Forgotten (18 page)

“For now.”

“Cynic.” She poked at his midsection with her index finger, and he caught and held it.

“Realist,” he corrected her.

“So you’re telling me you don’t know any happy people?”

“I know a lot of people who have professed to being happy for a while, or who thought they were,” he said, “but I can’t say I know anyone who was happy, in the end.”

“Wow. That’s really sad.” She shook her head and pulled her hand free from his.

“Nah,” he said, “that’s life.”

“Like I said, sad.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Looks like we’re almost there. Dufree Island, straight ahead. And look, there’s a sign for Doug’s Outboards right there at the dock.”

“Right under the sign for Doug’s Bait ’N Beer.” Jim leaned his arms on the rail next to hers. “Looks like Doug pretty much has the dock covered.”

She nodded. “A real entrepreneur.”

“Do you know exactly what you’re going to ask him?”

“Pretty much. I’ll have to take my cues from him, though. He might shut down on some things, might be willing to talk about others. We’ll have to see how it goes.”

The engine was cut and the ferry turned around slowly. The boat backed up so that the stern was level with the dock to permit the lone car to be driven off. Several of the passengers jumped off to tie the ferry securely to the pilings. “Must be regulars,” Jim noted as they stepped onto the dock.

The bait and beer shop was a structure of weathered, gray wood that stood at the end of the dock where it met the pebbled walk that led away from the bay. The corners of the windows were home to spiderwebs, most of which held a dead fly or bee, and the frames were thick with dust and old caulk. They walked to the end of the building and looked around.

“I guess he wasn’t kidding when he said their roads weren’t in good shape. This one isn’t even paved,” Portia observed.

“Looks like they used a crushed stone down here by the docks, but up there,” he nodded toward what appeared to be a small cluster of buildings that sat on a rise, “it looks like macadam.”

“That must be the center of town. From the ferry I saw a few houses set by themselves down along the bay, and from here you can see a few more dotted about the island, but that appears to be the only place where there’s more than a single structure.”

“Maybe we’ll have time to explore a little. Right now, let’s go into Doug’s. If he sells beer, maybe he sells sandwiches or something. It’s past lunchtime.”

They found the door at the opposite end of the building, and went inside. It was hot, baking under the afternoon sun; the only breeze came through the screens. A cooler with sliding doors stood against one wall, and on another, a chipped counter displayed tins of tobacco, a short stack of newspapers, and sunscreen. The wall behind the counter was decorated with horseshoe crab shells and a couple of handwritten signs. One suggested that you ask for bait and another urged you to ring the bell on the counter if you needed service. A metal bucket on the floor held long-handled crab nets.

Through the back windows Portia could see a very narrow beach of dark sand that separated the bay from a grassy slope. At the top of the slope were wooden picnic tables where three women and two men ate piles of crabs off paper plates. A lean-to on the back of the building had an open counter where a tall woman in a stained apron manned an old enamel stove.
DOUG’S CRABS
was painted in freehand letters on the side of the structure in blue.

“I guess that’s the dockside crab shack I read about on the Internet,” Portia told Jim. “Looks like Doug has a finger in every pot on the dock.”

“Let’s sample the crabs and see if we can find the man.”

“Maybe we should ring the bell and see what happens.”

“Be my guest.” He gestured toward the chrome bell and stepped aside when she reached over to ring it. A moment later a door opened and the woman in the apron poked her head in to ask, “Were you wanting bait?”

“We were hoping to get some crabs,” Jim told her.

“You want crabs, you come out here and order ’em.” She closed the door.

“Okay, then. Outside we go.” Portia led the way out back. “Two orders, please,” she told the woman, who was now leaning on the counter and smoking a cigarette.

“And a couple of cold beers,” Jim added.

The woman looked up from her smoke. “Beer’s inside in the cooler. You go on in and grab whatever it is you want, come on back out here, and pay me for it.”

Jim did as he was told. He returned a moment later with a couple of cans of beer and a newspaper.

They watched as the woman stuck her hand in a large galvanized tub filled with water and brought out several blue-claw crabs. She dumped them into a boiling pot on the stove. While the crabs steamed, Jim paid for their meal and asked, “Is Doug around today?”

The woman nodded toward the boat shop. “He’s down in the shop, working on a motor. Something I can help you with?”

“No, thanks. We’ll stop down when we’re finished with our crabs.”

“Doug don’t like to be bothered when he’s working.”

