Little Gale Gumbo (28 page)

Camille said nothing, just continued to fold her clean dish towels into neat squares.

“Two months, Camille. If you and the girls ain't back home by then, I'm comin' back for ya.”

She raised her eyes briefly, flashing with challenge, but she didn't argue.

Late that night, Camille knocked on Ben's bedroom door and stood before him in her silk robe, letting him undo the slippery knot while she wove her fingers through his hair. The next morning, as fog crawled over the island like white moss, she stood at her kitchen sink with a piece of paper on which she had written Charles's name in bright red ink, the color of protection and power, and she cast it under the faucet, letting the water run until the basin turned pink.

Within a month of his return to New Orleans, Charles Bergeron was caught selling heroin and sentenced to eight years in prison.

Twenty-one

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dahlia's hands shook as she pulled the truck over to the side of the road. The cruiser slid in behind her, Jack climbing out soon after.

She watched him approach in her side mirror, her heart racing. “What, no sirens, Chief?”

Jack slid off his sunglasses, his expression strained. “Not today, Dahlia.”

“Okay, look,” she began wearily, “I know I shouldn't have run over the stupid thing, but she had no right to get my truck towed, Jack. I'll buy her another one, but if it's an apology that old witch wants, then she can kiss my a—”

“Dahlia.” Jack came closer, his eyes serious. “This isn't about Margery's sandwich board.”

“What then?”

He nodded toward the water. “What do you say I buy us a couple orders of fried clams at Joe's?”

Dread flickered up Dahlia's limbs. “I already ate.”

“Okay.” Jack stepped back. “Then I'll buy one for myself and you can keep me company.” He put his sunglasses back on and tapped the door to signal his departure. “See you down there.”

 

Joe's Sea Shack stood at the entrance to the pier, a bleached, shingled shed just big enough to hold Joe Greeley, his tiny wife, Ellen, and an impressive amount of fried seafood that passed over the counter and into the mouths of both tourist and local alike every summer without pause from ten to five thirty, seven days a week. Today, like most bright island days, the weathered picnic benches outside the shack were crowded with diners. Dahlia found an empty table and sat down to wait while Jack walked to the counter and ordered, greeting Joe, who waved through a curtain of steam.

“Here you are, Jack.” Ellen Greeley handed him a soda and a basket of crusted clams. A mischievous smile bloomed on the proprietor's pink cheeks when she glimpsed Dahlia in the distance.

“About time you two found your way back to each other,” Ellen said, winking as she handed Jack his change. “We all wondered how long it would take.”

Jack considered telling Ellen the truth, but a foolish delight sprang up in him at her suggestion, and he didn't want to correct her. He crossed through the picnic tables, waving at familiar faces. Glancing around when he took his seat across from Dahlia, he could see that Ellen wasn't the only one to make assumptions about their meeting. He couldn't help being reminded of how eager he'd once been to have the whole island, the whole world, see him with Dahlia Bergeron.

He dragged a fried clam through a puddle of tartar sauce, crunching on it as he pushed the basket toward Dahlia. “Sure you don't want one?”

She shook her head. “So what's this about, Jack?” she asked, doing a quick survey of her own. “Or did you just bring me down here to start a little gossip?”

“Not exactly.” Jack wiped his hands on a napkin, rested his elbows on the table. He looked at her for a long moment before he said, “I need you to tell me where you were Thursday night between the hours of eight and eleven.”

She frowned at him. “Why?”

“Josie said you were meeting someone on the mainland about a landscaping job.”

“I was. They canceled.”

“So where were you?”

“I was at home.”

“Doing what?”

“I don't know, Jack. Doing what most people do at night. Sleeping.”

“Was anyone there with you?”

Jack knew how the question had sounded, and, looking up, he saw a smug smile tugging at her lips.

“If you want to know if I'm seeing someone, Jack, all you have to do is ask.”

“Okay.” He sat up, accepting her challenge. “Are you?”

Dahlia drew back, surprised at his candor, the intent in his warm brown eyes. For a moment, she considered lying, telling him she was dating a sexy, much younger man from away, just to see the look on his face. But she couldn't.

She looked off at the water. “No,” she admitted quietly. “I'm not.”

“That still doesn't answer my question.”

Dahlia turned back to him, stung by his insinuation.

“No, I'm not seeing anyone, and no, I'm not
sleeping
with anyone, either. What are you, chief of the morality police now too?”

Jack dug out another clam. “What you do is your business,” he said, trying to keep the hard edge of hurt out of his voice and failing miserably. “It always has been, right?”

Dahlia watched him as he took a long swig of soda, crunching down on a mouthful of ice. “I thought you said this wasn't personal, Jack.”

He looked at her, remorse flashing in his eyes. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean that.”

“The hell you didn't. Are you this sweet to all your suspects?”

“I never said you were a suspect.”

“Then why are you asking me where I was Thursday night?”

Jack rubbed his forehead, frustrated. Hell, this wasn't how he'd wanted this conversation to go, and yet how could he have expected anything else? He'd come here as the chief of police, not as a lover, yet sitting across from Dahlia, watching her, he felt such longing again, as if their lives had never veered off course from each other. It was just like it always was: him trying so hard to get her to confide in him, to let him in, and her pushing him away whenever he'd start to get too close.

So much had changed between them, and yet so little.

