A Lighthouse for the Lonely Heart: An Oregon Coast Mystery (Garrison Gage Series Book 5)

by Scott William Carter

  "I smell something good," Nora said.

  When she rounded the corner dressed in gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt, he felt mild disappointment that she wasn't standing there in nothing but a skimpy towel—then silently castigated himself. Her hair, still wet from the shower, lay shiny in long loose ringlets, water droplets leaving dark spots on her T-shirt. Her skin bore the shocking pink of being freshly scrubbed, a few freckles and red spots, but she had a nice complexion. If anything, her natural beauty, in its rawest form, drew even more attention to the power of her eyes. He did see just a bit of red in the whites, which may be from the shower but may also be because she, like him, hadn't slept that well. He knew he shouldn't be hoping that was the reason, but he was.

  "Wow, breakfast," she said.

  "Just toast and scrambled eggs. That okay?"

  "Sure. But gosh, I hate to have you see me like this. You know, my hair like this, no makeup or anything. Ugh."

  "Don't worry about it. You don't want the food to get cold."

  "I must look hideous."

  "No, you look beautiful, as always."

  He said it without thinking, which was probably why she blinked a few times and some redness spread across her nose and cheeks. Really, the great Nora West, so adored by fans, could be embarrassed by such an innocuous little compliment? Saying anything else would only increase both of their embarrassment, so he pulled out her chair and asked if she was ready to eat. She was.

  To his own mouth, the toast tasted ever slightly burned, and the eggs were just a tad on the runny side, but she complimented him profusely.

  "You sleep okay?" she asked.

  He thought he detected a hopeful note, and she conspicuously didn't look at him, focusing intently on her scrambled eggs.

  "I've slept better," he said.

  "I'm sorry."

  "No, don't apologize. Just a lot on my mind."

  "Yeah, me too. I just wish you didn't have to sleep on the couch. I mean, you know, just, I wish there was another bed. That's all I'm saying." The red in her face deepened. She picked up her orange juice and drank half of it. "This really is a good breakfast."

  "Thanks," he said.

  "You going out soon?"

  "Yeah. Think I'll get cleaned up at my place, then do a little detecting on your behalf."

  "And I imagine you want me to stay cooped up here?"

  "I know it's no fun, but yeah, I think it's safer for now. But you don't have to stay in town, Nora. You can always—"

  "No, no, I'm staying. I want to see this through."

  "The DNA test should tell us one way or the other. You don't need to be here for that."

  "Okay, sure, but I guess it's not just the biological proof I'm looking for."

  "Well, what then?"

  She struggled to put it into words, fumbling around for a bit, before finally shrugging. "Maybe it's just I know so little about him, you know? I just want to know anything you find out while there's still stuff to find out. And honestly, I kind of need to be here right now. I just need the space from … well, everything. This is good for me. This is helping. It's giving me some perspective on my life. On what's real and what's not. On what matters." She shook her head. "I know I'm not making a lot of sense."

  "No, I get it," Gage said.

  "You do?"

  "Well, maybe not exactly. I don't have a Twitter account with a million friends."

  She smiled. "Almost five million, actually. And they're called followers."

  "Well, if I actually had a Twitter account at all, I doubt I'd have even one follower."

  "I'd follow you."

  "Well, that's nice of you. And if I set up one for Lady, maybe she'd follow me, too."

  They both looked at her. She wagged her stubby tail. Nora took pity on her and tossed her a bit of scrambled egg, which she gobbled up before it even touched the ground.

  "Anyway," he said, "I just meant I came to Oregon originally because I needed some perspective on my own life."

  "You know, I never hated Barnacle Bluffs. I remember a lot of kids ragged on it all the time. They couldn't wait to leave. But I have a lot of fond memories of being here. I used to run with some fun kids in my neighborhood. My mom and I, well, we never had a great relationship, but it was at least somewhat functional back then, before she really took to the drinking hard. Maybe that's why I'm so desperate to find out everything I can about my father. It's like maybe that was the life I could have had, you know?"

