The Branson Beauty (15 page)

A brief spark caught Hank's eye. He turned as a shadow separated itself from the blackness of the forest and moved forward. “You better have a reason to be out here, boy,” it said.

Hank turned on his flashlight but kept it pointed at the ground. The light bounced up and weakly illuminated both their faces.

“Well, do you?” the man asked, a cigarette clamped between his lips. “Got a reason? Who are you?”

Well, now, that was irritating. Granted, he'd only been the sheriff for six months, but he felt that was plenty long enough for his deputies, all of whom he'd met personally—there weren't that many—to recognize him.

“I'm the sheriff,” he said. “Thought I'd come have a look at my crime scene.”

In the darkness, he could feel more than see the other man stiffen. He resisted the urge to shine the light full in his face. That wouldn't make things any better. Gerald Tucker didn't much care for him, anyway. Hank hadn't liked the vibe off the man—he seemed to have been a favorite of Gibbons, somebody used to getting the best assignments even if he didn't have the right skills. Instead of choosing him as his second-in-command, Hank had gone with Sheila. He had a hunch Tucker had never lost out to a woman before. Especially a black one. Join the twenty-first century, pal. The best qualified wins. And he was pretty sure the best qualified had stuck Good Ol' Boy with night dock duty on purpose. Good for her.

Hank smiled calmly and moved past his deputy toward the boat. He ducked under the crime-scene tape and walked up the gangplank and through the same gate where Tony Sampson had greeted him the first time he'd boarded the
Beauty
. It seemed like that had been years ago, but only thirty-six hours had passed. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves, pointed his flashlight down the wide walkway, and headed toward the big showroom.

There was nothing out of the ordinary there, or in the backstage area. Costumes were neatly hung, props stacked, and makeup jars lined up neatly under the mirrors. It looked as though the actors had used their run-aground time wisely.

The kitchen had also been tidied, although the appliances—with their sharp corners and black boxy fronts—looked as if they had been there since the boat's original launch in 1983.The only things from this millennium were the newish microwaves along the side wall. He went through everything. Nothing was out of place, and there was no .357 revolver anywhere.

The kitchen exit put Hank out on the walkway on the opposite side of the boat from the dock. In order to get to the stairs leading up to the second deck, he had to go around the stern, which took him past the gaping void where the paddle wheel had been. He leaned over the railing and looked down. His flashlight found holes where beams had been amputated. A mass of cables and wires dangled directly below him. The diesel smell was stronger back here.

He ran his light down and over the water. It refused to penetrate, bounced back and caught him in the eyes. He instinctively squeezed them shut and stepped back, hitting the wall behind him. The impact created a booming thud in the silence. He froze. Great. Now he'd have Tucker up here, demanding to know what was wrong. He waited. Nothing. His eyes adjusted again to the darkness. Still nothing. No Tucker. Hank frowned. He was relieved he didn't have to look like an idiot in front of Good Ol' Boy, yes, but come on. The guy should have at least yelled up to him to see if everything was okay. He was going to be a real pain in the neck.

Hank rounded the corner and stood in front of the door securing the stairway. There was another deck gate back here, where presumably the important passengers could use their own gangplank and avoid mixing with the tourists up front. The door was locked. He dug in his coat pocket and pulled out a key ring. Alice had given it to him after they were done processing the boat yesterday. He wondered which boat staff member she'd taken it from.

The fourth key he tried worked. He pulled open the door. It stayed locked on the outside, but pushed open easily from the inside. He climbed the stairs and stood at the end of the hallway. On the right was the wall of windows looking out over the dock. On the left was the dining room door and its windows, still with the shades tightly drawn. Then the door to the windowless kitchen, the elevator, and up at the front of the boat was the lounge, where the door and windows were all open to the view.

Hank went first to the elevator, which looked exactly as Leonard Dovecoat had described it to Sam. The doors had been pried open about a foot. He pushed them apart a bit more and stuck his head and flashlight in. The elevator was definitely hanging off balance in the shaft and not going anywhere. One more thing Gallagher would have to fix. Hank grinned.

