Randy White - Gone

“He didn’t let her finish it,” I said, feeling a building anger, “because Olivia was painting the truth about who he is-not just what her eyes saw.”

Nathan replied, “You wanted proof they’re together. I guess this is it.”

The same might be true of the missing pages I’d found, but I needed time alone to decipher the girl’s shorthand. “We shouldn’t be in here,” I said, “she wouldn’t like it. Where’s the screwdriver? You need to fix that hasp.”

Nate did it while I moved the sickly orchid from Olivia’s bedroom to the orchid house, where the air was dripping hot on this June afternoon but still felt fresher than the studio where the missing girl had locked away her secrets.

I was so preoccupied with what we’d seen and found, we were halfway home before I took a break from the missing pages and checked my messages. There was one from Gabby Corrales, asking me to call about tomorrow night’s party; several from Loretta, who was swearing, she was so mad, the neighbors had hired a backhoe to destroy the rest of the Indian mound; and one from Cordial Pallet that provided some hopeful news.

“An old fishing partner of his knows where Ricky Meeks fuels his boat!” I told Nathan, who was driving.

“Where?”

I said, “At a little marina near Marco Island,” but was thinking, Just like Mr. Seasons hinted at to begin with .

“The Ten Thousand Islands?” Nate said. “Did he name a place? The area’s huge.”

I was thumbing numbers into my phone. “That’s what I’m going to find out right now.”

SOUNDING BUSINESSLIKE AND EFFICIENT, NOTHING AT ALL like the party girl who at three a.m. had invited me to swim naked with her in the pool, Martha Calder-Shaun said, “Do you mind telling me again how you know this? I want to make sure we have all the information straight. In fact, I should record it.” There was the bongof a digital button being pushed before she added, “For the investigation time line, it’ll help. Do I have your permission?”

“Not if you expect me to use names,” I replied. “Later, depending how it goes, it might be okay. But it’ll have to wait.” I was in my apartment, pacing, phone cradled between shoulder and ear, feeling jittery now that the cloudiness of marijuana had worn off. It was an hour before sunset but felt earlier, despite my busy day.

Because of what had happened the night before, I had been dreading this call to Mrs. Calder-Shaun but had finally summoned the nerve. Up until now, though, things had gone okay. I’d told her about the party I’d been invited to in Port Royal, about what I’d found at Olivia’s house (minus a few details kept private for Olivia’s sake), but had saved the best for last-new information about where to find Ricky Meeks. So far, there’d been no hint of embarrassment from the New York attorney, no references to what she probably considered my prudish ways or my stern reaction to her behavior in the swimming pool last night.

Martha used a long silence to communicate her displeasure at my refusing to name names but finally stopped the recorder, saying, “Fine, Hannah, have it your way. But don’t go so fast this time, I’m taking notes.”

I repeated what I’d just said but added more information. On a tip from a friend at Fishermans Wharf (Mr. Pallet), I had phoned a pompano fisherman, who told me that for the last three Monday afternoons a boater who fit Meeks’s description had tied up at a marina south of Marco Island. The man always left the marina on foot, then returned about an hour later loaded down with bags from a nearby 7-Eleven. If there was a woman aboard, no one at the marina had seen her, although it was possible a passenger could have stayed below in the boat’s cabin. The man bought fuel, filled up his tank with water, and always paid in cash using hundred-dollar bills.

“Interesting,” Martha said, not missing the significance.

“The boat’s a thirty-foot Skipjack cruiser,” I added. “An older model, with twin Mercruiser engines. White hull with blue canvas, no name on the stern-exactly the way Ricky’s boat was described to me by my friend at the shrimp docks. His physical description matches, too. A little over six feet, lean, lots of muscles, dark wavy hair, probably two hundred pounds. At least, that’s the way I picture the guy from the only photo Lawrence gave me.”

Using first names, Lawrence and Martha, had become easier for me after what I’d heard and experienced the night before.

“The name of the marina,” the woman said, “say it again. I’ve heard it before, I’m sure I have-a strange name, but I forget where.”

“Caxambas Fisherman’s Co-op,” I repeated, then spelled it for her while my phone chimed with an incoming call- Lawrence Seasons -which I ignored, explaining to Martha, “It’s a little village south of Marco. There used to be a clam-processing plant in the old days. And there’s still a tiny little post office but not more than a couple of stores, if you count a tiki bar. If it hasn’t gone bust. When I was a girl, my uncle usually stopped at Caxambas on our way back from camping in the Ten Thousand Islands.”

“A post office ,” Martha said in a way that meant something. “Now I know why the name’s familiar. Put your phone on speaker if you want. It may take me a minute to call up the right file on my computer.”

I crossed the room to the desk where my own laptop was open, the DVDs I’d found in Olivia’s office already neatly logged into a notebook, and also noted in a folder I’d created to store documents regarding the case. Later, I would decide whether to erase those entries or not. There was a reason. The DVD labeled Orchid House , as I already knew, contained nothing personal unless you counted Olivia’s preference for the mildest sort of romantic sex scenes-some from the Red Shoe Diaries and other short videos she had downloaded from the Internet.

The same with the other DVDs, although I hadn’t had time to make a thorough check. Instead, I had fast-forwarded through snippets of couples making love, one man, one woman usually, but sometimes a pair of classy-looking women kissing or fondling, which had caused me to feel uncomfortable even though they contained nothing graphic. As I drifted past the desk, I wondered if I would have reacted the same if Martha Calder-Shaun hadn’t tried to seduce me after talking me into swimming with just bra and panties. Something like that had never happened to me before-although there might have been two incidents in college I was too naïve or disinterested to recognize.

“Are you there, kiddo? I found it.” Martha had returned to the phone.

“This has to do with Caxambas, right?” I asked. I was leafing through the old history book I had taken from the briefcase Lawrence Seasons had been keeping for my Uncle Jake but had forgot to return. Why my uncle would ask a fishing client to “keep” something as innocent as a book made no sense unless it was because the binding was of much finer quality than the reprinted version I’d seen at Darren’s. The same was true of the second book, which was leather-bound, embossed in gold, and the size of a family Bible. Maybe they were valuable and Jake hadn’t wanted them around during his nasty divorce from Mary.

Martha said, “A week after she disappeared, Olivia mailed a donation she’d promised to a church but had apparently forgotten to send. The minister contacted our office when he couldn’t get in touch with Olivia. I’ve got a photo of the envelope right here. The postmark is Caxambas. It was a check for a thousand dollars sent June sixth, a Monday. That was… twelve days ago.”

“Then it is Ricky Meeks!” I said, so excited I shoved the history book away, which knocked the second book off the desk. The thing landed with a heavy thud, then an unexpected metallic clatter.