The Branson Beauty (19 page)

Hank bit back a sigh. Of course he hadn't. And this guy knew it. And was going to force him to say that, no, he had not caught the killer. So Hank said it. Then he gave a short explanation as to why such things tended to be difficult to do. The commissioner, in between nose blowing and coughing, responded that those folks on the TV didn't seem to have much problem with it.

Hank had been appointed, not elected, he reminded himself in an effort to keep his temper. And so for now, Rudolph here thought he was kind of Hank's boss.

“Do you have suspects? Are you interrogating people?” he asked, wheezing.

Hank explained that at this stage of the investigation, it was called interviewing, and yes, there were several suspects. Rudolph demanded to know who, and when Hank wouldn't say, waved a very full tissue in his face.

“What do you mean, you can't divulge details of the investigation? I'm not a lawyer. Don't use those fancy words on me. You got suspects, you tell me. I'm a county commissioner. I hired you, boy. I set your budget. I can undo anything I want. You hear?”

Hank took a step back to avoid the fluttering tissue. Rudolph took it as capitulation, moving closer and waiting with an expectant and self-satisfied look on his face. Hank gritted his teeth. He'd never been one of those people who could talk without saying anything. And he'd always been proud of that, until now. Now, being able to tell this guy things without actually giving him any information would come in pretty handy. He took a deep breath and launched into what he hoped was a superficial account, explaining that he was canvassing the victim's friends for clues as to her life and relationships. He had determined that she was alive when the
Beauty
ran aground, but had died hours before the rescue, so she had to have been killed by someone stuck on the boat with her. Everyone who had access to the second deck of the boat was being interviewed. His office was knocking on every door, pulling out all the stops, leaving no stone unturned.

Rudolph appeared to be appeased by the clichés and mercifully took his tissue out of Hank's personal space. “Good,” he wheezed. “I want you to keep working on this night and day. Mandy Bryson was a track star. She was known throughout the region. Everyone knows she's dead. Even the TV stations in Kansas City and St. Louis have been talking about it.”

And there you had it—the distinguished commissioner's true concern. Hank did not respond.

“This murder has the whole county just terrified,” Rudolph continued. “I'm leading a prayer vigil Thursday night. It will be at the old Mel Tillis Theatre. It's one of the only ones big enough to hold all the folks I expect to come. And it's got enough parking for the TV trucks, too.”

Hank nodded and moved slowly toward the door. He really, really just wanted this guy to leave. Rudolph followed, digging in his pockets for another tissue. He found one just in time to smother a sneeze. Hank yanked open the door and fought the urge to shove him out. Rudolph mopped up his sneeze and then stopped.

“Oh,” he said, “and if you happen to see Mr. Gallagher before I do, please let him know that he's got our sympathies for his poor boat, and if there's anything the commission can do to help him out, well, you just let him know that we care.”

Excellent. Hank closed the door tightly behind the departing politician, locked it, and put the closed sign in the window. He was walking back down the hallway when he realized he should have asked the jerk to put more overtime money in his budget.

 

CHAPTER

17

“We're done out there for the night,” Sam said. He shrugged out of his parka, sending another wave of fire stink through the office. Mustachio kept his coat on. It did not appear that he would be staying. Hank was both glad and peeved about that.

“I don't think there's much more to do, anyway,” Mustachio said. “It'll be ruled an accidental fire likely caused by the damage to the boat sustained during the earlier wreck and subsequent rescue.”

“‘Likely'?” Hank pounced on the word. “So you aren't sure?”

Mustachio groaned. “Look, that boat was done for. It could have been fuel that leaked after the paddle wheel got hacked off. Or hydraulic fluid. All it needed was an ignition source.”

“But was there one—that wasn't supplied by an arsonist?” Hank pressed.

Mustachio glowered at him. “We don't know. The boat, in case you hadn't noticed, is destroyed.
And underwater.
So we have no way of knowing what the ignition source was. We have no way of knowing if someone just left a coffee pot on. Do you know? Did you check the whole boat? Every coffee pot? Every curling iron in the dressing rooms? Was everything off? Did you check the generator? When you went back there last night, did you check? Everything?”

