Little Gale Gumbo (17 page)

“Jack's been letting us know whenever he talks to the doctor,” Dahlia said. “It's helped.”

Matthew nodded, feeling a fresh clump of tears rising. He forced them back, sniffing deeply. He scratched at the corner of the beer label with his thumbnail, not sure what to say next. A part of him wanted to rage at Dahlia, to blame her for her father's violence, for all the years Charles had made anyone who cared for the Bergeron women suffer. But the bigger part of him knew that Dahlia had suffered too.

The label surrendered and Matthew peeled it off.

“I got a room at the Sand Dollar,” he said.

“Josie told me. We were wondering why you didn't find a hotel in Portland, where you could be closer to Ben.”

Matthew shrugged, swigged his beer. The truth was, it hadn't occurred to him
not
to stay on the island. No matter where the hospital was.

“I guess I just figured I would be over here most of the time anyway,” he said. “Seeing Jack. Seeing you and Jo . . .”

Dahlia reached for his hand across the table, pressed her fingers between his.

“You know you could stay here,” she said. “There's an extra bedroom upstairs.”

Matthew knew that; he remembered the layout well. Maybe he'd visited Dahlia first so that she could offer her room before Josie, and that out of courtesy he'd have to accept Dahlia's offer, the one he'd wanted in the first place.

“You should, Matty. Save yourself the money.”

It was a lame excuse and they both knew it. He made a good salary; cost wasn't the issue.

“Or not,” Dahlia said. “I know that wouldn't sit well with Holly.”

A new stretch of silence arrived, longer this time. Dahlia sipped her beer. Matthew studied her when she looked away, wondering what she would say if she knew that Holly had left him, wondering why he hadn't told her yet. Back on the island, the desire to have Dahlia's attention, her affection, overwhelmed him. He could have been seventeen again.

God, he thought, the burning hunger for revenge racing through him, if only he were.

“When was the last time you talked to your dad?” Dahlia asked.

“Last week.” Matthew paused, fighting back tears. “We talked about me coming up for Thanksgiving. He sounded tired. Not like himself somehow. How has he seemed to you?”

Dahlia shrugged, smiling sadly. “Honestly, Matty, ever since Momma died, your dad hasn't seemed like himself.”

“What do you expect? She was his constant companion for almost twenty years, Dee. They were each other's whole world.” He looked at Dahlia as the memories flooded him. “We all were.”

Dahlia stared at her hands in her lap, the black crescents of dirt packed under her nails. “We should get going,” she said, dragging her wrist across her wet eyes. “Josie's waiting.”

 

Jack watched the Casco Bay ferry glide into the landing, evicting a snug pack of seagulls with its arriving horn. The birds rose in an angry arc, still squawking as they landed farther down the dock.

Forty-three years on the island and he still felt a shudder of awe watching the great boats arrive against the piers. He took a seat on a sun-parched bench nearby, leaned back, and sipped his coffee while the ship's heavy lines were tossed out and tied down. The crush of the departing passengers followed, the seasonal mix of residents and tourists marching down the gangplank.

Jack spotted Keith Hewitt right away in the crowd of attendants, all dressed in their white polo shirts and khaki shorts, but Keith's bleached crew cut was hard to miss. Keith was a good kid, nearly twenty-three and bright as hell. Jack had helped the young man to get the job as a deckhand for the
Island Explorer
when the paper mill in Westbrook had closed down the spring before. The pay wasn't nearly as good, but it did keep the young man closer to home, where he was sole guardian of his teenage brother, Shawn, which was a full-time job in itself. In the past six months, the seventeen-year-old had been caught twice with dope, the most recent time in the company of a woman nearly twice his age who ran a sex shop in Saco.

Jack drained his coffee while the last passengers disembarked, mostly parents with loose children and unwieldy strollers (Jack remembered Jenny's that folded up like a pocketknife) and islanders toting bags from the shops on the mainland.

When the boat was finally empty, Jack made his way down the ramp.

“Hi, there, Keith.”

The young man's face brightened when he looked up. “Oh, hey, Chief Thurlow. You waiting for someone?”

“As a matter of fact, I am.” Jack stepped up onto the deck. “Got a second?”

The young man gave him a quizzical look, the sunburned skin of his forehead knotting. “Yeah, sure.” He took off his sunglasses, hooking them on his collar, and followed Jack to a quiet stretch of the deck. “This isn't about Shawn, is it?” Keith asked, a flicker of panic shuddering across his face. “He's not in trouble again, is he?”

“No, nothing like that. This is about Ben Haskell. The office said you were on Thursday night when Charles Bergeron came over on the boat.”

“I worked that shift, yeah. But I don't know if I saw him or not.”

Jack took out the faxed picture of Charles's most recent mug shot and held it out to Keith. “I'm just trying to confirm the time line,” Jack said. “Anything you can remember would help.”

“Oh, yeah, that guy,” Keith said, nodding. “Sure. I saw him. I remember thinking his hair was even crazier than mine.”

Jack grinned as he tugged a small notebook out of his back pocket, pulled the pen off its front, and clicked the tip out. “How did he seem to you?”

Keith shrugged. “Fine, I guess. He bought a cup of coffee while me and Kip were working the snack bar. Told me to keep the change.”

Jack made the note. “Anything else you can remember?”

“Not really. I didn't see the guy again after that.”

“So you didn't see Bergeron get off the boat?”

“Nope.”

Jack nodded, making more notes. “And this was the ten-forty, right?”

“No, the seven-forty.”

