Little Gale Gumbo (37 page)

She pushed through the back door and stepped out onto the deck to find the mist still clinging to her porch railing and the rows of seedlings lined along it. It was all right, she decided. Rising in the company of the fog might be a good thing: cloaking her, hiding her from her lies as she tried to begin this impossible day.

 

“Morning, Chief.”

The short, broad-faced officer climbed to his feet when he saw Jack coming toward him down the hospital corridor.

Jack patted the officer on the shoulder. “Take a break, Brian.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Jack pushed through the door. The smells that had accosted him in the lobby seemed stronger in Ben's small room, the cloying odors of chemicals and the thick scent of synthetic sweetness meant to mask them but somehow managing to enhance them instead. But it was the stillness of the room that chilled him the most, the distinct lack of air and life, even though Ben lay inside a web of tubes just a few feet away.

Jack drew in a resolved breath and pulled a padded folding chair to the head of the bed. He sat down, letting a few moments pass before he said in an easy voice, as if he and Ben had run into each other at one of Clem's pumps on a Friday night, “Hi, Ben. It's supposed to be a hot one today. They're saying upper eighties.”

He drew closer, his elbows on his knees, his hands fisted.

He sighed deeply. “Wish you could help me out here, Ben. I'm pretty sure Charles was at your house that night, long before you knew it. I'm thinking he came looking for something, but I don't know what that would have been, and I'm betting you might.”

Jack paused, studying Ben's profile, his drawn flesh almost as pale as the pillowcase that cushioned his motionless head.

A memory overwhelmed Jack; he smiled broadly.

“I keep thinking about that time we got up on your roof in that crazy storm, and you told me how you used to look at that branch every day, and that you knew it was only a matter of time before it snapped off, but that you couldn't bear to take it down.” Jack's smile lessened, the irony too painful. “I can't help wondering if you felt that way about Charles too. Christ, if maybe we all did.”

The door opened. Jack straightened reflexively, smiled at the nurse who came in.

“Don't let me disturb you,” she said. “Are you his . . . ?” The nurse stopped, seeing the badge hanging from Jack's neck. “Oh.” She smiled. “Guess not.”

Jack rose to let her by, moving to the window. He watched as she toured the various machines, changing the IV bags, neatening tubes. “Is it still raining?” she asked, moving to the other side of the bed.

“Just a drizzle. It's supposed to clear.” Jack folded his arms, leaned back against the glass. “You have much experience with stroke victims like this?”

“Some. But every patient's different, you know.”

“I'm sure. Is it true that people in this condition can hear things, conversations?”

“Some doctors think so.”

“Do you?”

The nurse shrugged. “I think it's hard to sit in a room with someone and not talk to 'em, don't you?”

Jack smiled, nodded.

“I do know one thing, though.” The nurse glanced over at Jack, her small brown eyes creasing with conviction. “People can surprise you.”

 

Josie was brewing a fresh pot of coffee when Dahlia sailed into the café at ten thirty. Rhonda Simon and her sister Stella were gossiping over a plate of beignets in the window booth, while Horace Anderson sat over a bowl of cheese grits at a table against the wall. Behind him, the Finnegan brothers chuckled over scrambled eggs and sausages.

“Morning, all,” Dahlia said, giving the room a broad wave. Wayne looked up from the register, hoping to warn Dahlia of Josie's mood before she reached the counter, but she refused to meet his gaze. Wayne knew it wouldn't have done any good. He'd learned long ago that when the sisters wanted a fight, there was no stopping them.

“In case you're wondering, bourbon and I are no longer on speaking terms,” Dahlia said, coming behind the counter to stand beside Josie. She reached into the case for a blueberry muffin. “I mean it. Bourbon is dead to me. If he calls, I'm not here.” Dahlia tore her muffin in half and sprayed crumbs across the counter, which Josie scooped up and clapped noisily into the sink.

