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
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
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