Gone (8 page)

Out of politeness, though, Darren was disagreeing with the thoughts in my head, telling Nathan, “See the high cheekbones? Might be a touch of American Indian in the family. And an incredibly strong jaw . . . those piercing eyes, Sarah Smith is still alive on this page, see what I mean? It’s a woman’s inner strength, her physical presence, that makes for a timeless image. Like this.” Darren tapped the picture of Marlissa Dorn I was still studying, which was easier for me than suffering yet another look at my great-great-aunt, the Ox Woman.

“Hannah?”

Darren’s friend wanted my attention again, but I was becoming uncomfortable. Plus, I was still thinking about Mrs. Whitney and what Ricky Meeks had done to her—and what at this very moment he might be doing to Olivia Seasons, who was a younger woman and not nearly so toughened by life as Elka, who had survived four husbands, three of them wealthy.

Returning to the chair where I’d been sitting, I said, “While we’re on the subject of pictures, you mind taking a quick look at this?” I opened the grocery bag I’d placed on the floor beside me.

Nate said quickly, “I don’t think Darre would be interested,” sounding nervous, and then waited through several seconds of silence before asking me, “Where’d you get that?” The bag, he meant.

Aside from a manila envelope with the photo of Ricky Meeks, the grocery bag, which read
Bailey’s Store
, contained a few things Mrs. Whitney had given me, including the Chantelle bra, and a beautiful blouse that I’d hand-washed in Woolite while waiting for a load of wash to finish and after putting away bags of groceries and liquor that had been delivered. The woman had behaved almost fondly toward me at the end when she saw I was willing to work to help clean up the mess her life had become. That work included phoning her attorney and her doctor, alerting both that the woman needed some assistance. The fact that Mrs. Whitney and I wore the same bra size—34D—had helped, too. It created a sisterly feeling that is often the reward when women share private matters they wouldn’t entrust to a man.

Closing the bag, I said to Nate, “Just some things,” then walked the manila envelope across the room and placed the photo in front of Darren. “You mind? Maybe the camera lens sees something my eyes don’t.”

Darren had some snobbery in him when it came to photos but appeared to relax when he realized the wrinkled eight-by-ten was just a picture, not someone’s attempt at art.

“A snapshot,” he shrugged after a glance. “What do you want me to say? Is this a relative of yours?” Darren patted the pockets of a white guayabera he’d bought on a trip to Cuba. “Where’d I leave my glasses, Nate? Damn it, in the bedroom, I bet. Would you be a dear?”

Nathan stood, face reddening, and it was still red when he returned.

The famous photographer’s reaction was much different, once he had his glasses fixed low on his nose. I watched him take another fast glance and do a double take. After several seconds of scrutiny, he looked at Nate and asked, “How do you know this person?” which sounded like an accusation, and also contained a hint of distaste.

“We don’t,” I said. “Nate saw him a few times at the Rum Bar, that’s all. There’s something about the picture that upsets you, I can tell. Is it what the camera shows? Or maybe you’ve seen that man before.”

Darren knew something about Ricky Meeks, I felt sure of it. Maybe even met him. Either way, it wasn’t surprising. Darren wasn’t wealthy by Mrs. Whitney’s standards, just rich with money he’d earned on his own. Even so, he moved in the same social circles—when he wanted. At parties and fund-raisers, being famous is better than being wealthy as far as a guest list is concerned. This was something else I’d learned from fishing clients.

Darren picked up the photo, thought for a moment, then placed Ricky Meeks’s face down on the counter. “He was my neighbor’s boy toy for a while. I saw him around a few times.” The man used his glass to indicate the photo and then lit a cigarette. “She gave this to you? I wouldn’t be surprised, the sad, pathetic old bitch. She probably still has the hots for him.”

I felt a tightening in my head that was anger, but showing it wouldn’t keep Darren talking, so I asked, “Does the picture tell you anything different from what your eyes saw?”

“No . . . and yes.” He touched the photo as if to take another look, then decided it wasn’t necessary. “The guy’s white trash. A vicious little animal who isolates rich, lonely women, then screws them into submission. That’s my guess. Even a cheap camera tells part of the story. The rest I know because I have incredible instincts for people. Human sexual drive is the ultimate power—weren’t we just talking about that?”

I started to dig for useful details, but Darren interrupted, saying, “Why the questions? More important—if we expect to have any fun tonight—who’s going to join me?” The man raised his empty glass, his face masked with another smile, but suspicious. From Darren’s tone and the way he eyed me, I could tell he expected drinking company—if I expected him to confide what he knew.

I replied, “My uncle found a good mojito recipe in Havana. Otherwise, I stick to red wine.”

The photographer, not listening, was already lining two fresh rocks glasses on the bar, the bottle of scotch nearby.

SEVEN

W
ALKING ME TO THE DOCK THROUGH SHADOWS,
N
ATHAN
took my elbow and said, “Are you sure you’re okay to drive? I hate you crossing that bay by yourself. It’s so damn dark.”