The lounge looked the same as when the boat had been evacuated—somewhat messy with empty water bottles everywhere and chairs shoved in haphazard groups. There was nothing under the furniture, but there were a few loose coins in between the couch cushions. He left them alone and headed for the little kitchen directly off the private dining room.

He stood in the middle of the small room and slowly turned in a circle, realizing he had not actually made it into this room on Sunday night. It had obviously been searched by his deputies—drawers weren't closed all the way and two cupboard doors hung open. He turned again. It wasn't even really a kitchen. It had two microwaves, some kind of weird drawer-type oven, and an ancient-looking refrigerator, but that was not enough to actually cook the full-course meal that VIP guests would expect. The food must have been prepared downstairs and then, what, brought up on the elevator? Hank decided he didn't really care about the food service particulars and shifted his focus. He searched everything again, even looking on the underside of the little table against the wall where Mandy and the cook must have whiled away the time, judging from the playing cards still sitting there. He carefully bagged the deck. It wouldn't hurt to confirm that waiter's statement by making sure Mandy's fingerprints were on the cards.

He ended up back in the middle of the room, no further along than when he'd started. That really is a hideous refrigerator, he thought. It had to be at least twenty-five years old. He pulled it open. It held a few bottles of ketchup and some fancy mustards, but that was it. He shut the door, and his gaze landed on the microwaves. He popped the first one open. Nothing. He hit the button on the second one, and the door swung open. A purse sat there, looking for all the world like it was ready to be cooked.

He whipped his phone out of his pocket and snapped several pictures before he reached in with his still-gloved hand and hooked a finger around the strap. He laid it carefully on the little table and stared at it. It was reasonably good sized and trendy looking, something he guessed a college girl would own. He unzipped it and pulled out the wallet. Yep. Amanda Grace Bryson. Born 2-27-93. 1522 Conifer Street, Branson, MO. Then her University of Oklahoma ID. A campus dining card and what had to be a key card into her dorm. Six dollars in cash. A bank debit card and only one credit card. A very well-worn Branson library card. He flipped it over. The single word “Mandy” was written on the signature line in trembly block letters. He pictured a little girl excitedly filling it in all those years ago, blinked hard, and put it back in the wallet.

He pulled out her phone and set it aside. They would have to go through that back at the office. Then a handful of hard candy, two sticks of gum, a little mirror. And a gift. He pulled out the small, square package, wrapped in birthday paper. The little folded-over card said,
Happy Birthday to my favorite old bird. Love you always, Mandy.
He took a picture, then carefully unwrapped it. Inside the box was a beautiful brooch, a delicate hummingbird in flight.

He replaced the lid and put the box back in the purse's first compartment. The second was closed with a zipper. He undid it, but he knew what he would see. No gun. The purse didn't weigh enough. Camo Callie's loaner would have fit, perfectly, in that empty divided pocket. He growled in frustration. Where was it?

He sat heavily in one of the kitchen's two chairs and absentmindedly snapped the latex of his gloves as he stared at the purse and its contents. Great discovery, but it didn't help him at all right now. He could hope it was covered with the killer's fingerprints, but the way this case was going, he doubted he'd get that lucky.

He hoisted himself out of the little chair and went to the door that led directly to the dining room. The knob would not move under his hand. He tried to twist it again. Definitely locked. He quickly walked out the hallway door and down to the dining room entrance. He broke the evidence tape on the door and shoved it open. Ignoring the rest of the room, he went to the kitchen door and knelt in front of it. This side of the knob had a keyhole. He whipped out the key ring and started jamming keys in it. The sixth one worked.

He sat back on his heels and stared at the knob, which was still covered with black fingerprint powder. Alice must have been able to lift some pretty good prints—there were several still clearly visible on the brass finish. Good. Then he turned. The entire room was coated in black powder. Because there were prints everywhere. On the water glasses, the backs of chairs, the walls, the window shades. Everywhere.

He moved around the long table, still on his knees, and stopped where they had found her. He slowly rose and placed his feet where he guessed the killer had stood. One foot forward and one foot back. Better balance that way. He reached his arms out in front of him. The killer had been in front of her. He'd done it face to face. And it had to be a he. The only women on the second deck did not have the strength or mobility to overpower a young person in top physical condition.

