Gone (12 page)

I couldn’t stop myself from saying, “A
Corvette
—holy shit!” For the first time, I gave fleeting thought to accepting the mate’s job if offered.

“Look . . .” Gabby thought for a moment, then tried a different approach, lowering her voice. “Our clients, they aren’t just regular people. We’re not talking rednecks and salesmen at a convention. These are some of the most successful people in the country. I’m not naming names. Even when you’re part of the crew, no one names names. Not last names, anyway. But I can tell you this”—the joint had gone out and she now took a few seconds to relight it—“some of the names you see in
People
magazine, on TV, the movies. Mostly not, though, because they’ve got enough money to keep their lives private. If they wanted hookers, trust me, they could hire a bunch for what they pay for two days aboard
Sybarite
.” Gabby tapped the car’s dashboard again to prove her point. “But when guests are with us, just them and the crew, it’s not work. It’s more of a
We’re enjoying this experience together
sort of thing. A private party at sea, that’s the way I look at it. With the best of everything.”

Sensing a chance to maneuver the conversation toward Olivia Seasons, I offered, “I’ve got fishing clients with money, but you wouldn’t know their names if I told you. And they live right here in the area. The same’s probably true of the clients you’re talking about.”

Gabby startled me by replying, “Do you know the difference between people with money and people who’re actually
wealthy
? Think about it because that’s the difference I’m talking about.”

I’d gone thirty years without hearing that question, now I’d been asked it twice in less than twenty-four hours. It might have been coincidence, but more likely she’d run into Mrs. Whitney and Ricky Meeks on their trips to Key West. “Classiness?” I offered, thinking it was the answer she wanted and would move us in the right direction.

“Nope,” Gabby replied, her expression mellow. “It’s right here,” then clasped a hand to her breast. “They’re classier, sure. But the real difference is, they have huge hearts. You would not believe how polite and generous they are. Once you get to know them—most wealthy people, I’m saying. They’re fun and totally
real
.”

My schoolmate was stoned, if the hand squeezing her left implant meant anything. Too stoned now to keep on track—I’d been through it enough with Delbert Fowler to recognize the signs. I looked at my watch and said, “Whoops, I’m late. You mind taking me back to my boat? I want your number so I can call later. Tonight okay?”

Agreeing as she fumbled to start the car, Gabby repeated herself about wealthy people being real and having big hearts, which I expected to hear a few dozen more times if she was anything like Delbert. Instead, she varied it by saying, “A couple of clients, they’ve become two of my closest friends. That’s the truth, sweetie. You’d love ’em. The wife, she’s more like an older sister now. Doesn’t make any difference I work as a hostess and she’s worth a few hundred million.”

Because I was watching traffic as Gabby accelerated toward the exit, instead of asking
She bought you the Corvette?
I reminded her that a truck was coming so don’t forget to stop.

“I see it, I see it,” Gabby grumbled, then snapped her fingers as if she’d just remembered something. “In fact, they’re having a party tomorrow night. Tomorrow’s Sunday, right? Not big, just a few people. Want to be my date?”

When traffic was clear, I told her, “You can turn now,” then waited for her to do it before saying, “Your client friends, you mean?”

“They own a mansion in Naples—but they’ve got houses all over the world. It’s a pool party–barbecue sort of deal. Bring a suit if you want—or
not
. It’ll be very laid-back.” Gabby grinned, eyes a tad droopy, both hands on the wheel while she turned right again toward the shrimp yards, now driving way too slow. “Where you living these days? We can meet somewhere around seven and take my car.”

I already had an excuse waiting and was shaking my head until she pleaded, “Please, Hannah! It’s only forty minutes, a gated community with some of the most beautiful homes you’ve ever seen. Port Royal—you’ve heard of it?”

Suddenly, I was interested. Rather than answering, I reminded her it was best to pull over before we got to the docks or Robert Simpson might see us and get suspicious. Gabby liked that. “You know, sweetie, I had a feeling we were gonna hit it off.
¡Mejores amigas! ¡Amigas para siempre!
Know what that means?”

