Little Gale Gumbo (16 page)

“Little Dan,” she said, sauntering over. “What are you doing here?”

“It's Officer Warner now, Dahlia, if you don't mind.” The policeman tried to sound firm, even as his full cheeks flushed pink. He wiped his mouth, then his brow, just missing a long thread of perspiration alongside his temple. Dahlia peered over her sunglasses at his plate and grinned to see the remains of the café's famous Spicy Scramble. She should have known from the telltale navy crescents of sweat spreading out from under his arms.

“I usually recommend people undress before they eat the scramble,” she said, pouring herself a cup of coffee. “It takes off hair better than a bikini wax.”

“Dahl, leave the poor man alone.” Josie came out of the kitchen with a plate of corn muffins and set them on the counter. “He's here to keep an eye on things. Jack sent him over in case any reporters start banging on the door. How was the scramble, Dan?”

The officer offered a bright thumbs-up as he mopped his forehead with his napkin.

Dahlia emptied three sugar packets into her coffee, stirring it with a knife. She gestured to the flowers.

Josie smiled wistfully. “I couldn't even get through the front door at first,” she said. “Danny had to help me bring them in. There's a bunch more in the kitchen.” She looked at Dahlia. “Did you go by the house?”

Dahlia blew on her coffee. “I couldn't.”

“Wayne says Jack didn't put up any of that yellow police tape, thank God.” Josie offered Dahlia a muffin; she took two. “I couldn't bear to think of the lilacs tangled up in that awful stuff. Any word from Matty?”

“No. You?”

“No. I tried Jack too, but he didn't answer.”

The front door chimed. The sisters looked up to see Willard Riley leaning in the doorway, the older man's brown eyes big on them, looking like a kid peering over the railing on Christmas morning for a peek at the tree.

“Morning, Mr. Riley,” said Josie.

“Morning, girls. Listen, I know you're closed and I don't mean to bother you, but I promised Luanne I'd bring pralines to the board meeting this morning, and she'll kill me if I show up empty-handed. You know how she is about her sweets.”

Josie smiled patiently. “I'll see what I can do,” she said, and disappeared into the back, returning a few minutes later with a heavy brown bag that she walked to the door.

Willard took the bag, beaming. “You're a lifesaver. How much do I owe you?”

“The register's locked. Don't worry about it.”

Willard nodded, his eyes filling with concern. “We're all pulling for him, you know. The whole town.”

“I know,” Josie said, waving as Willard slipped back out the door.

Dahlia sighed. “I bet if you listen carefully, you'll hear the popping of a thousand champagne corks all across the island.”

Josie frowned. “Don't say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“You know why not. It's bad luck to talk about the dead before they're—” Josie stopped, her gaze catching on the view of the street. “Oh, God.”

“What?” Dahlia turned to the front window just in time to see Robert Clark's bright green tow truck pulling up beside her parked pickup.

Dahlia slammed down her muffin. “That miserable
troll
!”

“Dahl, please.” Josie reached out as Dahlia stormed past her. “Don't make a scene.”

“Bobby Clark!” Dahlia burst out the front door just as the hooks were lowered, shouting as she approached, “Bobby Clark, don't you dare put my truck on that tow!”

The short, mustached man held up his grease-stained hands. “Sorry, Dahlia. Nothing I can do. Orders from the top.”

Dahlia spun around and glared at Atlantic Antiques' frosted front doors with their matching lavender wreaths. She thought they looked about the right diameter to fit around a certain shopkeeper's fat neck.

Inside the café, Danny Warner squeezed himself out from behind the table. “I'll handle this, ma'am,” he said, his voice lowered with sufficient authority.

Josie smiled gratefully as he stepped past her and outside, but it was too late. Dahlia had already climbed through the truck's passenger window, shimmied across the seat, and started up the engine. “She wants me to move my truck?” she yelled out her open window. “Fine! I'll move my goddamned truck!”

