by Claire Booth
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.”
No kidding. But before he started talking about Albert’s current condition, Hank needed a lot more background. The guy had no family, lived alone, and apparently had only one extracurricu
lar activity, which was coaching the girls’ track team. A check had turned up no arrest record, one overdue parking ticket out of Kansas City, military service during the Vietnam War, a Republican voter registration, a thirty-year-old divorce, and ownership of a little two-bedroom place on two acres out on Highway 248.
And the house was just as uninformative. The Pup had searched it yesterday with a warrant and found a treadmill, lots of health food, no alcohol, a desk with only routine bills and paperwork but no computer, two very hungry cats, and several half-finished landscape paintings. Sam had pronounced the cats “pretty mean” and the paintings “pretty good.” None of them helped further the investigation.
But then “Captain” Stanton got himself a fresh bourbon and started talking. And he made no attempt to distance himself from the man who’d basically sunk everyone’s livelihoods. “Al Eberhardt is one of the best men I’ve ever served with. And that’s the God’s honest truth. Crazy Otis hired us both right about the same time … within six months of each other. That was back in ’95. I called us ‘the Two Captains.’” His arm swept dramatically upward again, but this time he managed to hold on to his liquor. “Al didn’t, though. He’s what you would call understated. No dramatic flair. Can’t act worth a can of beans.”
Albert kept mostly to himself. He enjoyed his job—the peace of the lake, the moderate challenge of navigating the well-worn paddle-wheel route. He especially liked being able to disappear into the pilothouse without having to interact with the tourists. Roy shook his head sadly—it was obvious that, even after twenty years, he could not relate to such reticence. But that didn’t mean, he added quickly, that Albert didn’t get along with people. People he knew, well, he got on with them just fine. It just took him a while to warm up, that was all.
Roy wasn’t sure his friend had always been that way. He had a feeling that Albert had withdrawn after coming back from Vietnam. His marriage had ended, and he’d bounced around, working in factories mostly, until he came to Branson, where Otis had taken him on. And taken him in. That was how Otis worked. All manner of lost souls. Folks who needed a chance, or just a little bit of help. Otis would reach out a hand. He wouldn’t give out handouts, no. He’d give you a job, a way to support yourself.
“And that was how it was with Al. I don’t think he ever really shook Vietnam. I don’t know for sure what happened to him there, but…” He trailed off. “That was how we became friends, you know. I was in ’Nam, too. We were the only two ’Nam vets on the boat. We’d talk about it every once in a while. He didn’t like to, actually. Something about what he did over there. Went on a lot of bombing raids. I think he did napalm drops, but the couple times I brought it up, he got up and left the room. But he knew the military, and we’d joke about it sometimes. It’s nice to know that someone else gets it, you know?”
None of Albert’s habits or routines had changed recently, as far as Roy knew. Work had been normal—excepting Sunday’s mishap, of course—and Albert wasn’t having any financial problems. The guy never spent money on anything except painting supplies and running shoes. Hank leaned in. About the running …
“Oh, goodness. He runs every day. Has ever since I’ve known him. Absolutely crazy. About ten years ago, he was on a run and met Gene, the high school track coach. Gene talked him into helping out. He didn’t want to at first—you know, the whole shy thing. But I told him the opportunity wouldn’t have fallen in his lap if he wasn’t meant to do it. Plus, it’s hard for the school to find folks willing to coach things.” He smiled sadly. “Except drama, apparently. They’ve never needed my help. I offer every year, but they always already have someone.” He stared pensively at his stack of plays for a moment before a sip of his drink got him back on track.
So Al had started coaching. Originally, Roy said, he’d helped with both the boys’ and girls’ teams. But after a few years, he’d realized that the girls were much more open to his suggestions and techniques than the boys, so he began working only with them. And it was no coincidence, Roy said with pride, that now the girls’ team was one of the best in the state, and the boys’ was not.
“Did he ever talk specifically about Mandy Bryson?” Hank asked.
Roy thought. “I don’t know, honestly. He talked about all of them. What their times were, how they’d done at the last track meet. I don’t remember him talking specifically about anybody. Oh, except Tony Sampson’s sister. Told me he liked her a whole lot better than he did her brother. Said that Tony did his job well, learned the ropes pretty quickly, but Albert just couldn’t figure the kid out. Always looking over his shoulder. I teased him, told him it was because Tony wanted his job.”