In formal college Spanish, I replied, “It is nice to have friends who have trust and share secrets,” which came out stilted but not too bad.

Gabby liked that even better, clapping her hands a couple of times in applause. “
¡Mejores amigas
siempre, sí!
My last girlfriend, we had a big blowup six months ago, and I’ve been bored as hell ever since. A regular bitch, too—so forget what I said about splitting tips for six months. Make it three months, then the regular split . . . and all the dinners and drinks are on me. How ’bout it?”

Gabby was a tough one when it came to money, something I admire in a woman, but she was also lonely like most single people our age. She struck me as tricky, a tad neurotic and sad but not a bad person. The same, I suspected, could be said of me at times. Mostly, though, I was thinking about tomorrow’s party. It wouldn’t interfere with my plans to stop at marinas between Vanderbilt Beach and Naples as Mr. Seasons had suggested. The party might be a waste of time, but there was also a chance I would meet someone who knew Olivia. Port Royal couldn’t be that big . . . maybe one of her neighbors had spoken with her recently. On the other hand, Lawrence Seasons had told me that Olivia had no close friends. Undecided, I decided to take a chance.

“Bored?”
I said, being sympathetic. “Try being a fishing guide. I don’t meet any girls our age. The few I know, all they talk about is their kids, their husbands, and how nice their house is. Makes me feel like a loser. Or like I’m from outer space.”

Excited by my confession, Gabby replied, “
Tell
me about it. Honey, we’ve got so
much
in common!” then asked if I was married, if I was dating someone special, all the regular questions I have learned to dodge with as few words and lies as possible. She had pulled into a vacant lot a hundred yards from the boat docks, where I could see a muscled giant in a tank top pacing and checking his watch. Nathan Pace.

“I’ve gotta run,” I said, unzipping my equipment bag and taking out the envelope that contained Ricky Meeks’s picture. “You sure you really want me along tomorrow night? I’d love to go, but I’ve never hung out with the sort of people you’re talking about. I might be nervous.”

Sounding happy and very stoned, Gabby told me to relax, wear a nice blouse and shorts—not
fishing s
horts, for God’s sake—or a summer skirt that showed my legs, and I would do just fine. Then she asked, “What’s that?” meaning the envelope.

“If we’re going to be friends,” I said, “I don’t want to start out with a lie. When you asked if I was looking for someone’s name? You were sort of right.” I then proceeded to tell several lies after showing her the photo, saying that Ricky Meeks owed a friend of mine money, that someone had mentioned seeing him aboard
Sybarite
, which is why I’d been asked to check the crew roster while I was interviewing for the mate’s job.

“If Simpson hadn’t left me alone, I wouldn’t have bothered,” I added. “I like doing favors for people when I can, but I wouldn’t have risked a good job.”

Sneaky and guilty, that’s how I felt when Gabby, in her eagerness to be friends, pretended to believe me, even though I sensed she had her doubts. After listening to what she had to say about Meeks, I felt better in some ways, worse in others. But it didn’t compare to the electric spark I experienced when she concluded, “For all I know, the guy might even be at the party tomorrow. He shows up sometimes, but only if he’s the guest of a guest.”

“Your friends would invite a man like that?” I replied, the electric sensation still moving through my spine.

“Not them, sweetie. I doubt if they know he exists. But there’s always a few losers around. Some women—wealthy, older women usually—can’t get enough of what a guy like him’s got to offer. Go figure. But you’ve got to promise you won’t make a scene if he shows. You can’t say a damn word about money, it just wouldn’t be classy.”

“Promise,” I told my new girlfriend, a little dizzy because of my good luck . . . or possibly the marijuana smoke I’d inhaled just from being in Gabby’s car.

THIRTEEN

T
HAT AFTERNOON,
I
WAS STANDING WITH
N
ATHAN 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.

—

A
LL 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.