Then, only seconds after Danny Warner and Robert Clark were able to scoot out of the way, Dahlia slammed the truck into reverse, driving the rusted back end up over the curb and straight into the side of Margery Dunham's neatly written sandwich board, sending the hinged panels toppling like an unsteady toddler off the edge of the sidewalk and into the street. Dahlia put the car into drive, pulled it down off the curb, then steered her front end over the flattened boards, hearing the crack of the frame, then taking off down the street.

 

Jack was waiting for Matthew in the Sand Dollar's lobby when Matthew came downstairs at nine fifteen. The old friends reunited with a handshake and heavy hearts, taking cups of complimentary coffee out to the back porch and settling into a pair of painted Adirondacks that were misted with dew.

“Still no news?” Jack asked.

Matthew shook his head, setting his cup on one of the chair's long, flared arms. “They hope Pop'll come out of it within a few days. They're just not sure how he'll be when he does.”

Jack nodded, knowing there wasn't much more to say on it.

Matthew let out a heavy sigh. “I can't believe that cocksucker finally did it, Jack. All those years we worried, you know? But, Jesus . . . I never really thought Charles would be crazy enough to actually come back here and try to hurt Pop.”

Jack set down his cup. “I know.”

“So when did he get out?”

“Monday.”

“Monday?” Matthew rubbed his forehead, stunned. “Jesus, Jack—why the hell wasn't anyone told?”

“It all depends on the nature of the offense, Matt. Sometimes the prison will try to inform next of kin in the event of a parole hearing; sometimes they won't. But in most cases, if there are no priors for domestic abuse, the state doesn't have to notify the family unless they request the release information, which apparently no one did.”

“Are you telling me Camille never pressed charges against that son of a bitch?”

“It's not uncommon. A lot of times women don't because they worry it will only escalate the violence.”

Matthew let go a sad chuckle. “So much for that theory,” he whispered, more to himself than to Jack. He picked up his coffee, took a sip.

“Matt, I want you to know I'm doing everything I can to push this investigation through,” Jack said, “so everyone can just move on from this. You and Ben. Josie and Dahlia.”

At the reference, Matthew looked up, meeting Jack's eyes. Jack's tone had been casual, but Matthew wasn't fooled. He hadn't forgotten how deeply in love Jack and Dahlia had been with each other, how their breakup had confounded and wrecked Jack. For a long time, Matthew thought that Jack was jealous of him for his relationship with Dahlia, as if the proximity of their living quarters and the time they had spent together had automatically forged a deep passion between them, as if it had been that easy. Matthew had only wished.

But there was more, of course. Jack had a right to his grudge.

“I haven't spoken to them since I left Miami,” Matthew said. “They said the hospital wouldn't let anyone but immediate family into Pop's room.”

“It's true. The waiting's been awful for them. I'm sure they'll want to go over with you as soon as possible.” Jack paused, the next question obvious, and prudent. “Did Holly come with you?”

Matthew looked out at the inn's yard, the winding trails of flower gardens, wondering if they were Dahlia's handiwork.

“No,” he admitted quietly. “We broke up a few months ago.”

“Oh, Christ, I'm sorry. I know how tough it can be.”

“Thanks.” Matthew remembered hearing about Jack's divorce. Dahlia had told him in a phone call, sounding relieved.

“The house is still
technically
a crime scene,” Jack said, “but if there's something you need or you want, I can get it for you. Just let me know, okay?”

Matthew nodded. There were a thousand things and nothing he wanted from the old house. He couldn't begin to think on it.

The men rose together.

“I'll be in touch soon,” Jack said. “In the meantime, let me know if there's anything I can do.”

Matthew said he would and they parted at the steps.

Alone again, Matthew squinted up at the sky. The morning cloud cover had finally burned off, leaving behind a choking blanket of humidity. He returned to his room to change into a T-shirt; then he climbed the hill toward Walnut Street.

 

Dahlia was weeding flower boxes on her back deck when Josie called.

“That was a wonderful performance this morning, Dahlia Rose. What are you planning to run over for tomorrow's show?”

