Mississippi Roll

by George R. R. Martin

  “I hear you’d tried to cover for her, or vouch for her in the past.”

  “Sure, of course I did. She did love the bottomless margaritas, and maybe she wasn’t always the most reliable person … but she was my friend.”

  Wanda muttered something sympathetic and wiped her nose, and Leo thanked Kitty for her time. She took off toward the stairs and ducked inside them with a fresh tissue waving.

  Leo cringed as Wanda blew her nose like a foghorn. “What’s gotten into you?”

  “Allergies?” she guessed.

  “She’s not a real fucking kitty, honey.”

  She sighed. “I know, I know. It must be that ocelot-looking girl, or the illusionist. I think he’s her boyfriend. Something about her fur, or his tail—I don’t know. I saw them on the deck a few minutes ago; maybe they shed. I’ll take some decongestant when we get back to the room.”

  “Good idea,” he agreed. “Now let’s find Caitlyn and see what she has to say about that night in the lounge.”

  Caitlyn Beaumont could be found at the other end of the boiler deck, supervising a cleanup of the shuffleboard area. She fussed about a broad spill of shrimp cocktail from a shattered bowl and pointed a cleaning crew member with a mop toward a stray splash. “Good Lord, what a mess. There’s a little bit of glass over there, too—don’t miss it.”

  Leo launched into his charm offensive. “Miss Beaumont, I hate to interrupt, but could we just ask you a couple more follow-up questions about Misty?”

  Her professional friendliness darkened; but whatever shadow had passed across her face, she pushed it away in an instant. “I’m in the middle of something right now, Mr. Storgman, but—”

  “I promise we’ll be brief,” Wanda assured her.

  “But we have to do our jobs.” Leo whipped out his notebook and reviewed a few lines. “Now, you didn’t mention—when last we talked—that you and Misty had a loud … let’s call it a disagreement, on the night she died.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. No, I wasn’t happy with her … but I told you that. Who said we got in a fight?”

  “Not important.” He waved it away. “Is it true?”

  She hugged her ever-present clipboard. “Misty was a terrible employee, and yes, I yelled at her. I told her that if she couldn’t get her act together, she was fired. She did some yelling, too, and it might’ve looked like a fight. Benny kept getting in the way. I halfway wanted to fire him, too.”

  Wanda frowned. “But you said she was popular with the guests.”

  “Pretty girls who can sing are a dime a dozen. She wouldn’t have been that hard to replace. That night, Misty showed up late and tried to use one of Roger Ravenstone’s mini-shows out on the boiler deck as an excuse. Like she hadn’t seen the whole thing on stage, a million times already. Then her set was just plain awful, and she tried to skip out early. I gave her the ultimatum, and she left in a huff … with Benny chasing after her, a minute or two later.”

  “Where did they go?”

  “Back to the bar, I assume. Except, maybe not. That night … hm.” She nibbled her lower lip. “She said Mickey was bothering her, and that’s why she wanted to leave early: to avoid him.”

  Leo looked up from his notes-in-progress. “Mickey?”

  “Michael Payne. He’s the mud clerk, under JoHanna. Skinny white guy, about my age. Unfortunate tattoos.”

  Something about the way she said his name suggested that she didn’t think too highly of him. “Yeah? What’s he like?”

  She hesitated. “I don’t like to use the word redneck because it isn’t kind … but that’s how he strikes me. He asked Misty out awhile back, and she blew him off. From the sounds of things, he couldn’t take no for an answer. I don’t think he’d actually hurt her, or anybody else, but … I did see him in the lounge that night.”

  “When she left, did Mickey follow her, too?” he asked.

  She thought about it. “I don’t remember seeing him after she was gone, so maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t. I wouldn’t swear to it, either way.”

  “Any thoughts about where we might find Mickey now?”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t know if he’s working or not. Oh, that reminds me—did you catch up with Kitty?”

  “Yes,” he said. “We caught her earlier.”

  “Please tell me she wasn’t rude,” she begged. “She’s entitled to her hang-ups, of course—but she doesn’t usually interact with the passengers. It’s not usually a problem.”

