Bill Hopkins - Judge Rosswell Carew 02 - River Mourn (8 page)

After the phone conversation, Rosswell wrote for forty-five
minutes in his journal. He’d spent uncounted hours logging tons of information into
the book. It was not a mere journal, but a
casebook
.
The threads
of the mystery grew stronger and more tangled. If Rosswell could unravel the stringy
mass from the information residing in his brain and his casebook, he would find
his way to Tina.

He prayed he didn’t find her in a grave
.

Checking out Frankie
Joe Acorn
rose to the top of Rosswell’s to-do list when he recessed
court at 10:00 AM the next day. He and Ollie headed up Interstate 55 a few
miles to Bloomsdale. On the way, Rosswell detailed his near encounter with Nathaniel
the night before.

They exited the Interstate onto a state road that led
to a county blacktop that led to a gravel road. Ollie had researched where Frankie
Joe lived and told Rosswell which trailer in Seven Pines Mobile Home Park was
his.

“The green one over there.” Ollie leveled a finger wide
as a sausage at a vinyl-sided doublewide. “The one with the black shutters and
the garden gnomes—eighteen of those stupid things.”

“Must’ve had a sale.” Rosswell jutted his chin toward
a vehicle in the driveway. “There’s the white SUV. Or one like it.”

“Someone who puts that many garden gnomes in a yard is
plum goofy.”

The Chrysler Aspen parked out front appeared freshly
washed. The shine from the wax job glared to the point of giving Rosswell a
headache. No other vehicles on the place. Flowers bloomed in a neat foot-wide garden
skirting the outside of the entire trailer. A sprinkler watered a newly planted
maple tree, giving battle against the heat and the drought.

“Nice ride,” said Ollie, noting the tag number of the
SUV. The notebook was rapidly filling with information.

A young woman with black hair opened the door when
Ollie knocked. “Is Frankie Joe around?”

“No.” The woman, decked out in black slacks, black
shoes, and a black short-sleeved shirt, offered nothing more.

“When will he be back?”

Rosswell admired her hair. “We really need to talk to
him. Is he working somewhere?”
That
hairdo must’ve cost a bundle down at the local beauty salon.
A
big-hair girl from 1980. Her makeup appeared to have been poured on. The woman,
not the man, Rosswell thought, kept the trailer, the SUV, and herself
sparkling. Pride of ownership.

She pursed her blood-red lips. “He didn’t commit a
murder.”

Rosswell quashed the look of surprise aching to
decorate his face. “Ma’am, what’s your name?”

She started to close the door.

“Wait,” Ollie said. “Murder? What murder?”

The woman stopped before the door shut. “Frankie Joe
is a hard worker. He doesn’t smoke or drink and he sure doesn’t do dope.”

Rosswell stepped closer to the door. “Did someone
accuse Frankie Joe of murder?” She hesitated long enough for him to take a
chance. “We want to help Frankie Joe, not hurt him.”

Ollie moved up next to Rosswell. “That’s right. If
someone’s accusing him of murder, we need to know about it.”

“Who are you two?”

Rosswell made the introductions. The woman stared at
Ollie for a long time before she said anything. Maybe she was trying to decide
if Ollie was a violent weirdo or only a weirdo who looked violent.

“I’m Susannah Acorn, Frankie Joe’s wife. Come in.” She
opened the door wide.

A vanilla-scented candle burned on the kitchen island.
The linoleum floor shined. The dark red carpeting smelled of scented baking
soda. A
huge landscape painting of a forest
sunrise hung over a muted green couch covered with small pillows of various
pastel shades. Two tapestries, medieval-looking, guarded each side of the
painting. Small statues of deer, dogs, cats, and various other animals covered
every flat surface in the trailer. The kitchen area sported a multitude of canisters,
knife racks, and revolving pedestals loaded down with spoons and spices. There
was no evidence of any children or pets.

Ollie said, “I’ll bet it takes you a long time to
dust.”

“I like a clean house.”

Rosswell made a mental note to ask Ollie to brush up
on his manners. “Ollie sometimes has trouble appreciating the finer things in
life. Please excuse him.”

Susannah motioned them to sit and they did. She
remained standing.

“What do you need to ask Frankie Joe?”

Rosswell explained what he’d seen on the ferry Sunday
morning. When he finished, he asked her, “Did someone accuse Frankie Joe of
murder?”

Susannah sniffed. “Turk came by late last night. Woke
us up.”

