Randy White: Gone

Mr. Seasons was looking at me in a kindly way, but there was also an underlying bedrock seriousness that is not uncommon in my successful clients.

I decided to open up a little. “Jake was always after me to better myself any way I could. I got my captain’s license because of him. Never thought I’d need it, but he gave me the books and helped me study. Same with the private investigator thing. In Florida, a person with two years’ experience at an agency can apply for a Class C license, which my uncle insisted I do. Then when Jake got sick, he had me upgrade to a Class M license so I could sign paperwork that needed taking care of.”

“Have you kept your license current?”

“No need,” I replied. “It hasn’t expired.”

Mr. Seasons was pleased, I could see it. Because I didn’t want to mislead him, though, I felt obligated to add, “But I won’t renew it when the time comes. There’s a fee, and I have no interest in doing that sort of work. For one thing, I quit college before I got my degree, so I’m not qualified-aside from doing the computer stuff. I’m sorry your niece is missing, but if that’s why you asked me to lunch, I’ve got enough charters booked to last me through the first week of-”

Lawrence Seasons was searching around for the maid, still perturbed about his melted ice. As he stood, not looking at me, he interrupted, “Just a few seconds ago, didn’t you say you never thought you’d need your captain’s license either?”

“That’s different,” I told him. “Finding fish is something that comes natural. And I like my clients. It always irks me when I hear some guide talking about his anglers like they’re idiots. Why in the world would someone go into the business if that’s the way they feel? The main thing, though, is-and I don’t mean to be blunt-agency work, the investigating part, is boring . Hunched over a computer for hours, calling strangers on the phone. Jake offered me the business, maybe you know that, too. But we were only billing about two or three hours a month, which didn’t even pay utilities. So we closed it officially a few weeks before he went into Hope Hospice. Now I’ve converted the space into a sort of apartment, and that’s where-” I hesitated because it was embarrassing to admit I was living in a parking lot next to a 7-Eleven and a fitness club. So I left that part out, saying, “-and that’s what happened to the little building you helped Jake buy.”

Maybe Mr. Seasons heard me, maybe he didn’t. I got the impression what I was saying didn’t matter much, anyway, because the man had already made up his mind. I found that irritating. He had invited me to his home, the least he could do is listen respectfully.

Instead, though, he said, “Excuse me,” turned on his heels, and carried his empty glass into the house before I could finish what I was saying.

Loretta accuses me of having a temper, which might be true, but only when someone is unfair or treating others like they’re not worth the time of day. That’s the way I felt now, so I got up, exited the pool area, and walked toward the dock, telling myself I should hop in my skiff and go home-although I knew I wouldn’t do it. Then, a moment later, I heard Mr. Seasons calling, “Hannah-hold on there!” then turned to watch him maneuver through the lanai door, trying not to spill his fresh drink in one hand and carrying what looked like an old leather briefcase in his other.

“Needed to check on my boat,” I told him, then waited for him to join me on the dock.

“Here,” he said, handing me the briefcase. “These are some things Jake asked me to hang on to but I kept forgetting to return. You can look at them later. Let’s get our business settled first, okay?”

Too late. I had unsnapped the case, which was heavier than expected, and saw that it contained two oversized books, one of them on Florida history that I remembered seeing as a girl. As I stowed the briefcase beneath my skiff’s steering console, I couldn’t help but stare up at the yacht moored a few yards away, which he noticed. His expression suddenly warmed as if he’d just had a good idea.

“A beauty, isn’t she?” His eyes were tracing the vessel’s clean lines, all teak, tempered glass, and stainless steel. “I had her built in Palmetto almost… my God, more than fifteen years ago. It’s a shame, really. Sits here at the dock like a yard decoration. Only used the thing once in the last two years. My wife hates Florida-I’ve probably mentioned that. So I have one of the Jensen brothers stop every week or so, when I’m traveling or in New York, just to start the engines. She’s a real work of art, don’t you think?”

Actually, I’d been thinking what a pain in the backside it would be to maintain a vessel that size, but I complimented the craft anyway by saying, “I’ve always favored boats with midnight blue hulls and white upper decks. Yacht-sized boats, anyway.” I gestured to my skiff, which is twenty-one feet long, flat as an iron, and overmuscled at the stern with a 220-horsepower outboard. “In a fishing skiff, though, I like light blue. Or gray. Makes it harder for other fishermen to see me and steal my spots.”

Mr. Seasons enjoyed that kind of talk and it showed. He asked a few questions about my boat, then about how chartering was going-a money question, which I dodged-then got back to business.

“Let me ask you something. You helped with Jake’s P.I. work, so you know I was one of his few clients. Maybe his only client. Which means you probably did some of the background checks I ordered. You and I have fished together for, what, almost two years? Yet you’ve never mentioned it. And a few minutes ago when I asked about my dealings with Jake, you avoided telling me. Why?”

I started to answer, but he stopped me, holding up a hand like a traffic cop. “You have character, Hannah Smith, that’s why. Character and local knowledge. You don’t gossip and you don’t risk compromising your clients by opening your mouth. Same with people you care about. Am I right? Plus, you know how to handle a boat, which I think is a must in this case.”

I could feel my ears warming, but not because of what Mr. Seasons was saying. It was the way he was looking at me suddenly, his eyes liquid blue in the sun, moving over my jeans and blouse as if I were a freshly framed canvas. There was a pleased expression on his face that showed a hint of surprise.

I asked, “What’s wrong? Is… something on my-?” My fingers automatically confirmed my blouse hadn’t come open, then wiped at my cheek, expecting to find a streak of that damn orange paint.

Mr. Seasons made a dismissive motion with his hand, his expression now telling me Relax . “Sorry if I was staring. It was something the sun did for a moment… the way the light hit your face just now.”

I cleared my throat, and said, “I should be wearing a hat, I guess. I usually do.” As I spoke, my eyes sought the safety of the bay and found it, focusing on a hedge of mangroves where pelicans roosted heavy as bricks on guano-streaked limbs.

“That’s not what I meant, dear. It’s an odd sort of experience, maybe it’s happened to you. You meet a man, or a woman, and that first impression sticks in your brain for years. Then you run into them at some unexpected place-an airport, maybe… or the light changes, like it did just now-and you’re surprised to find out the person looks nothing like the picture that’s stuck in your brain. Especially if you don’t see the person very often.”

“Why don’t you tell me about your niece, Mr. Seasons,” I said to ease the awkwardness we were both feeling. Then I glanced at the sun to remind him the temperature was already in the eighties on this June afternoon.