Randy White - Gone

I had, but the selection could have been better. I chose jeans instead of green linen cargo shorts because it was night and jeans seemed more formal. There was a clean bra, plain beige, unpadded, and cotton panties that were more like boy’s briefs, but they were burgundy with white stripes. The mismatched colors told me I should pay more attention in the future when packing for emergencies. But they would work okay, barring a ride in an ambulance.

I wasn’t as lucky when it came to a blouse. There were two T-shirts, one long-sleeved, and also a button-down blouse of gray chambray I’d bought at Target. It was soft and nice but had paint stains on the collar-the only reason it wasn’t still hanging in my closet. I didn’t want to walk into a millionaire’s house wearing a T-shirt or a blouse stained the same color as the bottom paint on my boat.

I whispered, “Shit , ” for the second time in a single day, feeling harried because ten minutes isn’t a lot of time. That’s when I remembered what was in the bag I had carried from Mrs. Whitney’s house: the Chantelle demi-bra, and a sheer black blouse made by Dolce & Gabbana, a label I’d never heard of, but the material felt and looked expensive. It was new, too, tags still on it, but didn’t fit her, Mrs. Whitney had said, a present from someone in Paris who was unfamiliar with American sizes. She was all for me washing it and trying it on.

I took the garments from the sack and held them up to the stars. They smelled clean and fresh from the dryer I’d used, and the blouse was folded so carefully it wasn’t wrinkled badly. But would it look odd wearing jeans with such a fancy top? I decided it was better than paint stains on a shirt from Target and that I’d wasted enough time worrying about it.

I took a quick look around. I’m not modest, but neither do I like people watching me undress. I removed my blouse and shorts and stored them in the sack. After another quick look, my underwear came off, then I went naked over the side into waist-deep water that sparkled like green fire, sparks clinging to my arms and body when I submerged. The bay often glows on moonless nights when stirred by a propeller or a streaking fish. Fishing guides call it phosphorus, but it’s actually caused by billions of tiny sea creatures that throb like fireflies when disturbed, as the Sanibel biologist had explained when we’d negotiated for my skiff.

It was a delicious feeling to be in warm seawater that sparkled when I moved my arms. It was as if I held a magic wand. On my skiff’s gunwale, I’d placed a bar of Kirk’s Castile soap and a bottle of Prell shampoo, which are best for sudsing in saltwater. I washed, rinsed, washed and rinsed again, then spent five minutes with a heavy cotton towel before trying on my new clothes.

Once I got the straps adjusted, the bra was such a soft pleasure, the way it held me, I experimented with the new blouse by using one less button near the neck, then two. If I’d had a mirror, I might have risked three-but this was a business meeting, I reminded myself. Not one of my rare Friday-night dates.

I tucked the blouse into my jeans and liked the way it sculpted a sharp angle chest to hips. After listening to a phone message from Loretta, asking, “Has the rich man from Captiva tried to get the pants off you yet?” I sat and texted Nathan that business required me to speak with Mr. Seasons. I’d be just down the road if needed.

Starting my engine, I steered toward shore.

SITTING NEXT TO THE SWIMMING POOL, SIPPING A FROZEN margarita, I listened to Mr. Seasons ask, “Is your hair wet? Please tell me you weren’t out there swimming. For Christ’s sake, you know sharks feed in that channel at night. Big hammerheads sometimes-I’ve seen them.”

After explaining I’d spent the day with people who smoke cigarettes, a smell I hate, the man started to tell me the guest cottage had a full bath, for Christ’s sake, I should have used that. But then he shook his head in an I give up sort of way and told me, “You’re a stubborn one. Can you at least call me Larry? Or even Lawrence? We’re in business together now, so let’s drop the formalities.”

Mr. Seasons wasn’t drunk, but he’d had a few. It made him seem less dignified but also less intimidating, and I relaxed a little. Not completely, though. I still felt some tension because of what he’d said the previous afternoon about seeing people in a different light and also because he was paying me money to do an important job. The margarita seemed to help. I took a longer sip, then another, before trying his name aloud, saying, “Lawrence feels more comfortable than… than the other. Should I wait for Mrs. Calder-Shaun or tell you now?”

The man was going through a folder he’d brought on a tray with glasses, a pitcher of margaritas, and a bottle of what might have been brandy. He placed the folder in front of me, then the thinnest laptop computer I’d ever seen. “Take a look at this while I text her. Martha will want to hear. Plus, she has documents for you to sign.”

More documents? Mrs. Calder-Shaun had already sent two attachments by e-mail, a fee agreement and a contract of confidentiality that consisted of five pages, not one, like the contracts I’d found in Uncle Jake’s office. Instead of wondering about it, though, I opened the folder, which contained a second folder and a single sheet of paper. It was a copy of Olivia’s American Express credit card statement for the previous four weeks. I looked at the statement, then looked at Mr. Seasons, who nodded, meaning I should start with it.

There wasn’t much to see-at first, anyway. Olivia had used her card only three times. In late May, there were charges at two Naples restaurants, one for more than eight hundred dollars, so it must have been an extravagant place. She hadn’t used the card again until June 9th, paying $5,753.97 to a company called Monkey Business ’12 LLC. Today was Friday, June 17th, so that had been more than a week ago, near the end of her billing cycle, but there was no hint as to what she’d bought.

I couldn’t ask Mr. Seasons about it because he was busy texting, so I noted Olivia’s personal details on the statement to pass the time, not expecting to find anything interesting. But I did. The credit card Olivia carried was nothing like the card I keep in my wallet. It was an American Express Centurion, which meant nothing to me until I saw the spending limit. At first, I thought I’d misread the numbers, the limit was so high, more than a million dollars. The statement also informed me that Olivia had an annual spending obligation of a quarter million dollars-a minimum she had already satisfied, according to the figures.

Because I’d helped my uncle with his businesses, I knew that the fiscal year, for most, begins and ends in February. It was now June, midway through the calendar. How had a thirty-year-old woman who lived in her father’s home managed to spend more than $250,000 in only six months? And why in the world would she use a credit card that required her to charge at least that much annually?

“What do you think?” Mr. Seasons had finished texting Mrs. Calder-Shaun and now placed his hands on the back of my chair to look over my shoulder. He stood so close I could smell what might have been soap or a hint of aftershave. The tension I was feeling peaked momentarily, then began to ebb when he became more businesslike, saying, “We finally managed to freeze the card, but it took Martha’s people a week to do it. Thank God, Olivia didn’t use the thing more than she did after she met the guy.”

I said, “Maybe I’m reading this wrong. Your niece spent this much”-I placed my finger beneath the figure-“since February or January?”