He curled his fingers around an imaginary neck. It took a lot of something to choke the life out of a person while you looked them in the eyes. A lot of fear. Or a lot of hate. Or a lot of love. He'd learned early on that the last of those was just as often a reason for killing as the others. And quite possibly the most painful of them all.

He squeezed his hands into fists and dropped them to his sides. He did one more sweep of the entire room and then quietly stepped outside. He locked the door, carefully replaced the crime-scene tape, and trudged up the stairs to the pilothouse. There was nothing there, except Albert's aviator sunglasses, folded neatly in the middle of the well-worn seat of the captain's chair. He sighed, then dug out an evidence bag and put them inside. He took it and the bagged purse and headed down to the dock. Tucker was standing at the gate, waiting.

“You done?” he asked.

“For now,” Hank bit out. He didn't bother with a good night as he turned to start the climb up to the road. “What an asshole,” he heard Tucker mutter behind him. Hank smiled in the darkness. He'd been thinking exactly the same thing.

 

CHAPTER

13

Duncan stomped into the kitchen, where Hank and Maggie sat with their coffee. It was just before six and the kids were, remarkably, still asleep. But they wouldn't be for long with all the noise Dunc was making.

“Where is that darned Walkman?” he rummaged through the desk in the corner that was the dumping ground for everything they didn't know what to do with. “I thought I put it…”

He looked up and noticed the two of them sitting at the table. “Oh. You two seen my Walkman?”

Maggie shook her head. Dunc grunted and headed toward the living room. Hank turned to his wife. “He doesn't mean an actual Walkman? That plays tapes?”

“Yes,” she sighed. “Goodness knows how old it is now. Mom tried to get him to upgrade to a portable CD player about ten years ago. He wouldn't. Said it was too bulky. Said his Johnny Cash tapes worked just fine, thank you. And even those were a sin against the purity of vinyl.”

Hank knew all about his father-in-law's beloved record collection. His back still seized up when he remembered having to move those ridiculously heavy boxes out of the old house and into this one. He curled his fingers around his mug and grinned. “What do you think he'd do with digital? We should get him an iPod.”

“An iPod? One of those little glass things? No, thank you,” Dunc said as he walked back into the kitchen, triumphantly waving his Walkman in the air. He clipped it on his waistband. “They don't make 'em like this anymore.”

“Yeah, there's a reason for that,” Hank said. “Tape is about the crappiest way to listen to anything. I can't believe that thing even still works.”

“Works fine. The tapes only get gummed up every once in a while.” He clamped on the big foam earphones. “Now I'm going for my walk. Got
Everybody Loves a Nut
all cued up.”

Well, that is certainly appropriate, Hank thought as he pointed at the frosted-over window. “It's gotta be ten below out there.”

“It's only fifteen degrees, you pansy. I checked.”

Maggie laid her hand lightly on Hank's sleeve.

“Can't you take a break for another day or two, Dad?”

“No way,” Dunc said. “I have to get my miles in. Walkin' the inversion of my age, I am.”

They both stared at him in confusion.

“Every week, I walk seventeen miles. I'm seventy-one. Get it? I flip-flop the numbers. If I miss more than a day or two, I can't catch up.”

He disappeared into the mudroom, humming as he went. Hank grinned at his wife. “Well, doctor, when he slips on that icy hill at the end of the street and turns into the Wabash Cannonball, at least he won't be my problem.”

Maggie smacked him on the shoulder as she stood up. “I don't need any more problems, you wise-ass.” Then she kissed the top of his head. “You better get out of here before the kids get up, or they'll want you to stay and do your talking banana.”

Hank drained the rest of his coffee. He didn't have time for the talking banana. That was the thing about kids. Do something once on a whim—like sticking Cheerio eyes and a mouth on a half-peeled banana and doing an Adam Sandler impression—and you were stuck doing it every morning for the rest of your life. He hustled out through the garage just as he heard little feet trotting out from the bedrooms.