Ollie said, “Turk Malone?”

She nodded. “He said someone had come by his place and
accused him and Frankie Joe of murder while they were riding the ferry.”

Rosswell said, “Day before yesterday?”

She nodded again. “Sunday morning.”

Ollie said, “Did Turk say who accused them?”

Her eyes widened. “It wasn’t you all?”

Rosswell said, “No. We talked to Turk, but we never
accused him or anyone else of murder. We don’t even know if someone actually
got killed. We’re asking questions because we’re searching for someone. It’s
important.”

“I didn’t let Turk in the house.” Susannah glanced at
the front door. “He was stoned. Turk thinks he and Frankie Joe are friends because
they happen to ride the ferry together sometimes. Frankie Joe can’t stand Turk.
He says Turk is nasty.”

It was Rosswell’s turn to nod. “I don’t disagree with
that.”

Ollie said, “Turk must’ve been a bit confused. No one
accused him of murder that we know about.”

“Confused is right,” Susannah said. “Turk smokes dope
and cooks meth.”

Rosswell said, “I believe you.”

Ollie picked up a ceramic skunk and examined it. “How
long have you and Frankie Joe been married?” He set the skunk between a rabbit
and a bear.

“Since we graduated from high school, four years ago.”

Rosswell said, “Are you both from around here?”

“Yes.”

Rosswell said, “Do you mind if I ask your maiden name?”

“Fribeau.”

“As in Sheriff Gustave Fribeau?”

Susannah’s mouth curved upward. “As in Sheriff Gustave
Fribeau’s daughter.”

During lunch at Mabel’s, after they discussed striking out
with Susannah Acorn, Ollie gave Rosswell the Charlie Heckle report.

“It’s like the guy doesn’t exist.” Ollie leafed through
his notebook. “I spelled the name every way I could think of and didn’t get hit
one. I also asked around town. No one remembers seeing a white guy with a scar
on his face much less someone named Charlie Heckle.”

“If he’s hooked up with Ribs and Nathaniel, that’s not
even his real name.”

“Thought of that, too. If he’s using an alias, he’s
going to be harder to find.”

After they finished eating, Rosswell and Ollie trooped
around the courthouse square. Every time they ran across someone who wasn’t
dressed in shorts and a loud shirt and wasn’t carrying a camera as a fashion accessory,
they’d ask for Lazar Fribeau, as Captain LaFaire had instructed them. Every
response was polite but disinterested. A few of the locals claimed they’d never
heard of the man, insisting that Rosswell and Ollie must be thinking of Sheriff
Gustave Fribeau.

Rosswell checked his watch. “Three o’clock. I think Captain
LaFaire sent us on a snipe hunt.”

“We’ve been taken like a blind man at a silent auction.”

They gave up the hunt and headed for the restaurant. When
they got close, Rosswell breathed deeply, sucking in the aroma of the prime rib
special. His mouth watered and his nose delighted in the scent.

After they passed the French-Canadian museum, a
gravelly voice vibrated behind them. “You boys trying to find Lazar Fribeau, him?”

When they whipped around, an old man crooked a
skeletal finger, motioning them to follow. Without a sound, he meandered into an
alley built with irregular red bricks. The man’s deep blue eyes reminded
Rosswell of dark crystals. Rosswell and Ollie followed him into the space
between two ancient structures where the sun disappeared in the shadows of the
buildings. The stench of urine assaulted Rosswell’s nose, making him grateful
that he hadn’t fallen face down when he tripped over one of the lopsided
bricks.

The old man’s coveralls were brand new Carhartts.
Those don’t come cheap
.
Over the prevailing body
waste odors, Rosswell detected a scent of pine soap on the man. His khaki chambray
shirt had creases ironed into it. A John Deere ball cap covered with fishing
lures completed his ensemble.
Country
chic.

“What you boys want with Lazar Fribeau, him?”

Rosswell said, “Him what?”

Ollie whispered to Rosswell, “Shut up and let me
handle this.” Ollie moved close to the man. “We need to see Maman.”

“You smell like the law.”

Rosswell said, “How can you smell anything but piss
back here?” He pinched his nose, then coughed. Ollie shot Rosswell a glare that
could’ve melted the polar ice cap. Rosswell remained silent.

“He
is
the law.” Ollie stepped in the general
direction of Rosswell. “He’s a judge. And he saw something on the river Sunday morning.
Maman knows everything that goes on out there on the water.”