Now Hank glowered back. “No,” he spat. “I did not.”

Mustachio sniffed, in what Hank considered a very condescending manner. He started to speak again, but Hank cut him off.

“What about the divers? Shouldn't you send down divers?”

“In this weather? The temperature of that water is about forty degrees. There is absolutely no reason to do that—to send men down when there is nothing left to see.” Mustachio's glower got worse. “I got a finite number of resources and a huge area to cover, pal. I work for the state, not just your little ol' county. I got three fatal fire investigations going, including one that's two counties over where the parents mysteriously escaped the burning house, but the kids sleeping right by the front door didn't. I think I'll put my time into trying to get them charged with murder, instead of hanging around here, putting divers in danger to chase down your cockamamie theories. If you want to put on a dry suit and take a look down there, be my guest. But it seems to me that you got better things to do, too. You know, with that dead girl of yours and all.”

Hank stood there, too furious to speak. The Pup, trying to stay unnoticed, inched toward the back offices. The fire marshal turned on his heel and stomped out of the office, leaving crusty snow footprints and oily smoke smell behind him.

Sam had almost made it to the safety of the hallway. Hank stopped him.

“How long you been on duty?”

The Pup scratched behind his ear as he thought for a minute. It must have been a little after six this morning when he got the call about the fire, he guessed, so coming up on twelve hours now. And yesterday was the same. And the day before that, too. Good, Hank thought, three twelves isn't too bad. Then Sam cleared his throat.

“Um … but Sunday, you know, when the murder happened, um … that was supposed to be my day off. I'd already worked a full week.”

Great. Hank had no idea what that meant as far as overtime. He sighed.

“Uh, Chief…” Sam said. “Don't worry about it. I'm not going to just leave. I'm not Gerald Tucker.”

Hank raised an eyebrow. “That's getting around, is it?”

A huge grin split Sam's face. “Heck yeah. He's a jerk and—” He stopped short and turned bright red. “What I mean is … um…”

Hank smiled and was going to drop it, but paused. Getting a read on his deputies might not be a bad idea. He asked how many others weren't fond of Tucker. Sam's grin came back.

“Most of us … except some of the older guys. They're his buddies. There were a few of them that were real upset when you got the sheriff job,” he said. “Tucker thought it was all his, being so tight with Sheriff Gibbons and all. But it wasn't the sheriff who got to decide, was it?”

No, Hank thought. It was the county commission, for whom he was now no longer the bright, shiny, from-the-big-city upgrade they'd wanted. Sam, who knew nothing of that, kept talking.

“… so the younger guys, well, we were talking about it. I guess you could say everybody's heard you shoved him off to the jail. Except Sheila. Hooo, boy. When she comes back…” He trailed off. They looked at each other and broke into identical grins. That would be fun. Might even put her in a good mood for a while.

*   *   *

Roy Stanton looked like he was in no shape to put on a show. His jowly face hung slack and his glasses sat crookedly on his nose. He hadn't bothered with his comb-over, and the long gray wisps hung along the right side of his head. It was almost eight o'clock in the evening, and he was still in his bathrobe.

“I can't believe it, Sheriff. That sweet girl.” He let out a sigh that soaked the air with enough bourbon to make Hank tipsy. “I have thought of nothing else since I heard yesterday. And to think, it happened with all of us on board. Absolutely terrifying. A murderer in our midst. A killer among us. A…”

Hank had misjudged. Roy Stanton clearly could not help putting on a show, even while three sheets to the wind. He kept talking as he arranged himself in a large easy chair by the fireplace. It was obviously where he spent most of his time. It had a direct view of the television and was surrounded by piles of books and newspapers. Hank saw several volumes of the collected works of Shakespeare stacked on top of a Neil Simon biography and a copy of
A Streetcar Named Desire
. He waved Hank into the rickety chair opposite and reached for the half-empty bottle of Maker's Mark sitting on
The Plays of Oscar Wilde
.