“We won’t take much of his time.” Portia’s smile was met with a cool stare from the woman.

Without taking her eyes off Portia, the woman handed Jim a roll of brown paper. “Pick a table and cover it, then bring me back the roll.”

Jim did as he was told, with Portia’s help, then returned the roll to the counter. He traded the paper for a large basket of steamed crabs and a pile of napkins.

“Wrap up the paper when you’re finished, toss it all into the barrel right here.” She pointed to the large rusted metal drum that stood at one corner of her hut. “Everyone has to clean up after themselves around here. I don’t bus anyone’s tables.”

“Miss Congeniality, circa nineteen ninety-nine,” Portia said under her breath.

“Hey, the beer is cold and the crabs are hot. Count your blessings,” Jim told her.

“Good point. It could have been the other way around, and this is no day for warm beer.”

They polished off the crabs and beer while watching a couple of teenagers race their sunfish across the water.

“I feel like I’ve been rolled in Old Bay,” Portia grimaced when she finished the last of the crabs. “Delicious, but oh, so messy.”

“There was a box of wet wipes on the counter,” Jim told her. “I’ll get a couple so we can clean up before we go in to talk to Doug.”

Portia pushed the discarded crab shells to the center of the table and rolled up the paper from each side until she had a tidy package. She walked to the designated barrel and dropped the debris in. It landed with a thump, and she hoped the woman in the apron heard it. She returned to the table and sat on the bench, watching Jim engage the woman in a conversation.
Miranda was right,
she nodded to herself.
He is pretty hot.

Better than hot.

He ripped open a pack of wet-wipes and began to clean his hands as he leaned closer to the woman in the apron, as if hanging on every word she was saying. The same woman who’d been so rude fifteen minutes earlier smiled and suddenly seemed to have a lot to say.

“What did you do, hypnotize her?” Portia asked when Jim returned to the table.

“Nah.” He tossed her a few packets of wet wipes. “She asked me if I had business with Doug and I told her I’d handled some legal matters for his family. I guess she thinks there might be some type of inheritance coming their way.”

“You told her that?”

“That would have been lying. Of course, if she misunderstood what I meant when I said that we wanted to talk to Doug about some old family matters, well…” He raised his palms up, a gesture that implied that he wasn’t responsible for however the woman interpreted his words.

“She’s his wife?” Portia opened a pack of wipes and tried to clean away the smell of crabs and Old Bay.

“Yes. Donna Jo. She said she never got to meet anyone in Doug’s family since they all died when he was in his teens.”

“Really?” Portia asked. “All of them?”

“Every last one,” he said solemnly. “Tragic, eh?”

“Very.” She watched the woman behind the counter. “Wonder what she’d say if she knew she had a mother-in-law in Vegas and a brother-in-law in prison serving thirteen separate life sentences?”

“Let’s go see if Doug has a few minutes to talk while he’s fixing that boat engine.” He reached out a hand to her and she took it, allowing him to pull her up. He didn’t release her hand, and she didn’t make an effort to pull away. Hand in hand, they walked to door marked
BOAT REPAIRS
and went inside.

Douglas Nicholson worked neatly and he worked alone. The shop was clean and nothing appeared to be out of place. The engine he was working on sat on a makeshift table, a thick piece of plywood set over two sawhorses. Tools were lined up according to size on one side of the table, and the man himself worked in a white T-shirt that looked as if it had just come from the laundry. In one hand he held a wrench, in the other, a cloth he used to clean up each phase of his work.

“Hello, Doug,” Jim said as he and Portia entered the shop.

Doug Nicholson looked up and squinted. “Hi,” he replied uncertainly, setting down the wrench and putting on a pair of glasses that sat on a nearby bench. He looked Jim over as if trying to place him.

“Remember me? Jim Cannon. I was…”

“Oh, Christ. What the hell do you want?” Nicholson asked flatly. “What’s he done now?”

Before Jim could respond, the man shook his head. “Never mind. I really don’t want to know. So you just go right on down there to the dock. If you hurry, maybe you can catch the ferry back to the mainland. It should be leaving any minute now.”

“I haven’t come to talk to you about anything your brother did, Doug. I—we—wanted to ask you…”

“You don’t get it, do you?” He took several steps in Jim’s direction, then stopped. “I don’t know him. I don’t want to know him. As far as I’m concerned, he doesn’t exist. So don’t ask me anything, okay? I don’t know anything about him.” He shook his head. “I don’t
want
to know anything about him.”