Hank wondered how much pressure Albert’s job did put on him. Enough to send him over the edge? That sounded possible. But what was that edge? Running the boat aground? Murdering his track star? Or both? What had happened that day?
Roy hadn’t seen Albert before the boat launched that morning, which wasn’t unusual. In fact, he hadn’t seen him at all. He’d pondered going up to the pilothouse after the boat ran into the rocks, but thought better of it. In what Hank considered an atypical burst of self-awareness, Roy said he figured Albert didn’t need any more drama right then.
The crash had sent everyone, staff and guests, rushing into the hallway to get a better look out the big windows. Roy didn’t think Mandy had come out, but he was sure everyone else in the kitchen had. They all milled around in the hallway for maybe ten minutes. Roy supposed someone in the crowd could have ducked into the kitchen during that time, but—being focused on the unbelievable sight of the Beauty’s wheel wedged between the rocks—he had not paid any attention to the kitchen door, so he didn’t know for sure. He did know that he hadn’t seen anyone new on the deck. The only passengers there were the rude ones from the private dining room. And the only other staff member to show up was Tony Sampson, who appeared a few minutes after the crash. Roy wasn’t sure whether he had come from the main deck below or the pilothouse above.
Tony and Tim eventually got all the passengers down the hallway into the lounge and things quieted down. And after Tim cleaned up the lunch dishes, no one had used the door between the dining room and the kitchen. He had no idea if it had been locked at some point or not. Hank did not tell him it had been.
Tim had served the coffee, which ran out way too soon. He had told Mrs. Pugo to water it down, but did she listen? No. Irritating woman.
“So I—not unlike the poor Beauty—was stuck between a rock and a hard place. I could go into the lounge with those ungracious people, or I could stay in the kitchen with silly Mrs. Pugo and a weepy teenager.” Roy sighed. “I chose to stay. At least Mrs. Pugo had not insulted my professional capabilities. We played cards for some time, and then Mandy wanted to get some air.”
He had also stepped out, to use the facilities, and last saw Mandy walking past the dining room and toward the stairs to the pilothouse.
“I’ll be honest,” Roy said, leaning forward and grasping his drink with both hands. “I didn’t think about her again. Now I look back and know I should have wondered where she’d gone off to, but there was so much going on once you and the Coast Guard came aboard. I didn’t hear anything in the dining room. I wish I had. That poor thing.”
Now Hank leaned forward.
“Do you think Al did it?”
“He loved those track girls of his,” Roy said. “Why would he kill one of them?”
“That’s what I’m asking you,” Hank said. “Would he have killed her?”
Roy thought for a long moment. “I don’t think so.… He has some demons, though … so I don’t know.”
“What about you,” Hank asked. “Did you kill her?”
The “captain” stared at Hank for a long moment. He’d expected the question about Albert. He wasn’t expecting one about himself. Hank watched him very carefully.
“No, I did not,” Roy said slowly. “I’d never met her before. I watched her walk off, and that was the last I saw of h
er.” He raised the glass to his lips with a steady hand. Innocence or good acting? Hank wished he knew.
CHAPTER
18
“Yeah,” Hank said. “The whole thing stinks.”
His wife took a step back. “No. Not the case. You. You stink. Dear God, where have you been? You smell like an ashtray that caught on fire and was put out by a bottle of whiskey.”
Hank glared at her. “You can’t put a fire out with alcohol.” He started to shrug out of his coat, which seemed to have absorbed most of the fuel and smoke smell from the boat explosion site.
“Wait a minute,” Maggie said. “Go take everything off out in the garage. You do that in here and you’ll stink up the whole house.”
Hank had no intention of stripping in the freezing garage. And Maggie apparently had no intention of letting him traipse through the house radiating toxic fumes. They stood there in the kitchen staring at each other until Duncan came shuffling in from the living room. “I’m off to bed—oh, you’re home. Finally.” He put his empty cocoa mug in the sink. “Your wife only beat you by half an hour. Make sure both of you busy people go in and kiss your children. It was the last thing they asked for before they went to sleep.”
The sound of his slippers scuffing on the carpet faded away as Duncan walked down the hallway. Maggie gave Hank a once-over that ended in a resigned glare. “At least go down to the basement and take them off by the washer. I’ll go check on the kids.”