“I should have known it would be an ill-fated voyage,” he said, topping off his glass. “I have never been treated so contemptibly. They did not want my services. My talents. I showed everyone up to the private dining room and was ready to start my act when I was dismissed. Like I was the common help. I…” Stanton's jowls trembled, and he steeled himself with a sip of bourbon.

Hank managed to get him to set down the glass as he recounted the reactions of those in attendance when he exited his stage. The biggest crime of all had been that most people did not even notice when the snooty middle-aged lawyer dismissed him. One of the young men did, however. Very tall and wearing an expensive leather coat, he had been hovering around the door into the hallway and had heard the lawyer's rejection. In the throes of his own drama, Stanton had not noticed what the man—who had to have been Chad, Hank thought—was doing, or whether he was waiting for someone.

Stanton had left through the door that led directly into the kitchen. “And there, well, you can imagine my surprise. I found a young lady who had obviously been weeping. Mrs. Pugo was guarding her like a mother bear, which made her all the more unbearable, and I…” Stanton broke into giggles as he realized his wordplay. Hank didn't stifle his groan in time, and Roy collected himself, looking hurt. He straightened in his chair and took a moment before continuing.

Yes, he admitted, he did not much like Mrs. Pugo. A flighty, flustered mess, she was. Could barely keep the food warm. There was many a time he'd had to cover for her with the guests, explaining away the cold food as he hosted their private voyages around the lake. She should have retired years ago, but no. Just like half the staff on that boat, she was too old and doddering to be working.

When Hank asked who exactly fit that bill, Roy rattled off a dozen names. None of them worked on the upper deck, though. What about Tim Colard?

“Oh, Tim. He's all right. Whines a lot, thinks he's overworked. But he does a good job. Looks the part, too. Just like a paddleboat waiter should for the private dining room folks, dapper and dark-haired. Lives up in Ozark, I think. Must be about forty-five. Been with the crew for about twenty years.”

“He married? Seeing anybody?” Hank asked. Roy shook his head. “He like younger girls?”

Roy's laugh caught on his swallow of liquor and had him coughing for a solid minute. “Tim? Heavens, no. He's, um, not inclined that way … so to speak. Never told me direct like or anything. But females of any age aren't really his thing, if you get my meaning,” he said, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Hank got it. He also doubted that people in this county ever used the word “homosexual,” direct like. In his six months here, he'd never heard it uttered. He decided to follow local custom and gloss over it—for now. He moved on to the other boat staff.

“What about Tony Sampson? How long have you known him?”

“Tony? Oh, since he came on as the captain's assistant, about two years ago. He must have been one of Mr. Gallagher's first hires, right after he came to town and bought the
Beauty
. Thought Tony was a bit young for the job, myself. He had just graduated from high school. Very serious young man. Never cracked a smile. No joie de vivre.” Roy punctuated his French with a showy arm wave that sloshed bourbon all over his hand. “Oops,” he said, handing his drink to Hank and using the sleeve of his robe to soak it up as he continued talking. “And he's always looking at his phone. One of those new smart things. Never seen him without it. Kids today …

“He's nice and polite otherwise, though. And he does know his stuff. Learned all about how the boat works and the staffing and everything. And he knows the routes and the lake and such. Of course, he knew that stuff before. Grew up on the lake. His daddy owns one of the charter fishing companies out there.”

Roy finished mopping up his spill and began to look around for the drink he clearly did not remember giving to Hank. Hank, having hidden it behind a stack of books to the right of his chair, waited patiently for the other man to continue.

“Yes … well … hmm. Where did I…? Huh. Well, anyway … where was I? Oh, yes—Tony. He is good at his job. Has been a real help to Albert. Piloting that big old thing across the lake in every kind of weather isn't easy.”

Hank nodded encouragingly and asked about Albert. He left out the moron part. Roy's face split into a grin, then just as quickly fell serious. “How is he, Sheriff? Is he up yet? Awake? It's very worrying. The whole thing … very worrying.”