He sighed wearily, lacing his hands against his mouth. “The problem is that if no one can confirm you were at your house on Thursday night, it makes for a weak alibi.”

“Alibi?” Dahlia said, her voice rising. “Why the hell do I need an alibi? I thought you said this case was as good as closed. Now you're talking about my
alibi
?”

Jack glanced around, seeing customers shift their gazes toward them again.

“We shouldn't do this here,” he said.

“Do what?” Dahlia's heart was racing now. “Defend myself?”

“Look, it's okay if you did see Charles. I just need to know.”

“Why are you doing this?”

Jack leaned forward, looking Dahlia square in the face. “I'm doing this because your son-of-a-bitch father walked off that ferry at seven forty Thursday night and he didn't get to Ben's until eleven, which means he was somewhere else on this island for three hours.”

“And so you just assume he was with me?”

“I'm not assuming anything, Dahlia. One of the deckhands said Charles asked for directions to your street.”

He saw the flash of panic in her eyes, and it was all he could do not to reach for her.

He dropped his voice even more. “Dahlia, if he came to you first, I understand if you're feeling guilty; maybe you think you could have stopped him from going after Ben; maybe you even tried, but you have to know that you couldn't have possibly—”

“Oh, my God, Jack.” Dahlia was breathless now. “Don't you think I would have called the police if I'd known what that asshole was going to do? You think I would have sat on my hands and watched him just jaunt off to Ben's if I thought he might try and hurt him, if I thought Ben was in danger?”

“Of course I don't.”

“Then what?”

Jack sighed. “I don't know,” he said wearily. “But I can't make this go away without answers.” He met Dahlia's eyes and held them. “And I can't protect you if you don't tell me the truth.”

“Protect me?”
Dahlia drew back, pulling her hand off the table as if it were a hot stovetop. “I don't need to be protected, Jack.”

“No, of course not,” he said tightly, the years of frustration rising up in him, too fast to hold back what he'd wanted to say for so long. “Except by Matthew, right?”

Dahlia shot to her feet, feeling the tears sting in her throat. “Go to hell, Jack.” She climbed out from the table and marched across the wharf toward her truck. He caught up to her just as she reached her pickup, stepping beside her when she tried to open the door. Dahlia kept her eyes fixed on the handle, afraid of what she might reveal if she looked at him.

“I know what it was like for you with Charles. But he can't hurt you anymore.” Jack reached out and touched her hand where it rested on the door, making a final, tender plea. “If you're not telling me something because you're afraid, I promise I won't let anything happen to you. Just tell me the truth, okay? Jesus, Dolly, just talk to me.”

Dahlia would never have expected his old nickname to break her, but it did. The tears she'd managed to swallow surged, filling her eyes so fast she couldn't talk over them.

“I'm late,” she lied, struggling to climb inside the truck and slam the door with trembling fingers.

Jack stepped back and let her go. He watched her peel out of the parking lot and lurch up Ocean Avenue, an all-too-familiar regret knotting in his stomach.

 

Josie stood in her kitchen and stared at the loose puddles of praline syrup she'd just spooned onto the cookie sheet.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd ruined a batch of pralines. Not even when she was learning to make them as a girl, standing on a step stool in the kitchen of their St. Claude shotgun. She wanted to cry; she wanted to break something. So she did a little of both, sniffling as she gathered the still-warm sheet of waxed paper into a big ball and threw the whole runny mess into the trash hard enough to shake the can, but even then she didn't feel better.

She knew why she'd ruined the pralines. It was the same reason she'd started a pot of coffee without any grinds in the filter ten minutes earlier. She would tell Wayne that she wanted to withdraw their application from the agency. He'd understand, she told herself as she took off her apron and laid it on the counter. He'd have to see it wasn't the right time. They had to think about what was best for Ben now. What was best for Matthew. That was what family did for family.

But even as she drew out a pen, scribbled a short note on a Post-it, and pressed it to the top of the stove, Josie knew there was more to her decision, and the guilt swept over her like a chill. She took her purse and stepped out onto the porch.

She glanced quickly to the sky, seeing a soft bruise of gray spreading across the horizon.

Rain was coming. She didn't have much time.

 

Dahlia was sitting on the front steps of the Sand Dollar when Matthew returned from the hospital, his head lowered until he saw her; then a relieved smile spread helplessly across his face.

She held up a bottle of Maker's Mark. “Join me for a before-dinner drink?”

He glanced around nervously. “Out here?”

“Why not?” she said, already chipping away at the wax seal.

He chuckled, wondering suddenly why she wore sunglasses when clouds covered the sky. “This isn't New Orleans, you know, Dee.”

“Oh, really? I hadn't noticed.”

“You could get arrested.”

Dahlia snorted, yanking off the cork. “I doubt it,” she said, taking a quick swig. “Jack's already taken his pound of flesh from me today. And not in the way I would have liked.” She climbed to her feet, gesturing to the sidewalk. “Come on. Let's walk.”

 

They started down Birch Street and took the right at Dover, as if they had no idea where it might spill them out, so that when the entrance to the cove appeared before them, they each pretended to be surprised. Dahlia kicked off her clogs at the first sight of sand and tossed them into a stretch of rugosa roses, the sprawling bushes fragrant with white and pink blossoms. Matthew did the same, fumbling with the laces of his running shoes, feeling every bit as clumsy as he had the last time they'd ventured to their favorite beach.