  “Nah, she was fine. Don’t worry about it, Miss Beaumont,” he said graciously. “And thanks again for your time.”

  Leo and Wanda left her to the last runny drips and tiny shards of the shrimp cocktail explosion and walked back toward the Grand Saloon. Wanda pulled her husband in close by the arm. “This is starting to get good.”

  “No it isn’t. A girl either died by accident, or someone killed her. Neither of those things is good.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Yeah, I do.” He put an arm around her waist. “You meant it was getting interesting. I’m not sure if that’s true, either, but this is good practice for you.”

  “You think I need practice?”

  “I should’ve said … good experience for you. I told you already, you’re a natural.”

  She grinned. “That was a very good save. Ooh!” she declared, catching a glimpse of Leo’s least favorite person on board, strolling manfully around the corner. “Let’s go see what the ghost hunters are doing!”

  “Let’s not, and say we did.”

  “Don’t be a grump. They’re doing such intriguing work…”

  “No, they aren’t.” But he let himself be dragged in their wake anyway, until everyone caught up together at the prow of the boat—where the sun was setting fast. There, the Dead Report crew was all set up and ready to do whatever the hell it was they did with all that fancy equipment.

  “Wanda, really.”

  “Shhh,” she said, adding an elbow for emphasis. “They’re working.”

  Ryan Forge struck a pose at the frontmost end of the boat, like a goth bodybuilder’s version of that scene from Titanic. His cousin held a boom mike. His brother held a camera. He turned slowly, the spikes in his blue-black hair immobile even in the river breeze, and fixed that camera with a stare so hot it could pop a balloon.

  “Tonight, we continue our ‘Death on the Water’ investigation aboard the Natchez—the most haunted mobile object in the history of North America or probably anyplace.”

  Kevin whispered, “What about that train we did in season two…?”

  But Ryan shrugged it off. “Okay, that train was pretty haunted. But this is definitely the most haunted mobile object that moves on the water.”

  Leo opened his mouth. Wanda’s glare shut it again.

  “Last night, we successfully communicated with Debbie Canfield, a greeting card saleswoman from Raleigh who was found dead in her room, back in 1994. We honor her, and we thank her for taking the time to whisper her message into the audio recorder. Sympathies, that’s what she said.” He looked aside at Sean, and said in a less bombastic voice, “We’ll play the clip of that, once we get the sound file cleaned up.” Sean nodded. Ryan nodded back, and returned his manly gaze of earnest intensity to the camera. “Sympathies, and best wishes. We send sympathies and best wishes to you, too, Debbie. Rest in peace, ma’am.”

  Leo sucked in his breath.

  “Calm your tits,” Wanda commanded through her teeth.

  “They’re calm as a coma.”

  “Keep it that way.”

  Ryan stalked slowly to the right, and the camera followed him. “But tonight we’re on the lookout for a man named Harvey Schneider, who threw himself overboard from this very spot, so as to kill himself, one tragic night in 1966. His wife had left him, his boss had fired him, and his dog had died. He had nothing left to live for. So he took a bottle from the bar, finished most of it, and climbed the rail.” Here, he patted the rail for emphasis. “He closed his
eyes. He stood here, with his feet on the bars and the wind on his face…” With his back to the river, he tried to do likewise. He got as far as one foot up, and the other foot slipping around on the deck, before he changed his mind and merely struck a resigned, pensive pose with his eyes shut and his nose in the air. “And he gave up on life.” Ryan exhaled heavily and put his hands on his hips.

  “That’s a good spot for a break, isn’t it?” asked his brother, dipping the camera to the side.

  “Sure, sure. We’ll cut there and run the forty-five-second ShockSnack promo, then we’ll pick back up in his room.”

  “Which room was that?”

  Sean answered for him. “Number eighteen. We’ve got the right room this time, and the cruise director swore to God there’s nobody inside. Number thirteen was just a mix-up. Something about somebody’s shit handwriting.”

  Wanda giggled loud enough for Ryan to finally notice her. “Mrs. Storgman!”

