The Branson Beauty

by Claire Booth

  Hank kept his face impassive. “He didn’t before that incident?”

  “No,” she said with a bit of an edge to her voice. “He followed Mandy around. Sure, she’s in college and everything, but I can run faster than she can…” She trailed off and blushed slightly.

  “It wasn’t very smart,” said the short one whose name Hank still didn’t know, “because she made Ryan so mad that he started dating someone else.”

  Hank was unaware that was common knowledge. “Really?” he said casually.

  Shorty nodded. “Yep. We saw him in January up in St. Louis. Jenny and me went up with our moms to use our Christmas gift cards—St. Louis is a lot more fun than Springfield—and we saw him at the Galleria. He had some hot blonde that he was hanging all over. Making out with her in the food court. We told Alyssa as soon as we got back.”

  All three of them grimaced in disapproval. They clearly expected better from someone now in college.

  “Did you say anything to him?”

  Shorty shook her head. “He didn’t even see us. We had to go, and besides…”

  There was an exasperated huff from the doorway. The Battle-Ax had returned. “We do not gossip about other people, Melissa Garvey. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Good Christians never—”

  Hank cut her off, although he was tempted to let her have at them. “Ma’am, they are answering my questions. And I’m pretty sure the Lord approves of people who help—with all seriousness—the police and their investigations. Don’t you agree, ladies?”

  All three nodded quickly. His other questions produced nothing important, so he nodded to the Battle-Ax and the three rose to leave. “Oh, Alyssa,” he said. “You said Sampson, right? Are you related to the Tony Sampson who works on the Beauty?”

  “Yeah, he’s my older brother,” she said.

  “Has he talked to you about all this?” Hank asked.

  She shrugged. “Nah. Not really.”

  “How long has he worked out at the Beauty?”

  She thought for a moment. “About two years, I guess. He started after he graduated. Now he thinks he could be the captain.” She rolled her eyes.

  Hank smiled. “Older brothers, huh?”

  She grinned. “Yeah. Exactly.”

  The Battle-Ax marched them from the room. Hank followed a moment later and found no one in the office. He felt odd standing on that side of the counter, so he walked around it to the front. The Battle-Ax came in from the hallway.

  “I do hope that helped, Sheriff.”

  More than you know, ma’am. More than you know. He stuck out his hand. “I hadn’t expected that, but it was very valuable, ma’am, and I thank you.”

  She smiled, which softened her face considerably, turning her into more of a Battle-Spade. She pressed his hand with both of hers. “And please, tell Mr. McCleary for all of us that we pray for him every day. And we miss Marian so much…” Her eyes filled. “She was such a good principal. Such a good person. To go like that. At sixty-four, from a heart attack! That shouldn’t happen. God forgive me, but it shouldn’t. She should have had many more years left in her.”

  Hank felt his eyes prick. “Yes, ma’am. She should have.” He retrieved his hand and moved for the door before his eyes could do more than that. Going the other direction now in the hallway, he noticed the trophy case against the opposite wall. In the middle place of honor was the track team trophy from last season, and next to it, a photo of the long-distance runners. He moved closer. It was a different picture from the one used in the yearbook. Seventeen girls in track uniforms and two men, one of whom had mussed ’70s hair and aviator sunglasses. Albert Eberhardt. Coach E. Standing right next to Mandy Bryson.

  CHAPTER

  16

  Hank burst back into the school office and yanked all four girls out of class again. None of them remembered Coach E. being overly affectionate with Mandy, but they said he did pay a lot of attention to her at practices. They all figured it was because she was so good and had the best shot of placing in the state competition. He was apparently a cool, laid-back dude who knew lots about running techniques and training. He had been the assistant coach for five years and had missed the yearbook team photo shoot last year because it was scheduled at the same time as one of the Beauty’s luncheon cruises.

  Hank wanted to shake the comatose nutjob awake and demand some answers. Albert the Moron was now doubly important, and instead of cooperating with the investigation—or sitting in a cell in the county lockup—he was peacefully snoring away up on the third floor of Branson Valley General. His doctor there—who, Maggie assured Hank, was perfectly competent—said he would need to remain heavily sedated for some time. So no interview, no information, no nothing. But at least he knew where Albert was. He couldn’t be sure of that when it came to Chad Sorenson. He hoped Mr. All That was at home in his parents’ palatial retreat overlooking Lake Taneycomo.

  He was not.

  “There was a phone call yesterday, ma’am, from my deputy—asking that Chad remain in town until we spoke with him about his voyage on the Beauty.” All That’s mother looked at him serenely from her seat on a very expensive couch and shrugged delicately.

  “I never received any such phone call, Sheriff. And my son is a grown man. He is not obligated to stay here and wait for you.” She tucked a bit of her perfectly done blond hair behind her ear, making sure Hank saw the several diamond rings on her hand as she did so. She had not offered him a seat, so he stood in the middle of the large living room, literally with his hat in his hands. He wished he’d left it in the car.

  “Actually, ma’am, he is. He is a material witness to a murder investigation. Where is he now?”

  Another shrug. “As I said, if he was not told to stay in town, how could he follow your orders?” Her last word was weighted with sarcasm. Hank fought the urge to return it.

  “Really?” he said. “According to the nice lady who let me in, ‘Mister Chad’ took a call from the sheriff’s department yesterday morning.”

  Mrs. Sorenson frowned. Hank hoped he hadn’t gotten the woman in trouble. “I will see,” she said slowly, “if I can locate him.” She stood, effectively dismissing Hank. He didn’t think so.

  “Good.” He smiled. “While I wait, I’ll just have a chat with your help.” She froze. “Oh, don’t worry,” he continued, “I’ll make sure I don’t keep her long.”

