aware he was thinking about the days he’d spent on the water with my uncle. Mr. Seasons had a nice face, tan and smooth with angles. Still handsome for a man in his fifties, which may seem strange for a woman my age to notice, but Loretta is right when she accuses me of liking older men. Particularly the strong ones, and Mr. Seasons certainly qualified. His was the sort of regal face you see at charity functions, framed neatly by a starched tuxedo collar, or at tennis clubs where people dress in white and talk about the heat.

Because of mother’s gossiping, it was a battle not to imagine this fit-looking rich man when he was fifteen years younger, trying to seduce my aunt who was wild in her ways and who loved men-something I knew for a fact because I’ve read Hannah Three’s journals many times. But then the man saved me by launching into a story about landing a hundred-pound bull shark, which required that I pretend to be interested.

Mr. Season went on for several minutes about catching that shark, which clients tend to do when they’ve enjoyed themselves. My tea was gone when he finally changed the subject, saying, “Over the years, a man’s fishing guide becomes an extended member of the family. That’s how close Jake and I were.” His eyes focused tight on my face. “He did some other work for me, too.”

Now we were coming to it. He said, “It was my understanding you worked for Jake at the little investigation agency we started. Office work, but you also took the state test and got your license-what, about three or four years ago?”

Part of what he’d said surprised me. “I knew my uncle had a financial backer, but I didn’t know it was you, Mr. Seasons. You’re the one put up the money for the office?” Now I was worried, thinking maybe Jake had died owing the man money.

Seasons didn’t respond. Instead, he sipped his drink, eyes still on me, waiting for the rest of my answer.

I said, “Well… I worked part-time at the agency while I was going to community college. I was after an associate degree in criminal law, so it was a good fit. And Jake needed the help. But we were never that busy, you know-Jake mostly fished. Four, maybe five years, I worked a few afternoons a week, or at night, at the agency. Depending on how much free time I had from my studies. Sometimes, I even got class credit for what I did.”

Because it was true, I had to add, “Jake never took the business that seriously, in my opinion. It was just something to bring in a little extra money. And because I think he sometimes missed being a police officer after he got hurt and was put on disability.”

I didn’t like the way Mr. Seasons was staring at me now. It made me uncomfortable, and gave the impression this wealthy man in the creased slacks and white Ralph Lauren shirt knew things about my own uncle that I didn’t know myself.

Turned out, he did.

–

LAWRENCE SEASONS looked down, seeming to be perturbed that the ice had melted in his drink.

“I forget,” he began, which told me I was being tested, “when was your uncle shot? Was it when he was working undercover in Tampa? Or when he was in South America, working for that federal agency?”

Sometimes I dislike myself for not being able to hide my reactions better, particularly when I’m embarrassed, or-in this case-blindsided. My uncle had worked for a federal agency? It was news to me.

I replied, “Mr. Seasons, we agreed your family’s business is personal and private. Just because my family lives across the bay doesn’t mean I don’t expect the same courtesy. If you want to discuss your niece, I’ll listen. If not, I’ve got work that needs doing.”

Instead of being offended, the man nodded his approval. “Made you mad, didn’t I?”

I shrugged, the way people do when they’re lying.

He set his glass on the table as if he’d just made a decision. “You’ve got backbone, Hannah. And you don’t rattle easily. I like that. I’ve always suspected it, but you proved it yesterday, the way you took charge when that storm chased us. Other times, too-remember last year when I told you to gaff that tarpon? A seven-foot fish, had to weigh close to two hundred pounds. Biggest I’ve ever landed. Wanted to have it mounted, but you refused. There was nothing I could say to change your mind. You are one stubborn lady.”

What the man had wanted was to hang a dead fish for his friends to admire and to snap pictures. By refusing him, I’d made him so angry he’d only tipped me five bucks, then booked two different guides later in the week before deciding he had better luck on my boat.

Even so, I reminded him, “Fish mounts are made from Styrofoam and plastic. All the taxidermist needs is the measurements. There was no reason to kill that fish, Mr. Seasons, or I would have done what you told me. I’m not stubborn when it comes to taking orders-unless I know I’m right.”

The man laughed as if I’d said something funny, then turned serious. “You still haven’t answered my question. The reason I fronted money to your uncle is because I needed someone I could trust to do certain jobs for me. Background checks, mostly, on staff I hired to take care of our properties in Florida, or people who came to me with business proposals. Your uncle had an incredible amount of local knowledge when it came to fishing-but also about people, too. In an area like this, where almost everyone’s from somewhere else, that’s more valuable than you probably realize. Local knowledge and integrity-that’s a rare combination these days. What I’m getting at is-” The man paused, then changed his approach. “There’s a legal term-‘due diligence.’ Do you know what it means?”