“What’s he see, him?”

Ollie remained firm. “We need to talk to Maman. But we
need your help, Lazar.”

“Who you calling Lazar?”

Ollie didn’t answer the question, but instead repeated,
“We need to talk to Maman.”

“Don’t know no one named no Maman, her.”

Ollie peered up, then down the alley. No one else was
within sight. He leaned in close to the geezer. “What’s it take to see Maman?”

“Don’t know nobody named Maman.”

Rosswell started to speak, but before any words came
out, Ollie clamped his hand over Rosswell’s open mouth. He nodded, kept shut,
and Ollie removed his hand.

Ollie said, “Silver or gold?”

The old man pulled off his cap and evaluated a couple
of the lures. He finger combed his thin white hair, presumably allowing Ollie’s
question to float around in his brain. Rosswell knew they were dancing, but
only Ollie and the other guy heard the tune and stepped the steps.

After a leisurely examination of the lures, which
included caressing every one of them, the old guy answered, “In that case, I
hear she likes silver today.” Settling the cap back on his head, he assumed the
air of a French patriarch. “Silver.” His blue-eyed stare riveted Ollie.

Ollie didn’t hesitate. “She might like silver, but I need
you to tell me your name.”

“You said you looking for Lazar Fribeau? You found him.”
Two thumbs touched his heart. “Proud for it, me.”

“Where should we meet you?”

Rosswell wanted to ask,
What do you mean meet him? He’s standing right here.
But he kept quiet. He
really didn’t want Ollie’s hand touching his mouth again.

“Here be okay. Tomorrow same time.”

Lazar gravitated out of the alley into the crowd where
he blended the same way a deer assumes invisibility when it bounds into the
forest. Rosswell started after him but Ollie grabbed his arm.

“Stay here,” Ollie said.

“What in the hell did I witness?”

“Not many of those old Cajuns around anymore, but if
you want to get along with them, you have to play their game.”

“Cajuns? I thought Cajuns were in Louisiana.”

“Don’t you know your history? There were hundreds of
Acadians—that’s where the term Cajuns comes from—who came down here from Canada
before this area was bought by the United States. This territory
was
Louisiana.”

“Ah…well…of course, I remember hearing about that
Louisiana Purchase deal. I didn’t know there were actual Cajuns still living
here.”

“You forget Audubon? One of Sainte Gen’s most famous
residents was the greatest bird watcher of all times. And he didn’t have Nikon
binoculars. He painted all kinds of birds. Without, I might add, the aid of a
camera.”

Rosswell cursed himself for letting Ollie slip in that
bit of trivia. “You got me bad.” Paybacks, as they say, are indeed hell. “Now
where do we go?”

“We go find silver.”

Rosswell chewed on a couple of Lone Ranger jokes but
discarded them.

They wound down a side street to one of the ubiquitous
antique shops, a vertical wooden post structure. The hand-painted sign above
the wide porch, which ran along the front of the shop, read
Discovered
Treasures
. Numerous rocking chairs beckoned the tourists to sit a spell and
enjoy the ambience. An old-fashioned bell on a spring rang when Ollie opened
the screen door. Inside, a woman said, “Ollie, good to see you. How’s it going?”

“Better than I deserve.”

Discovered Treasures smelled of dusty stuff. The store
was more of a second-hand emporium than an antique shop. Chairs of all sizes
and shapes were stacked against one wall. Three sofas surrounded end tables of
every description. Stacks of dinner plates, cups, saucers, and drinking glasses
covered two tables. Books and magazines had been stuffed in every available
place. Puddles of darkness lay in places where the sun couldn’t penetrate.

“Excellent, in fact.” Ollie surveyed the inside of the
shop. “Things are going excellent.” Rosswell couldn’t see anyone else. Ollie said
to the woman, “We need to go in back.”

She nodded, glanced around. “Nobody’s here but me.”
She gestured toward the rear of the shop. “Let’s go on back.”

With Rosswell and the woman following, Ollie walked to
the back of the shop where he moved a chair and several boxes from in front of
a door, opened it, and went through.

Rosswell said, “Is this another Cajun thing we have to
do?”

The woman laughed. “No. IRS thing.”

Ollie said, “They really don’t like all those taxes—”

“Stop.” Rosswell threw up his palm. “If I don’t know
something, I’m not responsible for it.”

“He’s real picky about staying on the right side of
the law,” Ollie said to the woman. “But sometimes he dances on the line.”