Jack looked up. “The
seven
-forty? Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

Jack frowned. It didn't add up. Ben's call to dispatch had come in a few minutes after eleven, and it sure as hell didn't take three hours to walk from the landing to the old house, which meant Charles had stopped somewhere on his way to Ben's.

One logical answer as to where rushed at Jack, forming a knot in his throat. Josie and Wayne had been with him having dinner at his house, but Jack had never gotten around to asking Dahlia where she'd been that night. Now he'd have to. Jack only hoped she could she tell him.

He slipped the notebook into his jacket.

“Thanks for your help, Keith,” he said, already walking back down the ramp. “And tell Shawn I said hi.”

Fourteen

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Matthew smiled to see the same Open sign hanging lopsided in the café's front door, and when he followed Dahlia inside, the smell nearly toppled him.

It didn't matter that the walls had been redone, or that the rose blossoms they'd once painted so carefully on the wide floorboards were nearly gone, stomped and mopped and scuffed away over the years. Or even if a pair of overstuffed chairs sat in the corner that used to be reserved for boxes of paper goods and dried beans. The jukebox was still there, playing Ella Fitzgerald, and if Matthew had dared to close his eyes, he could have been sixteen again, squeezing past Camille to rinse garlic peel off his hands.

“Matty!”

Josie appeared behind the counter in a sleeveless blouse and a knee-length denim skirt, her delicate hands lost in a pair of oven mitts. She wove through the tables and collapsed against him, rocking back and forth. Matthew smoothed the soft red bowl of her hair, seeing the rows of flowers on the counter. He smiled.

“They're for Ben,” she said. “They keep coming.”

Matthew glanced around, seeing customers he'd never seen before. A group of young people crowded in the window booth, probably children of classmates, kids not much older than he and the girls had been when they'd opened the café. A new generation of gumbo converts. Camille would have been pleased.

“Hi, Matt.”

Wayne emerged from the kitchen. Josie stepped aside and an awkward silence fell over the café while the two men walked carefully toward each other. Close enough, they exchanged a strained embrace, then drew back quickly. Wayne moved to Josie, taking her hand.

“We're all really sorry, Matt,” he said.

Josie pulled her hand gently out of Wayne's grip and gestured to the kitchen. “Hungry, Matty?”

Matthew wasn't the least bit. He hadn't had an appetite for the last two days. He had barely been able to force down a sandwich at the airport.

But when Josie brought him the first bowl of gumbo, and he saw the fat wedges of sausage in their satiny broth, he inhaled it and asked for another.

They closed the café early and returned to Josie and Wayne's, letting the hours of the afternoon slip away over pots of coffee and a thawed pecan pie. When it was time for dinner, Josie implored Matthew to stay, as if there was any question he wouldn't, and they ate oyster bisque and crab cakes in the dining room, reminiscing between second helpings and pours of red wine. When bowls and plates were empty, Wayne complained of a headache and excused himself to the den to watch the Red Sox. He'd been subdued at dinner, saying little the entire meal, and Josie was grateful to see him depart.

“The house looks great, JoJo,” Matthew said, glancing around the candlelit room. So many memories in the smallest details, strings of Mardi Gras beads swinging from doorknobs and cabinet pulls.

“The best part is outside,” Josie said, rising with a pile of dirty plates and heading into the kitchen. “Dahlia did some beautiful new plantings around the deck this spring. You'll have to go take a look.”

Matthew met Dahlia's eyes across the table. “You always were talented, Dee.” They looked at each other for a moment, looking away when Josie returned for more dishes.

Dahlia rose to help clear the table. Matthew joined her.

In the kitchen, he said, “It's late. I should really be getting back to the hotel.”

Josie nodded, smiled. “So, eight o'clock at the café tomorrow, right?”

“Right,” Matthew said, moving toward the door.

“Wait.” Dahlia grabbed her keys off the counter. “I'll drive you.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” said Josie. “You're drunk!”

Dahlia grinned. “So I am.”

She tossed her keys to Matthew. He caught them easily.

“Then I guess Matty will drive
me
.”

 

It was a clear, cold night. Jack leaned back in his wicker porch swing and studied the ceiling of stars as he sipped a beer. A rush of guilt coursed through him; he had to admit it had been nice seeing Dahlia again, having the opportunity, the excuse, to be close to her again. And he couldn't deny the relief that had settled over him at thinking that they were all finally free of Charles. Especially Dahlia.

But his conversation with Keith Hewitt gnawed at him. He wanted to believe there was some explanation for the gap in the time line; that maybe Charles had lingered over dinner at one of the island's restaurants before climbing the hill to Ben's. But after an afternoon spent canvassing the island's shops and eateries, Jack couldn't find a single person who could remember serving an old man with wild orange-and-white hair.

Still, there were other possibilities. Maybe Charles had found himself lost; maybe he'd stopped to rest in Watson's Park and fallen asleep, like old men did sometimes, even old men with scores to settle. A man could go unnoticed in Watson's Park late at night, could sit there for a long time without being seen from the street.

Or maybe Charles had just stopped to buy himself some time. Maybe in the eleventh hour he'd wrestled with his violent plan, had second thoughts, only to find his conviction return to him.

Jack scanned the horizon, feeling the soft, salty air flutter across his porch, grazing his temples, his jaw. Three lost hours. Three hours in a lifetime of hours. Even now he could barely believe it was more than twenty years ago that he and Dahlia had ended things, that last night on Ben's porch when he'd waited for her until dark, only to realize she was already long gone. But then, she'd warned him from the start the one thing she didn't have was patience.