Nathan was still examining the picture but was now pursing his lips. “His name’s not Ricky. Or maybe it is, but Mrs. Whitney called him something else. Mike… Matt… it began with an M.”
“You know him?” I said, startled but also pleased because Mr. Seasons put a lot of stock in the value of local knowledge. Maybe I was already earning my money.
“Mick,” Nathan said. “Yeah… Mick, I’m pretty sure that’s it. A woman named Mrs. Whitney used to bring him to the restaurant sometimes. This was back around New Year’s. For a week or so, those two came almost every night, usually just drinks. She always paid, of course, because she’s a lot older-and she’s rich.” Nathan looked at the photo again. “Or Mickey, maybe. Which at least rhymes with Ricky, so it’s the sort of fake name a guy would use.”
I said, “You can’t be sure from just looking at one picture,” which I didn’t believe but, suddenly, I felt uneasy because so much good luck was piling on me all at once.
“Nope, it’s him all right.” Nathan turned to me. “You’re doing some kind of reverse jinx thing, right? Hannah, how can someone smart as you be so damn superstitious?”
I replied, “I just want you to be sure, that’s all. Plus, you have to sign that confidentiality form before I can even let you see those papers.”
Captiva Island, less than five miles long, isn’t much more than an ancient sandbar built up over centuries, shaped by current and waves. Now it’s rooted to the Gulf of Mexico by multimillion-dollar properties, sea oats, palms, and a couple of bayside marinas. We were approaching Jensen’s Marina now. Nathan’s photographer friend, Darren, lived to my right in a house with a pool and studio so beautifully designed, they blended into the island’s foliage like elegant, storm-tossed shells.
Darren had gotten famous in New York, photographing rock stars and actors, but now he mostly lived and worked on the island. He was a handsome man, willowy as a fashion model, and always had a whiskey in one hand, a cigarette in the other. We’d spoken only a few times, but Nathan liked Darren a lot, and his self-confidence had improved a bunch since they’d met. My friend seemed happy, and that’s all I cared about. When we were close enough to Darren’s dock, I reversed my engine… popped it into forward, spinning the wheel… then I switched off the key, and let my skiff drift itself to a stop, nudging the pilings as if it belonged there.
That’s when Nathan, his shyness showing, patted my shoulder and assured me, “I might be wrong about the guy’s name. But not about him and Mrs. Whitney. I remember ’cause the dude’s so mean-looking. He, uhh… it made my hands shake sometimes when I waited on their table. Nervous, you know?”
Nate is the size of a pro wrestler, but he’s timid as a bird, so I tried not to smile as I stepped out and tied the boat.
Ricky Meeks-the name I associated with the photo after studying it-was indeed a scary-looking man. The photo had been taken outdoors at a place where there was snow and a parking lot, possibly backdropped by a bar or strip club. Nothing in the picture to prove it, just a feeling I got. The man’s sleeves were rolled tight, biker’s tats and muscles on display like trophies, a deliberate spit curl calling attention to a face that leered at the camera as if he’d just insulted the photographer and knew the guy was too scared to fight.
“He has kind of a dirty redneck look,” Nathan said, handing me the photo. “You think? And smelled bad, too. Sweat and cigarettes, but mostly this terrible, cheap aftershave. The dollar-a-gallon stuff you buy at Walgreens. Like limes mixed with cough syrup.”
I asked, “What in the world was Mrs. Whitney doing with a man like him? I’ve never met her, but I know she’s wealthy. It’s the same family that started the cereal company, right? That’s what I’ve heard, anyway… and they own a place-”
“Right there,” Nathan said, pointing toward a screen of hedges a hundred yards down the seawall where there was a dock that was boatless, some busted planks hanging in the water. “I haven’t seen Mrs. Whitney for a while. Months, probably. A lot of the owners are seasonal, so maybe she went north for the summer. I can ask Darren.”
In my head, my courage was having an argument with my brain, saying it was too early to begin questioning people and that I hadn’t done the proper research. But then my eyes swiveled toward Mr. Seasons’s dock, a quarter mile away, where the Marlow Prowler was a pretty black blossom that glittered in the heat.
“Don’t bother Darren yet,” I told Nathan.
“Still intimidated because he’s famous?” my friend chided. “Darren likes you, Four. His feelings are hurt because you never come up for a drink. My God, a few weeks ago the man practically begged to photograph you! That doesn’t tell you something?”
It was all true, but that wasn’t the reason I didn’t want to ask Darren. I said, “Later, I’ll stop and say hello, sure. But first I’m going to walk down to Mrs. Whitney’s place. You know, find out for myself if she recognizes the photo.”
“If she’s still on the island,” Nathan replied, sounding like he hoped she wasn’t. Even so, he fell into step. We followed the bike path toward Blind Pass, past three driveways to a wrought-iron gate the size of a mall entrance. A bronze plaque read Battle Creek Bay-N-Beach, which was the sort of clever name owners call their estates on Captiva Island. I guessed it referred to the cereal town in Michigan.
“Gate’s locked,” Nathan said, rattling the bars, “unless you know the code.”
“That’s for people with cars,” I replied. I paused to check for traffic, then slid between the gate and a hedge, onto Mrs. Whitney’s property. “You going to let me trespass all by myself?” I asked. “Or you coming along?”
FOUR
BY THE WAY MRS. WHITNEY REACTED TO THE PHOTO OF Ricky Meeks, I knew the man scared her and had somehow hurt her, too, even though she denied knowing him at first. Maybe not physically hurt her, but hurt her in the way a certain type of rough man can damage a woman who is twice his age and has lost everything that’s solid about herself including her looks and self-respect.
“I really don’t see the point in discussing some handyman I paid minimum wage to… well, I can’t even remember what I hired him to do. Staff come and go, even on a property as small as this.” Mrs. Whitney skated Ricky’s photo onto the table, but I noticed that her eyes lingered on the man even as she reached for an ebony cigarette case.
I said, “Small?” We were in what felt like a Spanish palace with twenty-foot ceilings where arched hallways opened into more rooms and hallways, floors of pale marble, and a sound system that played Johnny Mathis, volume low.
“It’s a winter house,” Mrs. Whitney replied, exhaling and giving me a sharp look through the smoke. “But let’s back up. Are you sure you’re not here because this person”-she gestured at the photo-“is trying to get in touch with me? Two or three months ago, I had my contact information changed. Phone, e-mail, everything-my attorneys insisted, for security reasons. But if the man wants to come back… I suppose there’s a possibility.”
“He’s not trying to contact you,” I interrupted, and watched the woman’s expression waver between relief and disappointment. “Your name didn’t come up until today, Mrs. Whitney. Someone said they’d seen you two at a Sanibel restaurant. They thought the man’s name is Mick, or Nick, but he also calls himself Ricky Meeks.” I kept it vague because the woman had yet to recognize Nathan, who was standing behind me, or even look at him, which I found strange.
“Ricky?” the woman said like she’d just tasted something bitter. “I can’t keep track of every minimum wage drifter we hire. But ‘Mickey’ sounds more familiar.” When she tapped her cigarette on an ashtray and added, “As in Mickey Mouse-that’s the only reason I remember,” I knew she’d had feelings for the man, and maybe still did.