“Very funny.” Dahlia pushed hair out of her eyes with the heel of her dirt-caked hand. “I think one of the nails from that goddamned sandwich board got stuck in my front wheel.”

“Serves you right,” said Josie. “I just talked to Matty and he said he's on his way. Why don't you come over to the café and we'll all have lunch? I told him we wanted to go to the hospital first thing, but would you believe they're running a bunch of tests this afternoon, so we
still
can't see Ben yet after all thi—Dahl? Dahl, are you still there?”

Dahlia lowered the phone, her eyes fixed on the side of the house, where Matthew had just appeared from the street: head bowed slightly, hands in his pockets as always, hair still curly and a few weeks overdue for a cut, still sandy blond but graying.

A dormant possessiveness awoke within her; selfish as it was, she wanted him to herself for just a while.

“Joze, I have to go,” she said quickly. “I have to be at the Harrises' at noon.”

She hung up and set the phone back on the railing.

There wasn't time to consider how wretched she must have looked, or how her heart thumped behind her dirt-streaked T-shirt. Just a single thought blasted through the mess of them, filling Dahlia with pride and relief:

He'd picked her.

 

Matthew told himself it was simple math that he'd come upon Dahlia first, since her house was closer to the inn than Josie's. But he'd taken the less direct route to every one of his destinations since arriving, so that wasn't entirely accurate.

Maybe he'd come to Dahlia first because he knew she'd be alone.

Maybe he had picked her after all.

“Hey, Dee.”

“Hey, Matty.”

They met in a patch of lavender and looked a while at each other, until Dahlia finally reached for him. Grateful for her lead, Matthew gripped Dahlia's waist and pulled her close, the sharp, coppery scent of crushed soil filling his nose.

He drew back, blinking away tears. Dahlia looked past him.

“Holly didn't come,” he said.

“Oh.” Dahlia wanted him to say more, to say why, but he didn't and she didn't press him. “Why don't we go inside? I have some sweet tea.”

“Fuck that.” He gave her a tired smile. “How about a beer?”

 

It was a great house. Small, open, bright. Dahlia had bought it the year he'd met Holly. Matthew remembered when Bobby Chapman and his family had lived in it. All pine paneling and wall-to-wall shag.

She was still a hopeless slob, he thought, looking around at the cluttered room, the coffee table overflowing with stacks of planting books and old newspapers, empty wineglasses and oversize mugs. Yet there was still a certain charm to the mess, an undeniable warmth that he'd always missed when he was away. He saw the old love seat in the corner, the faded plum velvet buried under a pile of clean laundry that would probably never find its way into dresser drawers.

Dahlia came into the living room carrying two beers.

She handed him one and nodded to the love seat. “Remember that old thing?”

Matthew smiled. “Do I ever.”

“Josie and I couldn't agree who should have it when Momma died, so we trade off. I keep it from June to December; then she gets it for the other half of the year.”

He grinned. Shared custody of a love seat. Only the sisters could invent such a thing.

“Do you share the Perez too?” he asked, gesturing to the empty square of wall above the fireplace.

Dahlia glanced reflexively to where he looked. She was surprised he remembered her mother's beloved painting.

“No, it's all mine,” she said. “It's just at the restorers'.”

“I remember when it came.”

“You thought it was ugly.”

“Yeah, well.” Matthew shrugged. “I had a lot to learn about art.” Their eyes met. “I had a lot to learn about a lot of things.”

In the silence, the room seemed too close, filling up quickly with memories once the floodgates had been opened.

Dahlia pointed them to the porch. “Let's go outside.”

 

On the deck, they sat around a plastic table covered in opened bags of potting soil. They drank awhile, saying nothing, waiting for the air to settle around them as the sea breeze fluttered by, making the deck's collection of wind chimes sing.

“It's been awful not being able to see him, Matty. And now Joze said something about tests today?”

“Yeah. Assessment tests. GCS, or GSC, or some fucking thing.” He frowned, glanced to her. “I'm sorry they haven't let you guys see him, Dee.”