Randy White - Gone

Mr. Seasons started to speak, but I told him, “It’s okay. It’s natural to be curious-” Then turned to Mrs. Calder-Shaun. “The friend’s name is personal-and that’s the way it’s got to stay. There’s no point in me saying much more if you’re not okay with that.”

The woman raised her eyebrows, pretending surprise but her flinty expression was telling me You don’t know who you’re dealing with.

That was okay, too. Growing up around rough fishermen, their wives and girlfriends, a hard look from a woman doesn’t faze me any more than a hard look from a man. However, I also know that once I’ve stood my ground, it’s smarter to offer a friendly hand than to make an enemy. So I added, “I don’t mean to be disrespectful. And I do appreciate the compliment about the blouse. Olivia’s what I came to talk about-her and convincing you that police need to start looking. Once I explain, I think you and Lawrence will agree.” The man’s name slipped out as if I’d said it a thousand times but only because I was trying so hard to hide my irritation.

“Really,” the woman said in a flat tone, but giving me a look that now seemed to show admiration for the way I’d stayed strong.

“Really,” I replied, then nodded to an empty chair, meaning she should sit. The beautiful Martha Calder-Shaun could fault me later if she wanted. But first she was by God going to listen to what I had to say.

AT FISHERMANS WHARF, WHERE THE SHRIMP FLEET DOCKS, I said to a man who was barefoot in the shade of a ficus tree, working on a diesel generator, “I’m looking for a boat called Sybarite . I was told she’s moored somewhere around here.”

A commercial yacht-no matter the size-wouldn’t be easy to find in the two hours I had before Nathan arrived in his truck and drove me to Olivia Seasons’s home in Naples. Mr. Seasons had arranged for me to have a look at Olivia’s bedroom and personal stuff, and I expected it to take a while. Fishermans Wharf isn’t a huge place, but it’s busy. There’s a clustering of maritime businesses, storage barns, and piers set among a forest of sailboat masts, net seiners, barges, and charter boats. Three marinas, plus a restaurant called Doc’s Rum Bar, all offered dockage, so I was trying to narrow my search.

I had no choice. Unfortunately, Mr. Seasons had been right about the sheriff’s department. He’d even suggested I speak to a missing persons officer myself. So I did-spent twenty minutes on the phone that morning before leaving in my boat. Now I was more determined than ever to find the girl.

When I spoke, the old man glanced up from the generator, eyes gathering information from my gray chambray shirt, paint-stained, my fishing shorts, the worn Top-Siders, and the canvas bag I carried over my shoulder. Then his eyes moved to a nearby slip where I’d just tied my boat. “That your skiff? I’ve seen it before.”

“Yes, sir, it is,” I told him, being polite to this seventy-some-year-old stranger because that’s the way I was raised.

“Scientist what lives on Sanibel used to own it. Quiet sort of guy with glasses. He comes here sometimes, goes out with the shrimpers to see what they cull from their nets. Nice man-but I wouldn’t cross him.”

The old man obviously didn’t want to discuss Sybarite until he’d figured out who he was talking to. I replied, “That’s Dr. Ford. I took over my uncle’s charter business two years ago. Can’t imagine a better boat for the sort of fishing I do.”

“You’re a good friend’a his, I suppose.” The man was testing me, which was just fine. Truth was, I’d been trying to invent a reason to talk to the biologist again, who was a solid-looking man with a strong face, but I had yet to summon the courage. Maybe this was my chance.

“My Uncle Jake knew him better. I haven’t seen Dr. Ford since we made the deal, but I’ve got his number on my cell if you want to call and ask about his skiff.”

The man took that as proof enough, which was a disappointment. He glanced at the bag I’d placed on the ground, SAGE FLY RODS emblem showing, and asked, “You got sponsors, huh?”

“A company in Washington State that makes really fine reels and fly rods,” I answered, not expecting the old man to be impressed.

He wasn’t. “Kills me these days how some supposed guides dress like race car drivers. They pay you?”

I told him no, but I got to try all the new gear, plus I made a little doing casting clinics, then added, “I’m one of the few women field testers in the country.” It was something I was proud of and didn’t mind letting it show.

The man thought about that for a moment before getting back to a subject he knew about. “Strictly bay fishing, I suppose.”

I replied, “This time of year, I go offshore for tarpon sometimes,” aware this was another test. “Tripletail and mackerel if it’s glassy. Tarpon’ll eat a fly in deep water even better than on the flats. Some of my clients won’t believe it till it happens.”

The man’s face showed distaste. “Wouldn’t waste a minute on tarpon, what good’s a fish you can’t eat?” which was typical of old-timers who’d made their living on the water and refused to accept fishing as sport. I was talking to one of those people now. He had the thick, heavy hands of someone who’d pulled their share of nets and crab traps, and brown eyes fogged blue from too much sun off the water. Those eyes focused on me for several seconds before he said in a friendlier voice, “Took over your uncle’s charter business, you say?”

I nodded.

The man’s face brightened. “By gad, you’re Jake Smith’s daughter!”

I smiled at the mistake but let the man talk.

“Jake spoke about you sometimes. I heard he’d passed away, but I’ve stopped goin’ to funerals. Figure a dead friend wouldn’t want me to waste what time I’ve got left in a graveyard. I sure as hell don’t want ’em to waste time coming to mine.”

“Jake’s niece,” I corrected as we shook hands, listening to the man introduce himself as Cordial Pallet, which made sense once I noticed the Star of David around his neck, the big jaw and deep-set eyes that resembled dozens of other Pallets in the area. The family was well known among commercial fishermen because they’d owned packinghouses and a string of shrimp boats before federal fishing laws chased most the shrimp fleet to Mexico. What was left of the fleet was docked right here, bayside of Estero Island, in the shadow of the Sky Bridge that hurdled Estero Pass onto Fort Myers Beach. Mr. Pallet smiled as we talked and exchanged a few more names, but then the smile faded abruptly. “You say your name’s Hannah Smith?”

Before he could pursue it I told him, “You might be thinking of my late Aunt Hannah. She died ’bout nine years ago.”

“Boat explosion,” the man nodded, thinking back while he inspected me. “I’m not one to speak bad of the dead, but some say that girl had a wild streak. That she got mixed up with bad men. Excuse me for talking straight, but I’m starting to wonder the same about you.”

I didn’t know how to respond. It was 9:30 Saturday morning and was aware I didn’t look my best. And I certainly didn’t feel my best because I hadn’t slept well in Mr. Seasons’s guest cottage, particularly after overhearing an argument between him and Martha Calder-Shaun-she was convinced he’d given me the expensive blouse. Then, around three a.m., the woman had come tap-tapping at my door, wobbly drunk, wearing only a T-shirt and panties.

After that, I hadn’t slept at all.

Before sunup, my boat was pointed south toward Fishermans Wharf, the next barrier island down, running free in the chill of a glassy blue morning, eager for wind to clean away the tension and upset I felt after a night at Lawrence Seasons’s place.