“Mr. Nicholson, my name is Portia Cahill,” she stepped forward. “I’m with the FBI.”

“Jesus, don’t you people understand? I don’t know him. I haven’t known him since he was twelve or thirteen years old and all that craziness started.”

“What craziness?” she asked.

He shook his head again, as if to clear it. “Look, I don’t like people hanging around while I work. I gotta get this engine done, the guy’s coming back in an hour to pick it up.” He took off his glasses and placed them back on the table where they’d been. “I don’t have time to talk.”

Doug Nicholson turned his back and returned to his work.

“I appreciate that you’re busy, that you have a job to do, Mr. Nicholson,” Portia told him. “I can respect that. We’ll stop back later.”

“Why?” Nicholson asked.

“Because I have a job to do, too.”

NINETEEN

“S
o what now?” Jim lowered himself to sit on a rock at the top of the grassy slope that overlooked the bay. “We’ve walked most of the island, and we’ve walked some parts of it twice.”

Portia turned her wrist to check her watch.

“It’s almost six. Nicholson’s customer should be along anytime now to pick up that motor.” She sat next to him. “Unless he was making that up to get rid of us.”

“Maybe not.” He pointed to the dock where a cruiser towing a smaller boat was pulling into a slip. Three men jumped out and were walking toward the shop. “That might be him now. That bow rider he’s towing doesn’t have a motor.”

The men disappeared into the shop and ten minutes later came out carrying the motor.

“Showtime, Agent Cahill.” Jim stood and stretched. “When is that ferry due back?”

“In about an hour.” She watched as the men positioned the motor on the back of the boat. One man jumped into the water to secure it and maneuver the motor into place. Finally, the one in the water pulled himself onto the deck.

“I hope he’s not a smoker,” she muttered. “He’ll light up like a Roman candle with all that gas and oil from the water around the dock on his clothes.”

“Oh, shit, look.” Jim stood and pointed beyond the building that housed the crab shack, the repair shop, and the Bait ’N Beer to where a figure hurried along the road.

“Is that Nicholson?” Portia jumped to her feet. “Son of a bitch. I’ll bet he’s headed home.”

“His wife’s still here, though.” Jim noticed the woman was behind the counter, serving a plate of crabs to a family that had wandered down one of the paths. “Let’s follow him, catch him at home, you have your little chat, and we’ll be back here in time for the ferry.”

They walked quickly in the direction they’d seen Doug Nicholson take. They found him standing on the porch of a house about a quarter of a mile in land past the small hamlet. There was no welcome in his eyes as he watched them approach.

“I told you I don’t know nothing about him,” Nicholson called to them.

“And I told you that I have a job to do,” Portia called back. “This will take us ten minutes,” she said as they drew closer, “and then we’ll leave, and no one—not even your wife—needs to know what we talked about.”

“What, then?” He sat on one of the two rocking chairs but did not offer Jim or Portia a seat.

“The psychologist who examined your brother…” she began.

“Half brother,” he corrected.

“The FBI’s psychologist who examined your
half
brother ten years ago says that Sheldon told him he was sexually abused as a child. I was wondering what you know about that.”

He shook his head. “Nothing. He never told me nothing about that.”

“You lived with him and your mother until you were seventeen, he was being abused, and you never knew?”

“He’s probably lying. Probably made it up, you know, so it would sound like he had an excuse for all those things he did. If it happened, he never told me. But maybe it didn’t really happen.”

“You’re what, four years older than Sheldon?”

He nodded.

“You must have spent a lot of time together when you were little. Only siblings…”

“So?”

“So I was wondering what he was like as a child. Who would know better than you?”

Nicholson shrugged. “He was just a kid.”

“A whiny, obnoxious kid? A spoiled, nasty kid?”

“No, he was none of those things. At least not then, when he was real young. He was always small for his age.”

“So he must have looked up to his big brother.”

“I guess. Back then, anyway.”

“When did that change?” she said, sensing that at some point that relationship became different.

“I guess when his father left.”

“How old was Sheldon then?”

“About five, I guess.”

“How did your relationship with your brother change?”

“He changed.”

“How so?”

“He had to be Mama’s little man, once his father split.”

“Where did that leave you?”

He shrugged again, his face closed.

“I understand that your mother has been married several times.”

