Randy White: Gone

Her gift had come in the form of a manila envelope, which contained what remained of Olivia’s private checking account. Even before the Coast Guard helicopter had arrived, she’d thrust it into my hands, insisting I keep the envelope but open it later. To me, thirteen thousand cash is a lot of money, although my millionaire friend would dismiss it as “nothing.”

Soon, I would be asking myself why a wealthy heiress would kneel at a mini-fridge to retrieve an amount she considered insignificant. To make room for a device to detonate propane, was the obvious answer, even though police hadn’t thought beyond a cigarette. Last night, Olivia had been strong enough for me to finally ask another question investigators had not:

“What did Eugene see, Olivia, when he opened that door to get a beer?”

It felt good when the girl entrusted me-only me-with the truth, although I was still surprised by her careful answer.

“A candle will burn for more than twenty minutes in a sealed refrigerator. A friend of yours timed it.”

I was less surprised by the act itself. The Bible verse that had inspired Olivia wasn’t the 91st Psalm, as I’d recommended. She had memorized a tougher verse from the Book of Kings and even recited it as we drifted in the Gulf, the lights of the Coast Guard helicopter finally in sight:

“You have done more evil to your slaves than all who lived before… I, the LORD, will burn you up as one burns trash until it is gone… then you will be eaten by dogs, as those who die in the field will be eaten by vultures.”

Olivia and I were friends, good friends, and becoming closer, but it would be a while-after a mojito or two, perhaps-before I could allow myself the irreverence of suggesting that “dog” had been a misprint in the Holy Scripture.

As mother talked, she was lounging in her La-Z-Boy next to the fireplace where, even on a July morning, the owl andirons blinked at me as warmly as they had when I was a girl on winter nights. While I finished my coffee, she cranked the chair’s handle, got to her feet, and marched to the window as if to prove something.

“No clouds yet. What time’s your date? By six we’ll have wind, she’ll be pouring by seven-and don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

Loretta spoke in such a wistful way, I had to smile. “I hope it does rain!” I replied and meant it. The reason had to do with Marion Ford, who had invited me to look through his telescope after dinner. It was our third date in three weeks-if you counted an afternoon spent fly-casting for tarpon, another slogging through the mudflats. And I did even if he didn’t. So far, the biologist had been fun, attentive, easy to be with, respectful, and very proper, but that’s all.

I appreciate good manners in a man, but his passion for improper behavior had become a more interesting quality, which I could now admit. After three formal dates- sort of -and several phone conversations-brief as they were-we’d both proven our respectability. Now I was willing to risk Marion Ford’s transgressions- if he could be maneuvered into trying.

The biologist had a way about him. His low voice vibrated through my rib cage when he spoke. The spark of our elbows bumping hummed in my abdomen for hours. Quiet as he was, Marion Ford had something boiling inside him. Rage or passion, darkness or light, I had yet to find out, but my bawdy aunt’s journal had hinted at both, as I’d discovered by rereading it the night before. I’d also learned from her writing that the biologist and his strange hippie friend both had a fondness for storms. Maybe a good soaking was just the thing to loosen Marion Ford’s behavior.

That’s why Loretta had failed to dampen my spirits on this summer morning by threatening my evening with a Thunder Moon that brought rain.

Instead of stumping her, though, my optimism about bad weather only provided another opening to show off the powers God has granted Loretta after damaging her brain with a stroke.

“I bet you do hope it storms!” she cackled. “A real frog choker. One of those Gulfstream thunder-boomers that causes men to puff up, throw the covers back, and a single woman to jump. A skimpy black dress and lightning. I’d call that an unfair way to trap an innocent man”-my mother turned to smile at me-“if I didn’t know what a good girl my sweet Hannah is.”

Because the last part sounded more like the mother who’d raised me, I had to clear my throat while I checked my watch. It was morning twilight, birds outside twittering, impatient for the heat of sunrise. I had a full day ahead of me. While Loretta continued to ramble, I stood and took my cup to the kitchen.

Lawrence Seasons and Martha Calder-Shaun were expecting me by ten a.m. to sign insurance papers and to discuss an LLC for my investigation agency-a business I’d agreed to continue as long as I could still book charters on the side. Since having a private talk with Martha, I no longer felt uneasy around the woman. In fact, I liked her better. I had been right to suspect she knew more about Sybarite than she’d admitted but wrong about her knowing-or warning-Ricky Meeks.

“Sure, I considered doing the Key West cruise,” Martha had explained. “Sounds like it could be a lot of fun-with the right people. But I had nothing to add factually when you brought it up. You disapprove on some kind of moral grounds? That’s your problem, kiddo, not mine. But it’s not illegal-and why risk pissing off Larry?”

The woman was plainspoken, a trait I admire, which is why I had offered to give her fly-casting lessons during her next visit to the islands. In return, she’d agreed to give up on seducing me.

“It would’ve turned into a brawl, anyway,” the attorney had smiled, and then added something rude about both of us battling to be on top.

Something I still felt uneasy about, though, was posing in Darren’s studio. Around one p.m., I would be having lunch with the photographer and Nathan to talk about scheduling what Darren referred to as “your first sitting.” Whether there would be a second sitting, let alone a first, was something I didn’t mind discussing if it made Nathan happy. But there was too much happening in my life to make a decision today.

Plus, I didn’t have time to pose. At five, I was supposed to be at Elka Whitney’s house for drinks and a movie. An old one that the breakfast cereal heiress had selected after one of our nightly phone sessions: Double Indemnity , starring Fred MacMurray and Barbara Stanwyck. Elka had been uncommonly sweet to me after hearing some of what had happened on Drake Key, so we had shared movies and conversation often during the last three weeks. That would give me just enough time to shower and change before meeting the biologist at his lab. Sunset and moonrise are simultaneous, as they always are on a full moon, so Marion had told me to be at Dinkin’s Bay, where his lab was located, around eight.

While I moved around the old house, collecting my things, Loretta remained at the window, a new subject on her mind.

“They still talk to me at night, you know. Mothers crying, a famous Indian king bawling for revenge. Who else they got to comfort them, now you’ve gotten rich?” She was referring to the centuries of people her new neighbors had displaced with a septic tank, so I listened more closely. After all, a smart man-strange as he was-had taken my mother’s claims seriously. As a daughter, it would have been rude not to show similar respect.

“Have you taken a look at the Mausoleum lately?” Loretta asked me.

I stopped what I was doing and glanced over. Locals usually referred to the concrete structure as “the Walmart” or “The Bunker,” as if Nazis had built the thing.