“There's this crazy new invention called a plate, you know.” Josie snatched up a wet towel and marched around the counter to clean a vacated table, clearing a pair of coffee cups and plates.

Dahlia sighed. “You're mad.”

“Gee, you think?” Josie glared at her sister on her way back to the counter, dropping the dishes into the bin with a crash. The Finnegan brothers glanced at one another over their mugs and rolled their eyes. Over the years, café customers had come to accept the complimentary side of sisterly bickering with every meal.

“This is because Matty and I kissed last night, isn't it?” said Dahlia.

Josie said nothing, just stormed back behind the counter and pushed through the swinging kitchen door.

Dahlia followed her. “Oh, come on, Joze. He's in a lot of pain. What did you want me to do?”

“Don't you dare,” Josie said, whirling around. “Don't you dare play the great saint like you did the last time you and he were together, like you were doing him some great big favor. This has nothing to do with Matty—this is all about
you
. You wanting one more chance to prove that you still have him wrapped around your finger!”

“Me?” said Dahlia. “What about
you
? Walking around here lit up like a goddamn Christmas tree, hanging on his every word? And that was hardly a peck on the cheek you delivered last night, you know. How do I know you didn't slip him a little tongue yourself?”

“God, you're disgusting!” Josie shoved her sister out of the way of the sink, snapping on the faucet and splashing her hands under the stream. “You can't ever let me have one special moment with him, can you? One moment that's just mine. You never could.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Don't be dim,” Josie said, wiping her hands on her apron. “You know exactly what it means. You never think about anybody but yourself. And speaking of which, why didn't you tell me the truth about sending the Perez to be cleaned?”

Dahlia groaned, wishing she'd never said anything to Matthew. Josie could bleed information from people like a goddamn mosquito.

“Because I knew you'd freak out,” Dahlia said. “And it needed it. It was filthy.”

“Filthy? This coming from a woman who never cleans her bathroom.”

“I clean my bathroom every month, thank you very much.”

“You spilled wine on it, didn't you?” Josie said. “God, I knew I never should have let you keep it.”

“For your information, Momma gave it to me.”

“So who'd you take it to?”

“Some guy in Portland.”

“Some guy? You gave Momma's favorite painting to
some guy
?”

“He's legit, Joze.”

“Like you'd know the difference,” Josie snapped, moving to the pantry.

“Well, I do know one thing, baby sister.” Dahlia followed Josie across the kitchen. “I know why you're putting the brakes on this whole adoption plan, and I know it has nothing to do with taking care of Ben.”

Josie pulled out a bag of pecans and slammed the pantry door shut. “Is that right?”

“You think there's still a chance with him, don't you?”

“Who?”

“Who do you think?” said Dahlia. “You never stopped carrying a torch for Matty. Admit it! And now that he's back, you're falling for him all over again.”

Josie dropped the bag onto the counter. “You're a crazy woman, you know that? You are one hundred percent certifiable.”

Dahlia crossed her arms, decided now. “Then why did you never mention taking care of Ben until after you found out that Holly and Matty had broken up?”

“Why should I have to mention it? It's obvious!”

“And you think that's what Ben or Momma would want? To have you put your life on hold to empty bedpans and drool cups?”

Josie's eyes filled instantly. “That's an awful thing to say.”

“It's the truth.”

Josie yanked off her apron and threw it on the counter, pushing past Dahlia to pull her purse down from the shelf. “I don't expect you to understand,” she said, storming out the back door to the delivery dock. “It would never occur to you to put someone else's needs before yours. Not in a million years.”

“Horseshit!” Dahlia said, right behind her. “If you want to live out some teenage fantasy, you go right ahead, baby sister, but don't you dare play the righteous nursemaid.”

Josie rushed to the parked Buick and climbed into the driver's seat. Dahlia reached the car, gripping the open window as Josie revved the engine.

“Nothing happened last night, okay?” Dahlia said wearily. “Matty wanted me to come up but I didn't. I couldn't.”