  He suspected she was romanticizing what her past could have been like, but he was smart enough not to say so. If finding out everything he could about Ed Boone was offering some kind of healing for her, then it was a good thing. They took their time finishing their breakfasts, sipping coffee and talking about more trivial matters. She asked whether certain stores, restaurants, and other public fixtures from her youth were still around. He boasted how smart Zoe was, and how he was eager to see exactly what direction she was going to take with her studies. They gave their plates to Lady, who did a thorough job, not leaving even one crumb behind.

  "You'll be back tonight?" Nora asked.

  "I will indeed."

  "Fantastic. And, um, if I write it down and give you some money, will you pick up some stuff from the grocery store for me?"

  "Sure, but you don't need to give me money. What do you want?"

  She smiled. "That depends."

  "Depends on what?"

  "On what you want for dinner."

  * * *

  At Nora's insistence, and Gage's relief, Lady was left to spend the day with Nora at the Starfish Motel. Driving away, though, he realized his feelings about the dog were actually mixed. It was a relief not to have to worry about making sure she got food and water, or ensuring she got to relieve herself on a regular basis, but it was strange how quickly he'd gotten used to having her around. She was well behaved—no whining, random barking, or bouncing around unnecessarily—and exactly the kind of conversationalist he liked best. On the rare occasions when he wanted to talk, she was always willing to listen, but she never once interrupted his thinking by initiating a conversation of her own.

  His feelings about Nora West were even more conflicted. Despite her insistence that nothing was going to happen between them, something was obviously happening. He needed to be careful.

  Fog created halos around the headlights of the oncoming cars, but it was a much lighter fog than Monday's. The sun rising over the coastal range already pierced the thick air with lances of golden light. After a pit stop at the house to shave and shower, he stopped at Books and Oddities, catching Alex up on what he'd learned in Florence and giving him Nora's hair sample in a plastic bag. Alex said he'd overnight the samples to a tech he knew at one of the labs, who'd told Alex they were backed up and couldn't guarantee results in less than two weeks. This didn't please Gage, but Alex said they were lucky to get it that fast.

  The next two places Gage wanted to visit were the library and Ed Boone's doctor in Newport. Since the library was open until seven p.m. on Tuesday nights and Dr. Joseph Keene was thirty minutes to the north, Gage decided to visit the good doctor first. By the time he dropped down onto Newport's bay front, the fog had completely burned off and the sun shone brightly enough that Gage had to fish his sunglasses out of the jockey box. Keene's clinic, Coastal Care, was on the east side of the bay near Embarcadero Marina, and when he got out of the van the air smelled strongly of fish. He heard sea lions barking nearby.

  Gage guessed that the big, rectangular building had once been a warehouse, but if so, they'd done a heck of a job remodeling it. A brown brick facade, pastel-blue awnings over windows along the second floor, an entryway in the corner that was all glass—it could hardly have been built better if done from scratch. No lava rock decorated the landscaped areas, just plain fir bark. He told the receptionist he was writing a book about Barnacle Bluffs and wanted to speak to Dr. Keene about Ed Boone, who'd been a patient of Keene's. The skeptical receptionist said the doctor
had a full slate of appointments, but she'd relay the message.

  After a half-hour watching the fish in one of the three saltwater tanks in the waiting area, and about the time Gage began to think the doctor's curiosity wasn't going to win the day, he was taken to an empty conference room with a long walnut table and a view of Yaquina Bay Bridge. He waited there another fifteen minutes, counting the boat masts from the marina below, before a bald man in a white coat ducked his head into the room as if he expected to duck right back out again.

  "Mr. Gage?" he said.

  "The one and only."

  "I'm Dr. Keene. I was Edward Boone's physician. What's this about?"

  "Do you have just a minute?"

  Keene glanced at his gold watch. He was short but broad-shouldered, his eyebrows a mix of blond and white. The baldness made him seem closer to sixty, but his smooth, unblemished skin lead Gage to believe he was closer to fifty.