I did, but I let him talk.

“It has to do with taking responsible steps to gather information in an accountable way. If for some reason I had to go to court or to my insurance agency, I couldn’t just tell them, ‘Well, I hired my old buddy Captain Jake to do the background check because he’s an ex-cop and a great guy.’ It would be meaningless. But if I hired a licensed, bonded professional by the name of Jake Smith, I would have fulfilled my responsibilities regarding due diligence. Same person, same talents, but entirely different in a legal sense. We could then pursue the matter through whatever legal avenues available. Opening that little agency was my idea, not your uncle’s. I suspect you didn’t know that either. Understand now why I’m asking personal questions?”

Mr. Seasons was looking at me in a kindly way, but there was also an underlying bedrock seriousness that is not uncommon in my successful clients.

I decided to open up a little. “Jake was always after me to better myself any way I could. I got my captain’s license because of him. Never thought I’d need it, but he gave me the books and helped me study. Same with the private investigator thing. In Florida, a person with two years’ experience at an agency can apply for a Class C license, which my uncle insisted I do. Then when Jake got sick, he had me upgrade to a Class M license so I could sign paperwork that needed taking care of.”

“Have you kept your license current?”

“No need,” I replied. “It hasn’t expired.”

Mr. Seasons was pleased, I could see it. Because I didn’t want to mislead him, though, I felt obligated to add, “But I won’t renew it when the time comes. There’s a fee, and I have no interest in doing that sort of work. For one thing, I quit college before I got my degree, so I’m not qualified-aside from doing the computer stuff. I’m sorry your niece is missing, but if that’s why you asked me to lunch, I’ve got enough charters booked to last me through the first week of-”

Lawrence Seasons was searching around for the maid, still perturbed about his melted ice. As he stood, not looking at me, he interrupted, “Just a few seconds ago, didn’t you say you never thought you’d need your captain’s license either?”

“That’s different,” I told him. “Finding fish is something that comes natural. And I like my clients. It always irks me when I hear some guide talking about his anglers like they’re idiots. Why in the world would someone go into the business if that’s the way they feel? The main thing, though, is-and I don’t mean to be blunt-agency work, the investigating part, is boring. Hunched over a computer for hours, calling strangers on the phone. Jake offered me the business, maybe you know that, too. But we were only billing about two or three hours a month, which didn’t even pay utilities. So we closed it officially a few weeks before he went into Hope Hospice. Now I’ve converted the space into a sort of apartment, and that’s where-” I hesitated because it was embarrassing to admit I was living in a parking lot next to a 7-Eleven and a fitness club. So I left that part out, saying, “-and that’s what happened to the little building you helped Jake buy.”

Maybe Mr. Seasons heard me, maybe he didn’t. I got the impression what I was saying didn’t matter much, anyway, because the man had already made up his mind. I found that irritating. He had invited me to his home, the least he could do is listen respectfully.

Instead, though, he said, “Excuse me,” turned on his heels, and carried his empty glass into the house before I could finish what I was saying.

Loretta accuses me of having a temper, which might be true, but only when someone is unfair or treating others like they’re not worth the time of day. That’s the way I felt now, so I got up, exited the pool area, and walked toward the dock, telling myself I should hop in my skiff and go home-although I knew I wouldn’t do it. Then, a moment later, I heard Mr. Seasons calling, “Hannah-hold on there!” then turned to watch him maneuver through the lanai door, trying not to spill his fresh drink in one hand and carrying what looked like an old leather briefcase in his other.

“Needed to check on my boat,” I told him, then waited for him to join me on the dock.

“Here,” he said, handing me the briefcase. “These are some things Jake asked me to hang on to but I kept forgetting to return. You can look at them later. Let’s get our business settled first, okay?”

Too late. I had unsnapped the case, which was heavier than expected, and saw that it contained two oversized books, one of them on Florida history that I remembered seeing as a girl. As I stowed the briefcase beneath my skiff’s steering console, I couldn’t help but stare up at the yacht moored a few yards away, which he noticed. His expression suddenly warmed as if he’d just had a good idea.