He was right about that. Through an opening in the foliage, I could see my skiff, the dock, then a horizon of water so black that a heaven of stars did not brighten it, nor a crescent moon, new and waxing, that was drifting west over palm trees toward Mexico.

“You’ve got to make Darren quit smoking,” I replied, sniffing a strand of my hair, then my shirt. “It stinks even worse than his whiskey. I’ll have to wash everything and take two showers. Where else can I do it but home?”

“
Here . . .
please? Seriously, Four. You can’t see a goddamn thing out there. When Darre drives me home later, he’ll drop you off. He already said so.”

Later? In my opinion, Darren had no intention of taking Nathan home. No matter what the man pretended, his patient manipulation and gentle words only made his intentions more obvious. Nate might be shy, but he isn’t dumb, and I suspected he knew the truth, too.

It was already 9:45, an hour after sunset. Amazing how fast time had passed after I’d sipped down a glass of liquor that, at first, tasted like peat moss soaked in vodka. After that, it had tasted smoother, but I’d been too focused on what Darren was saying to risk getting drunk. So I’d dumped most of the next two glasses into a potted palm, determined to remember details about the life Mrs. Whitney had lived while she was under the spell of Ricky Meeks.

After I’d explained to Darren about Olivia Seasons—without naming names, of course—he was eager to help and knew more than I could have hoped. It wasn’t because he was chummy with Mrs. Whitney. It was because he was fond of booking a cabin on an overnight luxury yacht that sailed four times a month to Key West, then back again the next day. Twice, he’d seen Meeks and Elka Whitney aboard that vessel, which is how he’d learned so much without even exchanging a word. Or so he claimed.

The boat, named
Sybarite
, was moored at Fishermans Wharf, near Fort Myers Beach, and was unlike any luxury cruiser I’d ever heard about. For one thing, the price of a one-night cabin cost more than I make during a month of fishing, even at peak season. Another oddity was that a regular person couldn’t buy passage, even if he offered twice the fare. New passengers had to be recommended by established clients or invited aboard by the owners. Or they had to be someone obviously special in a rock star sort of way.

It had taken Darren an hour of hinting around, and several more whiskeys, before he’d finally described those cruises in plain words—but only after reading the definition of
sybarite
to us from the dictionary.

“Hedonist . . . sensualist. Voluptuary, libertine . . . pleasure seeker!” Darren had spoken each word in an alluring way as if reciting a list of fine wines, each delicious. The dictionary did nothing for me, but I will admit that I began to feel my body changing when his low voice detailed some of the scenes he’d witnessed. Not at first, of course. It was a slow feeling that came over me—a heated restlessness made more intense because of the whiskey I was sipping.

Dinners aboard
Sybarite
were formal, tuxes and evening gowns, he’d told us, for those who chose not to eat in their cabins. There was gambling once the boat was outside the twelve-mile limit, and dancing, too, but the codes of dress and behavior remained strict. After midnight, though, everything changed. Lights were turned low in the vessel’s main salon, and private areas sectioned off with nothing more than cushions or beaded curtains, so there was no real privacy, and it was easy to view what others were doing—something Darren’s tone said he enjoyed.

Couples or small groups sometimes stayed to themselves, while others roamed, almost everyone naked except for Mardi Gras–type masks that, upon boarding, passengers pulled from a box blindfolded. It was a tradition aboard
Sybarite
, and part of the fun, Darren explained. My impression was, people sometimes traded masks, a behavior I’d found weirdly enticing for some reason, but I didn’t want to reveal that by asking questions, of course. Fact was, I disliked even admitting it to myself.

“A sex orgy boat, that’s what it sounds like,” I’d finally interrupted, which was actually an attempt to stop my body from reacting to behavior that my mind, at least, knew was wrong. “You’re saying the man forced Mrs. Whitney to go on the cruise?”

That had amused Darren. “Is that what the old bitch claims? Gabby—she’s the one who books
Sybarite—
she’d never allow trash like him aboard. Elka had to’ve set it up. Or through someone she knew.”

He had already said so many nasty things about the woman, I lost patience and asked him to speak with politeness, at least, if he couldn’t manage to speak of her with respect.

That had amused him, too. I could tell by his laughing apology and the patient way he then explained the boat wasn’t just about orgies. There was a gourmet chef, fine wine, Cuban cigars, all sorts of expensive niceties. A cruise aboard
Sybarite
was an escape for people sick of what Darren called “puritanical bullshit” and overwhelmed with rules, pressure, and boring social obligations that apparently were the price of being rich.

“That’s why I think the guy banged her into submission,” Darren had added, softening his language. “I can’t be sure, just the impression I got. It’s the way Elka responded when the punk told her to do something—like a pet too eager to please. And rather nervous, too, as if he might scold her. No . . . it was a flinching reaction”—Darren demonstrated by swinging his head away—“so he’d probably slapped her around a few times. That’s another guess.”

