Page 48 of What You Never Knew

I pass the government dock with a group of old men fishing off it and then reach the bridge that connects the downtown area with the more residential part of town. A group of boys in bathing suits climb over the side of the bridge like a cluster of spiders. They perch on the metal beams on the outside of the bridge, waiting for a boat to pass underneath before dropping down into the water below and quickly swimming out of the way of more boat traffic.

Sitting on the other side of the bridge is the Bridgeside Tavern. It looks as worn and weathered as it did thirty years ago. Inside is dark and cool. It takes my eyes a few seconds to adjust to the change. I go sit at the bar, since I’m alone. The woman serving drinks gives me a good up-and-down. She pours me a beer and sets it down in front of me on a worn, warped coaster.

“You lost?” she says, with a sly but friendly smile.

She’s a middle-aged woman with one of those generic not-long-but-not-short bob haircuts, blond, with the hint of gray roots coming in. The red T-shirt she wears has the name of the tavern stretched across her ample chest and reveals a slight paunch that I’m betting is the result of a few kids. She’s heavy on the makeup, but it doesn’t do a very good job at covering up the dark circles under her eyes or the evidence of the rough life she’s clearly lived.

“Lost?” I pull my beer toward me.

“We don’t get many seasonal folk in here.” She nods to the crowd behind me. I turn and survey the rest of the bar. It’s mostly older men who look as though they’ve worn trenches into their seats over time.

“I’m not lost,” I say, after turning back to face her.

She wipes down the counter in front of me, even though it’s spotless. “What part of the lake you from?” I can tell I’ve piqued her curiosity, which is a good start.

“Avril Island,” I say, before taking a sip of my beer, watching her over the rim of my glass.

Her eyebrows rise in surprise; then she gives me a knowing nod. “Well I’ll be,” she says. “I heard a Bennett was back but thought it might just be rumor. Which one are you?”

“June. The youngest one.”

She actually gets more comfortable, leaning into the counter and crossing her arms. “What brings you back now?”

“My mother told me and my sister that she sold Avril Island years ago. She died, and we found out that she had in fact lied and it was still in the family.” I’m aware that the we I’m referring to is me and my dead sister, but I like talking about her as though she’s still alive. It feels more right than talking about her like she’s dead.

The woman’s eyes go wide again. “Get out,” she says, clearly relishing the gossip. “That woulda been a doozy to find out.”

“Yup.” I take a long drink of my beer, enjoying how it cuts across my throat before making its way down. Leaning in a bit closer, I say, “You know another thing my mother lied about?” My best approach is to look like I’m a victim of my mother’s, not an ally, if I’m going to get anyone to talk to me. It feels strange, betraying her after years spent protecting her, but it’s also incredibly liberating. “She told me and my sister that my dad ran off on us. Not a thing about the disappearance or the police investigation.” I slice my hand through the air for dramatic effect. “We had no idea about any of it.”

Her mouth drops open in shock, and she shakes her head. “You don’t say?”

“I have no idea to this day whether my dad is out there somewhere, still alive, or dead.”

A customer approaches the bar, and the woman signals a young man washing glasses to take care of him so she can keep talking to me. I didn’t realize how easy it would be.

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” she says, although I think she likes to be the bearer of any news, “but my uncle was on the police force back then. I overheard him telling my mom some details of the case, and from all that they had, it sure sounded like somebody had been murdered.”

The breath catches in my throat in a moment of uneasy excitement. I was finally getting somewhere. I take another sip of beer to steady myself. “Are you sure?”

She gives me a pitying smile and nods to show she’s on my side. “They found your dad’s boat, washed up on an island. Apparently there was blood on the steering wheel that matched his, and”—she takes a quick look around to make sure nobody is listening, then leans in even closer, bringing with her the smell of hard alcohol and stale body odor—“they found West Keen’s fingerprints all over the steering wheel. That’s what made them bring him in for questioning. They searched West’s house, didn’t find a thing. Then searched his boat, and your dad’s watch turned up in the glove box.” She taps her own wrist, even though there’s no watch there, a satisfied look on her face from the valuable inside information she’s just dropped in my lap.

The clench in my jaw and the shock that’s locked itself in my bones keep me from responding as these new facts sink in. The woman doesn’t seem to notice and takes a deep breath before launching into more explanation.

“My uncle, he was a real fan of West’s. Thought the whole thing was a setup. Said it looked like the clues had been placed there on purpose. But with the affair and all, even the best of men can go savage over love, don’t you think?”

Her eyes suddenly flit over to the door, and whatever she sees there causes her to push off the bar, stand straight, pick up her cloth, and go back to wiping down the already shining wood. “Well, speak of the devil’s offspring,” she mumbles under her breath.

A hand on my back causes me to jump. “June?” I look up into Ezra’s face. “You okay?” he asks. I just nod. Looking at the woman behind the bar, he says, “Martha,” an unmistakable edge to his voice.

“Hey, Ezra. It’s been a while. What can I get you?” she asks, the friendly-bartender act suddenly seeming forced.

He takes a look at the drink in my hand. “Whatever she’s having,” he says, putting a five-dollar bill on the bar. Martha sidles away to pour the beer. “Let’s go sit in a booth,” Ezra says, pointing to an empty one by the door.

I move off my stool as Martha passes Ezra his drink. I wait until he’s on his way to the booth before thanking Martha for the information.

She gives my hand a pat. “My pleasure,” she says. “And be careful with that one.” She nods in Ezra’s direction. “He’s too damn good-looking for anyone’s good.” She lets out a laugh, but it’s an empty one.

Twice now I’ve been warned about Ezra, I think to myself, walking over to the table he’s chosen. Am I missing something? Is there actually reason to be wary of him, or is it just small-town bullshit with nothing behind it?