  “Hello again, boys—and I do hope we’re not interrupting your fascinating work,” she said, laying on the bullshit a little thicker than was strictly necessary, in Leo’s opinion.

  Sean lowered the boom mike, and Kevin set down his camera.

  Ryan came over and shook his head. “Nah, we were just cutting away for a commercial break.”

  “For … ShockSnack?” Leo asked, unsure if he’d heard correctly.

  “ShockSnack! The thousand-volt energy bar!” he explained in his best advertising voice. “They’re our primary sponsor. What can we do for you?” he asked, reaching in to give Wanda’s hand its now-customary smooch of greeting.

  “I’ve been thinking…” She accepted the kiss and batted her eyelashes so hard they could put out a brush fire. “You hunt ghosts, and we are looking into a girl’s death. Do you think there’s any chance you could use your equipment to help us reach her?”

  Ryan crossed his bulky, tattooed arms and then fondled his chin with one hand. “Maybe,” he said thoughtfully. “It depends on if she stayed, or if she crossed over.”

  “Crossed over to where?” Leo asked with great pessimism.

  “To the other side,” Sean replied in a similar tone. He might’ve been a surfer king who smelled faintly of Corona Light, but the look in his eye said that never mind the razzle-dazzle—he was just along for the ride. Maybe the whole gang wasn’t as dumb as their front man made them look.

  Ryan didn’t notice. “But if she’s still here … we might be able to get her talking. What can you tell us about her?”

  Wanda reminded him of the basics and told him about how Misty had been found on the texas deck.

  “That is just fucking tragic,” Ryan declared with a sad, slow swing of his head. “Sure, I’m game. Let’s go see if we can reach her.”

  Since the texas deck was off-limits to everyone but the crew, the ghost hunters texted Caitlyn Beaumont for permission to proceed. She pinged them back immediately with a yellow thumbs-up, so they all trekked up there to stare at the patch of bare flooring. It had been scrubbed a number of times since the unfortunate death of Misty Sighs.

  “I think I can see a stain, right there,” Ryan said.

  “There’s no stain,” Leo argued. “Even if there was, you couldn’t see it. She died weeks ago.” The light was still out. The deck was heavily shadowed with what Ryan no doubt considered excellent mood lighting.

  Kevin agreed with his brother. “Naw, man. It’s right there. It’s like, in the shape of her body. There’s a darker bit over here, where her head must’ve been. Was there a lot of blood?”

  “You’re both insane.”

  But Wanda played along. “Ooh, I think you’re right. It is a little darker over here. I bet there was a lot of blood. You can’t just get that out with … with plain old bleach, or cold water.” She winked to let Leo see the little twinkle in her eye. “That poor girl. On the one hand, I hope she rests in peace. On the other … dear boys, I would deeply appreciate it if you could help.”

  “Sean, get the mike up and the mixing software loaded. Kevin, cue up the camera and give us some light.”

  Sean got down on one knee and opened up the case that held their laptop. “Are you sure about this?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. If we get anything, we’ll work it into the show.”

  “All right, Ryan. It’s your call.”

  “And I already made it,” he said firmly, like this resolved everything—including any and all gambling debts, breaches of contract, or conflicts in the Middle East.

  Ten minutes later, Leo was trying not to punch Sean Venters, who was worming a microphone line up his shirt and attaching it to his collar. “Here, man. Just like this. Sorry. Don’t mean to get personal.”

  “I don’t know why you won’t put Wanda on camera, instead of me.”

  “She refused. She said you’d do it.”

  “I bet she did.” He squirmed when Sean’s hands fiddled with the small foam nubbie at his neck.

  “Almost done. Here, it clips on like this. Don’t worry. You’re going to look awesome on camera. Your horns are totally badass.”

  “Thanks. I grew them myself.”

  Sean grinned, patted the mike, and tested it quickly. “Don’t let Ryan and Kev rattle you. They’re true believers, that’s all. And don’t forget, all our shows are backed up to the TV website. So if you’re an asshole on camera for five seconds, you’re an asshole on the internet until the end of time. Or until the grid goes down in the zombie apocalypse.”