I didn’t comment, but he was right on both points. Mrs. Whitney had told me she’d been hit by Meeks more than once, but always in a careful way so as not to break a bone or leave a bruise that couldn’t be hidden. The hitting didn’t start, though, until Meeks had taken her body so many times during the first four days and nights that she’d become “dazed,” in her words, her thoughts so focused on sex that what the man was doing to her changed from nightmarish to “dreamlike.”

“Do you think he’d try to book a cruise with the girl I’m trying to find?” I’d asked Darren.

“Does she have money? Lots of money, that’s important.”

I had nodded, then waited for him to light another cigarette.

“Of course he will—if they’re still in the area. Punks like him, they don’t stop once they get a taste of the swinger’s life. It’s cool, hip, to the blue-collar types, somehow makes them feel like an equal. And I think he gets his rocks off by humiliating women. That’s the bottom line. Wealthy ones especially, maybe because they represent everything he’s not. He likes threesomes, foursomes. All sorts of combinations, I would think. If you want, I’ll call Gabby tomorrow and check the schedule.”

Darren had written a note to himself on a pad of paper, then paused for a moment to think, his expression turning serious. “Please, Hannah, please, please,
please
don’t get any ideas about booking the same cruise this freak books. You’re a smart girl, very competent in most ways I’m sure. But my guess is, you don’t have a lot of . . . Well, Nate told me you married a local boy who left for the Army the day after your wedding. And haven’t dated much since. A true male predator like the one we’re talking about—are you listening to me, Hannah pet?—if he ever got his hands on you, you’d never be the same girl again. And it would positively kill me—Nate, too, I’m sure—to see that happen to you. Understand my concern?”

Giving Nathan a sharp look, I nodded, not pleased that he had no doubt also told Darren the truth about how my late husband, Delbert Fowler, had died—hit by a car his first night of Army leave in Berlin, Germany. Delbert’s death is one of the few things I’ve given myself permission to lie about out of respect for that skinny little mullet fisherman who I’d felt pity for, not love, when he’d gotten down on his knee and proposed. That had been six years ago, and I’d long since given up trying to think of him as my husband, dead or otherwise.

But Darren’s warning about Ricky Meeks had been so sincere, it was heavy on my mind as Nathan followed me onto the dock, still pleading for me to stay because I’d had some whiskey and it was so damn dark. As I listened to him, I checked the sky for squalls and distant lightning. Next, I checked the pilings beneath us to see what the tide was doing, then I moved around and studied the bay, deciding on the best route.

Home for my boat was five miles to the east, invisible from where I stood. Once I crossed the Intracoastal Waterway, where a lonely span of markers sparked in the blackness, I knew I’d raise a cluster of lights among the far mangroves. Those lights marked Gulf Cooperative, where Uncle Jake had bought thirty feet of dockage before the Florida net ban had put fishermen out of business. The cove was in a pocket of trees, no houses or lights or people on either side, everything isolated by government wetlands and swamp.

“At least stay long enough to tell me what you found out from Mrs. Whitney,” Nate said after I’d stepped onto my skiff and was getting ready to go. What he actually wanted was for us to sit there talking until I was too tired to leave.

I reached under the steering console, found a flashlight, a contract of confidentiality, and a pen before replying, “Until you sign this, I can’t tell you anything. Even after you sign it, I can’t share anything Elka wants kept private. That’s just the way it is.”

“So it’s ‘Elka’ now,” Nathan said while I held the flashlight and watched him sign. “Only you could make friends with a dragon like her. That’s what’s in that sack, isn’t it? A present. I bet she gave you something expensive.”

“Most people are nicer than expected if you give them a chance,” I replied, taking the contract, then opening a ziplock bag to keep it dry. Wind was out of the southwest, not strong, but I guessed I’d take some spray when I crossed the Intracoastal. “Give me a hug, Nathan. I’ll call you in the morning.”

We hugged—something we always did when parting—but the man held me longer than usual, then stepped away, saying, “There’s something I want to tell you. It’s about Darren and me. We’re not . . . we’re not what you might think. It’s not the way it looks, I mean.” He was still embarrassed about being sent to the bedroom to fetch Darren’s glasses, I realized.

“To me, it looks like you two have fun,” I said. “What else matters?”

Nate didn’t want to drop it so easily. “I’m not sleeping with him, that’s what I want you to know. Not in the way you probably think, anyway. Darre’s a nice man. Gentle and understanding. He doesn’t push—not me, anyway. I know he got a little pushy about doing a photo session, but that’s different.”

It made me feel good hearing Nate speak kindly about a man I’d been suspicious of, especially after what Elka Whitney had said. Because of Nate’s words, and maybe because the whiskey was still warm in my cheeks, I reached for my skiff ’s ignition key and said, “Tell him yes.”

Sounding hopeful but confused, Nathan asked, “Yes? About what? Me tell Darren yes, you mean?”

I couldn’t help smiling as I reached to start my engine. “That’s up to you. I was talking about Darren taking my picture. Tell him I’ll do it—but only if I can wear a nice dress like the one in the magazine. And keep all my clothes on, of course.”