“A beauty, isn’t she?” His eyes were tracing the vessel’s clean lines, all teak, tempered glass, and stainless steel. “I had her built in Palmetto almost… my God, more than fifteen years ago. It’s a shame, really. Sits here at the dock like a yard decoration. Only used the thing once in the last two years. My wife hates Florida-I’ve probably mentioned that. So I have one of the Jensen brothers stop every week or so, when I’m traveling or in New York, just to start the engines. She’s a real work of art, don’t you think?”

Actually, I’d been thinking what a pain in the backside it would be to maintain a vessel that size, but I complimented the craft anyway by saying, “I’ve always favored boats with midnight blue hulls and white upper decks. Yacht-sized boats, anyway.” I gestured to my skiff, which is twenty-one feet long, flat as an iron, and overmuscled at the stern with a 220-horsepower outboard. “In a fishing skiff, though, I like light blue. Or gray. Makes it harder for other fishermen to see me and steal my spots.”

Mr. Seasons enjoyed that kind of talk and it showed. He asked a few questions about my boat, then about how chartering was going-a money question, which I dodged-then got back to business.

“Let me ask you something. You helped with Jake’s P.I. work, so you know I was one of his few clients. Maybe his only client. Which means you probably did some of the background checks I ordered. You and I have fished together for, what, almost two years? Yet you’ve never mentioned it. And a few minutes ago when I asked about my dealings with Jake, you avoided telling me. Why?”

I started to answer, but he stopped me, holding up a hand like a traffic cop. “You have character, Hannah Smith, that’s why. Character and local knowledge. You don’t gossip and you don’t risk compromising your clients by opening your mouth. Same with people you care about. Am I right? Plus, you know how to handle a boat, which I think is a must in this case.”

I could feel my ears warming, but not because of what Mr. Seasons was saying. It was the way he was looking at me suddenly, his eyes liquid blue in the sun, moving over my jeans and blouse as if I were a freshly framed canvas. There was a pleased expression on his face that showed a hint of surprise.

I asked, “What’s wrong? Is… something on my-?” My fingers automatically confirmed my blouse hadn’t come open, then wiped at my cheek, expecting to find a streak of that damn orange paint.

Mr. Seasons made a dismissive motion with his hand, his expression now telling me Relax. “Sorry if I was staring. It was something the sun did for a moment… the way the light hit your face just now.”

I cleared my throat, and said, “I should be wearing a hat, I guess. I usually do.” As I spoke, my eyes sought the safety of the bay and found it, focusing on a hedge of mangroves where pelicans roosted heavy as bricks on guano-streaked limbs.

“That’s not what I meant, dear. It’s an odd sort of experience, maybe it’s happened to you. You meet a man, or a woman, and that first impression sticks in your brain for years. Then you run into them at some unexpected place-an airport, maybe… or the light changes, like it did just now-and you’re surprised to find out the person looks nothing like the picture that’s stuck in your brain. Especially if you don’t see the person very often.”

“Why don’t you tell me about your niece, Mr. Seasons,” I said to ease the awkwardness we were both feeling. Then I glanced at the sun to remind him the temperature was already in the eighties on this June afternoon.

He got the hint. “Let me show you around the boat. Would you like that? It’s not really big enough to call a yacht, but it’s a damn fine day cruiser. Or at least it was.”

“It runs twin Yanmar diesels?” I asked. “The lines sort of remind me of a Hinckley.”

The man interpreted my interest as assent.

He said, “Come aboard. If I can get the air to work, and if the mildew’s not too bad, we’ll talk business inside. Someone with local knowledge, that’s exactly who I need to track down my niece. Martha agrees-it was her idea, in fact. Martha’s not easily impressed, but she’s sold on you. The woman kept me on the phone half an hour last night, which is a marathon session for someone like her.”

I didn’t know how to reply to such a compliment, so I didn’t, which must have caused Mr. Seasons to think I was being stubborn again. “I know, I know, talk is cheap. So give me a few minutes to outline what we think is a very solid proposition. For you, possibly even career changing. Then we’ll have lunch-and I’ll even book another charter as thanks no matter what you decide.”

“There’s no need for that,” I said, watching him undo the chain to the boarding ramp. “I’ve got no interest in changing careers. And… well, I’m just going to come out and say it. What if your niece doesn’t want you to find her?”

Mr. Seasons glanced over his shoulder at me, his eyes suddenly hard. “If ninety million dollars were transferred into your account the instant you signed a legal document, would you want to stay missing, Hannah? Or would you want to be found?”