Jim sat on the top step and let her do her thing.

Nicholson nodded.

“How many times when you were a child, do you remember?”

“Three, four maybe. I honestly don’t remember.”

“Do you remember the names of her husbands?”

“I suppose.”

“Who were they?” Portia pulled a chair around so that she sat facing him. “What were their names?”

Nicholson sighed deeply, as if resigned to something he wanted no part of.

“After my dad, there was a guy named Claude Dwyer. She never married him, but he was around for a time. Then there was Aaron Woods, Shelly’s father. He left when Shelly was about five.”

“Any idea why he left?” Portia asked, noting the use of a nickname for his half brother. Until now, he had avoided calling him by name.

“You’ll have to ask
her.
”

“So after Aaron Woods, who came next?”

“Guy named Buck something-or-other moved in for a while, then he left, too. She took up with Andy Lewis, married him.”

“How about this guy Davey? What was he like?”

Nicholson shrugged. “I never knew him. He was after my time.”

“So while you lived with your mother, there was your dad, then Dwyer, then Aaron Woods. After he left, there was a guy named Buck and a guy named Andy Lewis. Anyone else?”

“There was always someone else,” he snorted. “That woman never slept alone one night in her entire adult life.”

“What was Buck like?”

“Quiet man.” Nicholson looked off toward the bay. “He liked to play blues music on the radio. She liked rock-and-roll. He drank scotch, neat. She drank whatever she could get her hands on. Looking back, I think maybe he was too good for her.”

“Looking back, do you think he could have been abusing Sheldon?”

He seemed to be lost in thought.

“Mr. Nicholson?” She touched his arm and he shook his head.

“No. It wasn’t him.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“He never paid any mind to either of us kids. He came into the house, did what he did with her, and left when he’d had enough of her.”

“How about Andy Lewis, then?”

“I don’t think so.” He rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know.”

“Sheldon never said that someone was bothering him, maybe an older child in the neighborhood? A relative, maybe?”

“Are you asking me if I molested that little shit, Agent Cahill? Because if that’s what you want to know, why not ask me outright?” He stood, his anger building. “No, I never laid a hand on him. Ever. You think something happened to him when he was a child that fucked him up? It wasn’t me who did it.”

“Then who, Mr. Nicholson?”

“Ask
her.
” He stood up and shoved his chair back.

“Mr. Nicholson, after your father left, before your mother met Aaron Woods, were you your mother’s ‘little man’?”

He went into the house and slammed the door.

“Well, I guess that takes care of that,” Portia said.

“Interesting how he speaks of his family using pronouns.
He
or
him
for his half brother,
her
for their mother.”

“I did notice that. I guess it’s his way of putting distance between himself and them. Though he did refer to Sheldon as
Shelly
there toward the end. A childhood nickname, I guess.” She sat next to Jim on the step. Just as she did so, they heard the ferry’s horn. “Oh, shit.”

She jumped up and grabbed him by the hand. They ran across the lawn, through a grassy field to the road, then down the shell-covered path to the dock. They rounded the corner of the Bait ’N Beer just as the ferry pulled away.

“Hey!” she called, but the motor drowned out her cries. “Well, shit. Now what? That was the last ferry for the day.”

“Before we panic, let’s just make sure that it was, in fact, the last trip. I’ll go inside and check with Donna Jo. Be right back.”

She stood on the dock, her hands on her hips, and watched the ferry glide across the bay.

“Okay, now you can panic,” Jim told her when he came out of the building. “That
was
the last ferry today.”

“Oh, that’s just swell,” she grumbled.

“I guess we should see if we can find a place to stay, then catch the first boat back in the morning.”

“Maybe someone has a boat for hire,” she suggested. “Maybe we can find someone to take us across. It won’t hurt to ask.”

Together they returned to Doug’s Crabs.

“Sorry,” Donna Jo shook her head slowly after they’d asked. “Tonight’s bunco night down at the church. No one’s likely to be going anywhere on bunco night.”

Jim and Portia exchanged doomed looks.

“Try Ida’s up there on the hill.” Donna Jo pointed to a spot behind them, and they both turned. “That white house up there with the fancy widow’s walk on top? That’s Ida’s place. She has some cabins she rents out this time of year. I know some of them are taken—there’s a wedding here day after tomorrow and the groom’s family has been coming in for the past few days—but she might have something for you.”

“That’s the only place that rents rooms?” Portia asked.