  “Cheery outlook you’ve got there, kid.”

  “Hey, you spend enough time looking up murders and sanitariums and wars and shit, and you’ll get pretty cheery, too.”

  “I was a homicide cop.”

  Sean paused, and then bobbed his head full of sun-kissed curls. “So that’s why you’re such a cheery fucker.”

  “Damn right.”

  Ryan arrived, and Sean stepped back to retrieve the mike. He hitched it to his rig and let it ride high above the scene. Kevin took a step back, adjusted the light from the camera, and signaled that he was ready.

  “Three … two…” He bobbed his chin at Kevin to stand in for the count of “one.” “I’m standing here with investigator Leo Storgman. Mr. Storgman, what can you tell us about the Misty Sighs case?”

  Leo cleared his throat, wiped a smear of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, and squinted into the lens. “She died on the last run of the Natchez, on the deck right here.”

  “On this very spot?”

  “Almost exactly—she died at the Vicksburg stop. She was a singer, part of the entertainment crew. One night the deck was wet; somebody’d been mopping, it wasn’t the weather. She slipped in the mop water, fell and hit her head, and that was it. She was twenty-two years old, unmarried, born in Indianapolis. Left behind a pair of grieving parents and an older sister.”

  Ryan chuckled. To the camera he said, “Our friend here is a retired cop, and it shows.” Back to Leo, he asked, “Is there any question, then, that she might have been murdered, or otherwise killed?”

  “We have…” Leo looked over at his wife, who shot him the thumbs-up with both barrels. He looked at Ryan Forge, the true believer and ShockSnack spokesbro, and he sighed. “We have questions. That’s why we’re trying to reach her … her spirit … I guess.”

  “That’s why you need our help,” Ryan said with that same level of intense seriousness he used for everything from movie reviews to mass casualties.

  Leo gave up entirely. “Yeah. That’s why we need your help.”

  Ryan tossed his head at Kevin and said, “Cut—that’s a wrap for now.”

  “For now?” Wanda asked. “I thought we were going ghost hunting.”

  “Oh, we are,” Ryan promised. “This was just the pulmonary footage, to set up the investigation.”

  “Pulmonary…”

  “You know, the stuff we shoot first.”

  “Preliminary?” Leo guessed.

  Ryan was already walking away. “Business can
wait for another hour, right?”

  “I suppose…?” Wanda offered, though she sounded confused.

  “Cool, because they’re about to serve dinner in the Grand Saloon, and after that, I hear there’s a magic show. Come on, and sit with us. It’ll be a blast!” Then he declared as he wandered off, “I fucking love magic shows.”

  5.

  Things were hopping in the Bayou Lounge, and the Amazing Ravenstone and the Jokertown Boys were killing it.

  Wanda liked the talking bird, though Leo was a little suspicious of it. (As a general rule, he was suspicious of anything that could talk without moving its lips. Much less anything that could talk without any lips at all.) But Ravenstone had a set of horns, albeit smaller than his own, and Leo felt a tug of solidarity with the jokers onstage. That friendly tug was replaced with a pang of primal concern when the raven flapped over to his table, fixed him with a beady-eyed stare, and said—plain as day—“Who sees in the dark?”

  Leo gave the Ravenstone a puzzled frown, and the magician gave it back. “Lenore?” he called the bird.

  She replied, “In the dark!”

  “Lenore, my dear…” He held out his arm.

  The bird cocked its head back and forth, then hopped up and flew back to her handler’s extended wrist. People clapped a little uncertainly. The magician played it off with a flourish and returned to the setup for his next trick.

  Leo wasn’t much interested in whatever the next one might be. The old detective was distracted, and getting fussy.

  This whole ghost-hunting business was utter nonsense, and he was annoyed that Wanda had glommed on to the handsome hunters. They couldn’t possibly be any help, because there was no such thing as ghosts. There shouldn’t be any such thing as talking birds, either, and he didn’t fucking love magic shows like the bulky moron seated to his left.

  “Excuse me a minute,” he finally said. He rose to his feet and pushed his chair under the table.