“How big of you,” Josie said, shifting the car into reverse. “Remind me to order your medal the next time I'm in Portland.”

Dahlia stepped back and watched the Buick lurch out into the street.

Wayne appeared in the doorway, hands on his hips. “Where's she going?”

“Where else?” Dahlia shrugged. “Away from me.”

 

Jack left Ben's room and took the stairs to the morgue. He'd been dreading the autopsy all weekend. Despite his recent theory of Charles's whereabouts in the hours before the crime—a theory Jack had grown very comfortable with—his police report remained unfinished, and now he'd have to explain why to Frank Collins.

Reaching the heavy door at last, Jack steeled himself for Collins's usual jabs, but when he stepped inside the cool, tiled room, he was surprised to find the medical examiner's assistant sitting alone at a stainless-steel desk, papers spread out around him.

“Hey, Jason.”

“Chief.” The pathology student spun around in his chair and smiled broadly. “You're early. Frank won't be in until one. He had to go to Topsham for that murder-suicide they had over the weekend.”

“Yeah, I heard about that,” Jack said, looking around. “Awful. Christ.”

“Husband and wife,” the young man said. “Makes me glad I never got married.”

“Not everybody wants to kill their spouse, Jason.”

“Yeah, right. Try telling that to my folks.” He reached for a tin of Pringles, shaking them at Jack. “Want one?”

“No, thanks,” Jack said, turning to go. “Hey, don't let Collins see you eating those in here. He'll have
you
under one of these sheets.”

The young man laughed. “I'm not too worried. Your vic's already a mess. I found pieces of gravel in his hair, his clothes. He even had gravel in his shoes. Weird, huh?”

Jack frowned at the wall of drawers. Maybe a little weird, he thought. But then, Charles might have struggled getting up the ladder that night, might have stumbled a few times in the growing dark.

“Want me to tell Frank you'll be back at one, Chief?”

Jack shook his head as he opened the door. “Just tell him I'll call him later.”

Much later, Jack thought as he took the stairs to the parking lot two at a time.

 

Matthew squinted at the silver travel clock on his nightstand and groaned. He should have been relieved to find it so late, grateful to finally have just cause to stop flopping around on his mattress chasing sleep. The memory of the night before returned to him, clearer now in the prickly light of morning. He wanted to blame the bourbon for his clumsy pass at Dahlia, but he couldn't. Any more than he could blame her rejection of him on the same. After twenty-five years of friendship, they'd grown too old to salve their wounds against each other. He understood that now.

He dressed and went downstairs, fixing himself a cup of coffee in the lobby. Thoughts of Holly flooded him, warming him as he took a seat on the porch and considered what lay ahead.

He'd call her; that's what he'd do. He'd tell her once and for all that she'd been right to blame him for keeping her at arm's length for so many years. He understood why she'd run to Peter, but now she could run back.

Pulling out his cell phone, Matthew imagined how the conversation would go. Holly would tell him that they'd have to take it slow, that what was broken between them couldn't be repaired in a weekend, and Matthew would agree. Of course he would. If she still wanted a baby, then they would keep trying. Lots of couples weren't a perfect match that way. The doctors didn't know everything. Getting pregnant was as much in the head as the . . . well, head. Matthew chuckled at that as he settled the phone against his ear. He'd remember that joke, and Holly would chuckle too.

After several rings, she picked up, sounding so groggy Matthew thought he had dialed the wrong number.

“Holl?”

“Matt?” She paused, her voice weak when she began again. “Is it Ben? Has something happened?”

“No, he's the same. That's not why I'm calling.” Matthew frowned at the horizon, thinking she should have been at the office by now. “Did I wake you?”

“No. I'm staying home today, that's all.”

“Are you sick?”

“No . . . no, I just . . .” She stopped. He heard her take a hard swallow. “I think I just ate something bad, that's all. You know how those places on the beach are.”

Matthew's gut told him to end the call, to let the promise of their earlier conversation lie, pleasant and hopeful, but he couldn't help himself.