  Hank found the woman in the kitchen, prepping that night’s dinner. Her name was Lupe Gonzales, and she was both the cook and the maid. She had been with the Sorensons for five years and had moved to Branson with them a year ago. They were very good employers, she said with a scared look. Hank had to reassure her that all he cared about was finding Chad. And also a party he threw on New Year’s Eve. Señora Gonzales rolled her eyes.

  “I was here for that, yes. He made me cook up all kinds of food, without any warning. That morning, he says, ‘Lupe, I’m going to throw a big party. Cook this, make that.’ Later I find out that he gave the invitations very much before. He could have told me in advance, too. In that way, he is not like his mother.”

  Mrs. Sorenson, while very demanding (Hank’s word, not Señora Gonzales’s), had realistic expectations and always gave her plenty of notice before throwing a party or traveling. Actually, Señora Gonzales said, both Mrs. Sorenson and her husband had been out of town over New Year’s. Chad had been the only one in the house. She doubted his parents knew he was going to have a party. They did not approve of strangers in their house, especially rowdy teenagers. Chad had told her to be quiet about it, she said, jabbing a finger in the air. And she had, but only because Mr. and Mrs. Sorenson were gone a lot and she was stuck with “Mister Chad.” He could make her life very miserable, and she knew it.

  “You will not tell them that I say these things?” she asked, her eyes darkening with worry as she realized how much she had told Hank. He shook his head and smiled at her. There was no need to upset her—he had a feeling having a source inside this house coul
d come in very handy. He wasn’t quite sure where the Sorensons got their money or why they’d moved to Branson, of all places. But those questions were merely academic at this point. Right now, he needed to know everything he could about Mister Chad, and la señora was his best option.

  Chad was twenty, quite sociable, had lots of friends, and was kind of a flake (again, Hank’s word, not Señora Gonzales’s). He had flunked out of a fancy little college in upstate New York just before the Sorensons moved to Branson. Señora Gonzales came with them because it was the only way to keep her job. Finding a new one would be next to impossible with the way things were now. She had to leave her nieces and nephews, who were her only family since her husband had died years ago of the heart disease. And she did not like it here. She was not comfortable. There was no Latino community. Well, she admitted, there might be, but it was small. Nothing like what she was used to in New York. Everyone here seemed to be white. They were not used to seeing people like her. She got stared at in the grocery store. Thank God the Catholic church down by the lake had a Spanish Mass on Saturday nights. That was the only time she felt at home. She wanted the Sorensons to move back to New York, she said. Their older son worked for some big company on Wall Street. She had hoped that would be a strong enough pull, but so far, they had shown no desire to leave this place.

  Chad had adjusted well. He had met several local young people—she didn’t know how—and started socializing with them. During the summer, he would go out. He would tell her he was going to the water park or the go-karts, but whether that was true … She shrugged. He had been happy then, but over the past several months had become mopey and bored. She thought it was because several of his better friends had gone away to college. Most especially some boy named Ryan and a pretty girl named Mandy, whom he talked about all the time. They had both come to the New Year’s Eve party. But Señora Gonzales had not stayed, preferring to set out the food and then retreat to her room to watch Univision’s coverage of the Times Square ball drop by herself.

  If all the good señora watched was Spanish-language TV, she probably had not seen coverage of the boat crash, or Mandy’s death. Hank really wished he could stop breaking news of a murder to people.

  “Dios mio! That sweet niña? That is why you want to talk with Mister Chad? Did he do it?”

  Hank assured her that all he wanted to do was talk to Chad, since he had been on the boat at the time. He needed to do that with everybody.

  “He could not have done it. He liked her, very much. You know, like a schoolboy. Enamorado.”

  And that was what Hank was afraid of.

  * * *

  Chad Sorenson was not in Branson. And Hank doubted Mr. All That was hiding in the surrounding county—he didn’t seem the type to have made friends with the more … authentic … residents of the Ozark area he now called home. He had not left through the small airport south of town, so Hank called an old work buddy in Kansas City and had him start the process of watching the major airlines there and in St. Louis. He took some ribbing when the guy found out Hank did not have the personnel to handle it on his end.

  He hung up the phone and scowled at the whiteboard in his office. It was decorated with crossed-out names, arrows, and a few question marks. It looked more like a football playbook than the work schedule for an entire county department. He didn’t know who was on overtime, who was still within the number of hours for normal pay, and who needed mandatory rest time by the end of the day.

  He did know that he only had one deputy out on routine patrol at the moment. He also knew he should be praying that nothing else happened anywhere in the county, at least until Sheila got back and could fix this mess.

  He was so intent on his scowling stint, he did not hear the visitor until …

  “Hello? Anybody here? Helloooooo…?”

  Hank lurched to his feet and quickly took the three strides necessary to go the length of the short hallway and into the waiting room. Standing there was a man of ordinary height and build, with short salt-and-pepper hair sticking out from his head at several random and unflattering angles. His nose was small and a nice shade of Rudolph red. So were his ears.

  “Can I help you?” Hank growled. The man’s eyes narrowed, and his ears turned a concerning shade of maroon. Hank stared at him impatiently and was about to repeat the question when he realized he was looking at a Branson County Commissioner. One of the ones who had backed him for sheriff six months ago. The guy did not look like he would make the same decision today. Hank braced himself.

  “Sir,” he said. “My apologies. Please have a seat. Can I—”

  “Sheriff,” the commissioner cut him off as he pressed a tissue to his nose, “I am not here for small talk. I am here to talk about the awful events that have occurred in our fair county in the last several days. Have you caught the killer yet?”

  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.”