The Stranger in the Lifeboat

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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.