In this case, the unexpected was that I had agreed to search for Olivia Tatum Seasons. In return, I would be paid expenses, a flat fee that was more than I made in two months of fishing, a bonus if I found her, and I would also be allowed to live aboard the Marlow for a year-but only after I had delivered a sheaf of legal documents into Olivia’s hands. Whether or not she also had to sign the documents, I was still unsure and, frankly, was afraid to ask. I’d never experienced such a sudden change in fortunes and I was reluctant to risk the happiness I felt.
Accepting the job meant canceling my fishing charters for the next two weeks and e-mailing the necessary documents to Ms. Calder-Shaun to confirm my uncle’s investigation agency was still licensed and state-bonded. All of which I’d accomplished before midnight, but I’d still found it hard to sleep.
Mr. Seasons had given me an incomplete dossier on his niece, Olivia. A leather-bound scrapbook sort of thing that I’d stayed up until two reading. Then I stayed awake another hour, sitting at the computer, researching everything from stone seawalls to steroids. I was being honest when I told Mr. Seasons I wasn’t qualified for the job. Now that I had accepted, though, I was by God going to do everything I could to fulfill my end of the bargain.
Probably because the memory of the way Mr. Seasons had stared at me was still fresh, my ears warmed a tad as Nathan continued to chide me, saying, “Seriously, Hannah. Don’t be obvious about it, but you owe the guy something special. The man’s an art lover, you said.”
“Lots of paintings in his house,” I agreed. “The classic-looking kind you see in museums and books.”
“There you go. And your body is as classic as any Hollywood actress. All the right curves, just taller-although you’re too stubborn to believe it. I’ve never opened a Playboy magazine in my life, but, I swear, Hannah, even I love your tits.”
I shot back, “You’ve never seen me that way and you know it,” trying my best not to sound flattered. Nathan has no interest in women in a physical way, but compliments of that sort have been scarce in my life, so I wanted him to stop exaggerating-but not drop the subject entirely.
“Have too seen ’em. The day you took me snook fishing and you had to go overboard to cut a crab line off the propeller. You were wearing a white T-shirt and a lacy bra. Same thing.”
The man grinned and leaned to look shoreward, which caused me to hold the steering wheel so as not to lose my balance. “Is that his house through the trees?”
Both of our heads were turned as far as they could go, so I clicked the throttle lever into neutral so we could take our time. From the channel, forty yards away, Mr. Seasons’s estate was five acres of tropic foliage and vines, landscaped neatly as a pineapple plantation. You couldn’t see much of the house. Just a wedge of gray wood and a chunk of chimney framed by hibiscus and coconut palms with leaves as green as parrots’ wings.
I’d already told Nathan that Mr. Seasons said I could hire a part-time researcher, so I decided to get back to business. “You haven’t said you’d take the job. It would mostly be computer stuff, just a few hours in the morning when I’m traveling. Mr. Seasons thinks it would be smart for me to work my way down the coast by boat, talking to people at marinas. It wouldn’t interfere with your job at Sanibel Rum Bar, but you’d have to sign a contract of confidentiality. I found blank contracts in my uncle’s files and brought one along just in case.”
“Why down the coast?” Nathan asked. “If his niece is on a boat, they could have headed north just as easy. Or taken the river to Lake Okeechobee, across to Lauderdale. She could be anywhere.”
I replied, “A friend thinks he saw Olivia on Marco Island, getting into a boat,” while I opened the console locker and brought out a computer bag, aware my skiff was drifting toward Mr. Seasons’s dock. Nathan was still looking toward the house, standing on tiptoes to get a better view. “Is there a pool?”
“Big one with a black tile bottom,” I answered. “I like black tile in a pool a lot better than blue. You don’t see that many. If I had the money, that’s what I’d pick.”
Nathan looked at me, using his hands like a filmmaker, wanting me to imagine something. “Okay, here’s how you do it. You’re out lounging by his swimming pool, getting a tan. No… it’s dark, with a big full moon. Which is when you notice the great man standing at the window. But a very lonely man because his wife’s a bitch and she doesn’t like Florida. Or sex, or fishing-or anything else that’s fun. Poor bastard hasn’t seen a fine pair of young breasts in years. With me so far?”
I said, “My God, you’re something,” which didn’t stop Nathan, of course.
“That’s when you and the great man make eye contact. When he’s at the window-only for a second, though. It’s an electric moment-for him, at least-then you turn so you’re in profile. That’s when you let your bikini top drop to your feet. Don’t even look at it-your top, I mean. Like it’s all accidental, but he knows it’s your private way of thanking him. A personal gift to a lonely old man who has too much money to count.”
Nathan was grinning again, but then the grin faded because of what he saw in my face. “Oh, now you’re mad. What’d I say? Usually, you like it when I talk dirty. Lord knows, it’s the only sex thrills either one of us gets.”
“I am not mad,” I replied, my tone formal, pretending to concentrate on what was inside the computer bag. “It’s not professional to speak ill of clients, that’s all.”
“Speak ill? Christ, Hannah, all I said was you should let the old guy have a peek at your goodies. There’s nothing bad about that-unless you think it might give him a heart attack or something.”
I was tempted to point out that Nathan was thirty years younger than his famous photographer friend but didn’t. “That’s not the way you talk about a person who’s paying for your livelihood,” I told him sternly. “Besides, Mr. Seasons can’t be much more than forty-five or… or so. A lot of people consider that middle-aged.”
Nathan was looking at me like I was nuts. “Sure-if we lived to a hundred. I wait on Mr. Seasons sometimes when he comes into the bar. That’s how I know he’s unhappy and his wife’s a bitch. Trust me, the man’s closer to sixty than forty.”
“He is not.”
“You can’t be serious. I know grandfathers younger than him. And a lot happier, too.”
I snapped, “Lawrence Seasons is not a sad old man!” raising my voice and turning-which is when I noticed that Mr. Seasons was inside the cabin of the Marlow, door open now, looking at us from only thirty yards away.
I whispered, “Shit,” a word I seldom use. It was because I know how sound carries across water, so the man had definitely heard me. I shoved the computer bag into Nathan’s hands, then slammed my boat into gear, eyes locked straight ahead. Because I’d surprised Nathan, though, the bag dropped to the deck, which caused the sheaf of papers to spill around our feet.
I didn’t care. Putting distance between us, that beautiful boat, and Mr. Seasons was all I could think about. Even when Nathan knelt to gather the papers, asking me over and over, “What’s wrong? Hey, what’s the problem?” I ignored him and drove.
A couple of minutes later, though, when he said, “Does this guy have anything to do with the missing girl?” I had calmed enough to stop behaving like a statue, so I turned and gave him my attention. Nathan had gathered the papers Mr. Seasons had given me and was looking at a photo. I recognized the photo easily enough. I had spent time memorizing it the night before.
“He’s the man they hired to build the seawall,” I said. “They can’t be sure Olivia went off with him, but it’s what they suspect. His name’s Ricky Meeks.”