  "Two minutes max," he said, stepping into the room and closing the door. "I have patients waiting. There's a flu going around and we've been slammed. I was told this was something about a book?"

  "Partly, yes. Doctor, can you tell me first if you diagnosed Mr. Boone's Alzheimer's disease?"

  Keene frowned. "Mr. Gage, you understand that doctor-patient confidentiality prevents me from divulging anything about Mr. Boone's visits."

  "I was afraid you'd say that."

  "And what does Mr. Boone's … medical condition have anything to do with your book?"

  Gage sighed. He could see that his cover story wasn't going to get him very far today. "Well, not much."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Doctor, I assume you agreed to see me because you heard about Ed's suicide?"

  "I did. Terrible tragedy."

  "If I told you that his death unearthed a long-lost … relative, one he'd had no contact with, but someone who has a lot of interest in his medical condition, would that help you bend the rules at all? Anything you could tell us could help this relative prepare for any unfortunate possibilities, if you know what I'm saying."

  Keene regarded Gage silently for a long time, saying nothing, though looking obviously troubled. He stepped to the window, crossing his arms and staring out at the bay. He didn't turn around when he spoke.

  "I don't fish much anymore."

  "Sorry?"

  "Fish. I have a Boston Whaler down in the bay. Haven't used it in two years. Used to go out on Sundays with my kids, when they were still here." He paused. "Is it a daughter?"

  Gage felt his heart jump. "So he did say something?"

  "You understand, I can't let you see his file. Not without a court order."

  "I get it. But he did speak of her?"

  Keene turned and looked at Gage, speaking to him across the length of the table. "When he told me he didn't want anyone to know about his … condition, I strongly encouraged him to change his mind, for his children's sake, if nothing else. There can be some genetic predisposition toward it, depending on several factors. He said the only person he might want to tell was his daughter, but she didn't even know who he was."

  "Did he say anything else?"

  He hesitated.

  "Doctor?"

  "Only that he didn't want to come barging into her life when it was too late to make amends. He didn't want her to know who he was, but maybe he'd find some other way to get her the news—an anonymous letter, perhaps."

  "He said that? That he wanted it to be anonymous?"

  Keene nodded.

  "When was this?"

  "Oh, perhaps six months ago."

  "What else?"

  "Nothing. He seemed to clam up after that, and I'm not one to pry. I think in the moment, being a bit emotional, he said more than he wanted. I've seen it before."

  "How did he take it, you know, when you gave him the diagnosis?"

  "Well, again, we're venturing into territory I'm not all that comfortable with. I can tell you that I wasn't the one who gave him his definitive diagnosis. That would have been Dr. Hambly at OHSU. But as his primary care physician, and the one who spent more time with him, I can say this much: I was quite surprised when I read in the newspaper about his … choice."

  "You're saying you were surprised he committed suicide?"

  "Yes. He seemed quite resolute that he wanted to stay around as long as life gave him the opportunity. And the last time I saw him, a month ago, he was in fairly good spirits. He told me a funny story about a couple from New York who were visiting Heceta Head Lighthouse and asked him how long people in Oregon had had running water. His condition hadn't degraded that much. Perhaps in another year … But then, people do change their minds. All right, Mr. Gage, I think that's as much as I can say. Honestly, I don't know anything else. Let me walk you out."

  Gage pressed him a bit more, but Keene wasn't having any of it. In the waiting room, they shook hands and the doctor wished him best of luck. He started to go, then pointed at Gage's knee.

  "You know, my associate, Dr. Webster, could take a look at that for you. He's one of the best orthopedic surgeons in Oregon."

  "I'll keep that in mind."

  "What they can do these days with polyethylene inserts, there's a good chance you'd never have to walk with a cane again."

  "But I'm so good at it now."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Never mind."

  * * *

  Back in Barnacle Bluffs, Gage grabbed a quick bite of lunch at the house, then headed to the police station to see if he could pressure Chief Quinn to get an autopsy of Ed Boone before it was too late. No luck. Quinn wasn't persuaded by Gage's flimsy evidence that Boone's death may not have been a suicide, or at least not enough to inject himself into a death that hadn't occurred in his jurisdiction.

