Dobby nodded, as if hearing something he’d already told himself.
“It’s just that …”
LeFleur waited.
“My cousin. He found a way to get through things. He had a tough life. Really poor. He could’ve given up many times. But he didn’t. When I read about the raft, I thought maybe, crazy as it sounds, he found a way to survive that, too.”
“You flew all the way down here to find that out?”
“Well … yeah. We were really close.”
A car turned down the street, its headlights sweeping across them. LeFleur scrambled to the left, Dobby to the right. Now they were on opposite sides of the pavement. LeFleur racked his brain for more details from the notebook. He needed to get back to it, to learn everything about what part this Dobby had really played.
An idea formed in his mind. Risky. But what choice did he have?
“Where are you staying, Mr. Dobby?”
“In town. A guesthouse.”
LeFleur glanced at his porch, and the lantern that illuminated it.
“Would you like some supper?” he asked.
An hour later LeFleur was sipping Patrice’s goat water soup and forcing a smile as Dobby talked. Patrice had taken it in stride. Her husband had come home with a foreign traveler. Could they add a chair at the table? It wasn’t something that happened often, but privately, she welcomed it. The isolation they’d endured since Lilly’s death had settled like a shadow inside their house. Any new visitor was a light.
“What part of Ireland are you from, Dobby?” Patrice asked.
“A town called Carndonagh. It’s way up north.”
“Did you know they call Montserrat ‘the Emerald Isle of the Caribbean’？”
“Is that so?”
“Because it’s shaped like Ireland. And a lot of people who came here years ago were Irish.”
“Well, I left Ireland when I was a kid,” Dobby said. “I grew up in Boston.”
“When did you leave Boston?” LeFleur asked.
“When I was nineteen.”
“College?”
“Nah. I wasn’t much for school. Neither was Benji.”
LeFleur felt as if a character from a book had come to life. He knew things about this man that the man himself had not yet revealed. He had to be patient, draw him out.
“What did you do after that?”
“Jarty,” Patrice said, tapping his hand. “Maybe let the man eat?”
“Sorry.”
“Nah, it’s all right,” Dobby said, chewing on a roll. “I did a lot of things. Odd jobs. Traveled around. Wound up in the concert business.”
“You’re a musician?” Patrice said.
“I wish.” Dobby smiled. “I carry the equipment. Set it up. Break it down. A roadie, for want of a better word.”
“How fun,” Patrice said. “You must meet a lot of famous people.”
“Sometimes, yeah. Famous people don’t do much for me.”
“What about the army?” LeFleur said. “You ever serve?”
Dobby’s eyes narrowed. “Now why would you ask me that?”
“Yes, Jarty,” Patrice added. “Why would you?”
LeFleur felt a flush. “Dunno,” he mumbled. “Just curious.”
Dobby leaned back and ran a hand through his long, stringy hair. Then Patrice said, “Is there a Mrs. Dobby somewhere?” and the conversation shifted. LeFleur silently cursed himself. He’d have to be more careful. If Dobby suspected that LeFleur knew what he’d done, he could disappear from the island before LeFleur could make a case. On the other hand, he couldn’t just arrest the man without evidence. Evidence meant the notebook. The notebook meant explaining why he’d taken it. His thoughts marched around this triangle so intensely he lost the flow of the conversation, until he heard his wife say, “… our daughter, Lilly.”
LeFleur blinked hard.
“She was four,” Patrice said. She placed her hand on her husband’s.
“Yeah,” he mumbled.
“I’m truly sorry for you both,” Dobby said. “There’s no words for that.”
He shook his head as if lamenting a common enemy.
“The damn sea,” he said.
That night, after dropping Dobby at the guesthouse, LeFleur parked across the street and killed his engine. Part of him did not want to take his eyes off of this man.
His phone buzzed. A text. Patrice.
We need coffee. Pick some up.
LeFleur bit his lip. He texted her back.