“’Fraid so.”

“Thanks.” Jim nodded.

He and Portia started up the hill. “If worse comes to worse,” he told her, “we could always sleep on one of those picnic tables.”

“The mosquitoes will eat us alive.”

“Maybe in one of those fields, then.”

“Haven’t you ever heard of deer ticks?”

“Then you’d better cross your fingers that Ida has a couple of cabins,” he said as they approached the house in question. A sign on the lawn read
WELCOME TO IDA’S,
and a long, narrow path led to the front door. The house was sided with cedar shake that had long ago turned a rich dark brown, and the windows and door were clean and white with fresh paint.

“I don’t know why, but I’m getting this really strong Hansel and Gretel vibe,” Portia said under her breath as they went up the stairs. “So if anyone starts shoving food at you, don’t eat it.”

Jim rang the bell, then stepped back to admire the property. “You have to admit, it’s a pretty place. As a matter of fact, the entire island is charming.”

“If I didn’t feel like I was being held hostage here, I’d probably agree with you.”

A young girl answered the door and told them that Ida was out back. They made their way around the house to the spacious yard and found a woman tossing bread crumbs into a fishpond. She looked up at their approach.

“You here for Todd’s wedding?” she asked.

“No,” Portia told her. “We came over for the day and missed the ferry. We’re stranded. We were hoping you’d have some cabins available for the night.”

“You’re lucky,” Ida smiled and stood up. When she did, Portia noticed the fish were not koi, but in stead looked like trout. “Someone called in a little while ago to let me know they’d missed the ferry over, so they have to find a place there on the main land. So you can have their cabin, but just for tonight. They’ll be catching the first boat over in the morning.”

“Great.” Portia smiled.

“Come on inside, and we’ll get your information, give you your keys.” Ida not so much walked as waddled on bowed legs. “Will you be wanting breakfast in the morning? I serve coffee and some muffins out here in the courtyard.”

“That would be great, sure.” Jim nodded. “Do you serve dinner as well?”

“No, but the crab shack down there does a fish fry on Thursday nights, so you’re in luck.” She climbed the back steps and opened the screen door. “Looks like your lucky day all the way around. If I were you, I’d be buying some lottery tickets.”

“Does anyone sell them on the island?” Portia asked.

“No, you’d have to have done that already. Shame.” Ida appeared saddened by the thought that they’d missed their chance at a jackpot.

They followed Ida through the big, old-fashioned kitchen into a small sitting room. She told them the fee for the night’s stay, then opened a desk drawer and took out a small brown envelope. When Jim and Portia each took out their wallets and counted out the cash, Ida held up a hand. “No, no, that price was for the cabin, not for each of you.”

“Two cabins,” Portia said, holding up the bills. “Two payments.”

“No, honey. One cabin. That’s all I have.”

“One cabin?” Portia asked.

Ida looked from one to the other, then shrugged and said, “You two work that out between yourselves. I got one cabin, don’t care who sleeps in it.”

“Well, maybe there’s someplace else,” Portia turned to Jim. “A motel or a B and B, or something.”

“No other thing, honey. It’s Ida’s or you sleep under the stars. The bugs ain’t too bad yet. We seem to have a lot more bats this year.”

They each handed over half of their cash.

“Cabin D,” Ida smiled as she tucked the bills into a pocket. “It’s a nice one. Has a little sitting area with a couple of comfy chairs.”

She gestured for them to follow her out a side door, and chatted away as they walked to the cabin. It stood in a line of others that were obviously designed and built by the same person. The cabins all shared the same weathered cedar, white gingerbread trim, and matching porches that Portia had admired on the main house.

Ida took a key from the brown envelope and unlocked the door, pushed it open, and handed the key to Jim. “Here you go,” she said. “I hope you have a real enjoyable night, folks.”

“H
ow ’bout we sit up there on the grass and watch the fish jump around in the bay?” Jim suggested after they’d finished dinner. It was still fairly light and neither of them had wanted to confront the issue of who was sleeping where just yet.

“What about the bats?” Portia gazed skyward at the dark shapes fluttering and swooping overhead.

“You heard what Ida said. The bats are doing their part to keep the bug population down.”

“No pesticides needed on Dufree Island, that’s for damned sure.”

He took her hand and they walked up the slope behind the picnic area and sat on the grass. It was still warm from the heat of the day. Portia took her phone from her bag and checked her call log.