  So Gage needed better evidence.

  It was going on three o'clock by the time he parked outside the drab concrete building where the library was housed, city hall and other government offices on the bottom floor, the library on the second. Heavy clouds had rolled in off the ocean while Gage was in Newport, blotting out the sun and cooling the air. It smelled like it was going to rain.

  To spare his knee, he took the elevator. He'd already walked plenty. He hadn't been to the library much over the years, preferring to feed his reading addiction by frequenting Alex's shop, but he always enjoyed the ambiance: the air-conditioned stillness, the row upon row of orange metal stacks packed with books, and the plush purple reading chairs and couches. There was a reading session going on in the kid section, a woman wearing a white and red hat identical to the one from The Cat in the Hat reading to a dozen children and their parents.

  Gage asked the young woman at the circulation desk if Al Bernard, the head librarian, was in. She called him on the phone and a minute later Al, an elderly black man with white hair so thin it looked like a dusting of snow, showed up at the reference desk. The gold, wire-rimmed glasses that hung around his neck may be twenty years out of style, but they were a good match for his brown tweed suit. He'd been running the library for close to forty years, an institution in his own right, and Gage guessed he'd owned the suit just as long.

  "The great detective," he said warmly, extending his hand.

  They shook. His hand was small and delicate, but the skin rough, his fingers like rolls of rice paper.

  "I'm always amazed you remember me, Al."

  "How could I not? You're famous around these parts, aren't you? How many times have you been in the newspaper?"

  "I try not to think about it. How are those prize-winning poodles?"

  "Ah, I just have one now. Frannie. I don't do shows anymore, and really, one is all I can handle. The other two passed away." His eyes, big, rich brown orbs that emanated a kind of genteel goodness, turned sad momentarily before he blinked a few times. "Getting old does have its downsides, you know. But enough of that. I heard you're writing a book about the history of Barnacle Bluffs."

  "You heard about that, huh?"

  "Word gets around. I didn't know you w
ere a writer. How long have you been writing?"

  "I haven't started."

  "Oh."

  "You mean you have to actually write something to call yourself a writer?"

  "Um …"

  "Just kidding. Let's just say that right now I'm in the research phase. That's actually why I'm here."

  "Oh! Well, there are a number of books on Oregon history that I could point—"

  "Actually, I have a very specific request." Gage looked around. There was no one near the reference desk, but he still lowered his voice. "Did you hear about the suicide at Heceta Head a week ago?"

  Al frowned. "Yes, I read it in the Bugle. Dreadful business. Why, what does that have to do with your research?"

  "His name was Ed Boone. Did you know him?"

  It was obvious, as soon as Gage said his name, that Al knew exactly who Ed Boone was. He reacted first with surprise, then his whole face sagged. He sank into the chair behind the reference desk.

  "Oh no," he said. "Not Ed. That's terrible. I never would have guessed that Ed … But why?"

  "Did you know him well?"

  "No, not well. A little better in recent years, but nothing that would make me think … Oh my. I just can't believe he'd … Are you sure there wasn't a mistake?"

  "No, it was him. What did you mean, a little better in recent years?"

  Al sat staring into space for a moment, then shook his head. He stayed like that for a while, until he finally sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Sorry. I'm absorbing this unfortunate news. What did you say again?"

  "You said you knew him a little better in recent years."

  "Right, right. Well, he's been a regular patron of the library for many years, really as long as I've been here, I think, but since he sold his diner he's been in at least once a week. Usually he just checks out his books and he's on his way, but a few times he's needed help. Not long ago, he wanted my recommendations on books on training dogs, since he knew my history. He said he had a Boston Terrier. We chatted about that quite a bit, probably the most we'd ever talked. Honestly, I always thought he was a bit cold, since he hardly ever even said hello, but that conversation changed my mind. I realized he's someone who mostly just wants to keep to himself. Kind of like you, Garrison."