by Claire Booth
“‘That girl’ had a name, you know.” Hank slid the fifth photo out of the envelope and across the table. It was another full-length shot, this time of her sewn back together on the steel morgue table. Her limbs were slack, and the thick black suture thread appeared to stitch her limp form together like a rag doll.
The sixth was a close-up after she had won the state championship her senior year. Long brown hair high in a ponytail. Skin sparkling with sweat and youth and potential.
“Please…” Roy was barely able to get the word out.
Hank reached in for the last one and laid it gently in front of the row of photos, closest to Roy. The edges had curled a little with age, and the color had faded slightly, as if it had once hung in a sunny place. Her hair was a lighter brown, cut in a bob with bangs. A light band of freckles crossed her nose, and the corners of her blue eyes crinkled from the width of her smile. She was missing a front tooth. Along the bottom of the picture, in neat adult script, was written:
Amanda Grace, First Grade.
Hank left Roy sitting slack in his chair, his hands in his lap, the pictures staring up at him.
CHAPTER
30
Sheila handed Hank a cup of coffee without saying a word. The three of them stood in the little room and turned away from Stanton, still visible through the two-way mirror. Hank was heading for the door when Sam cleared his throat. Then he squared his shoulders and pulled out his notebook.
“What’d you do, Sammy?” Hank said slowly.
“I interviewed Tony. At the hospital. Before they started working on his jaw. He told me everything. I wrote it up, just to be sure I understood his mumbles, and I had him sign it.” He held up his notebook. “I know you said nobody was supposed to talk to him, but I figured if I got to him before he got all doped up, that would be better.…” He trailed off and stood there, looking determined and apprehensive at the same time.
“You have a signed confession?” Hank started to smile.
“Well, hot damn,” said Sheila. “Good going, kid.”
Tony had seen Mandy’s purse partially covered by the long tablecloth in the boat’s dining room just after Hank discovered her body. He’d grabbed it while Hank’s back was turned and taken it into the kitchen, which was empty. It had obviously been rifled through before he had gotten to it. He quickly arranged everything neatly, just as he thought she would have wanted it. He noticed the wrapped gift, and a tube of new, unopened lipstick. And he noticed the gun, still zipped in the side pocket.
He took her packet of tissues, because he was crying uncontrollably at this point. He took the unopened lipstick, because he felt that she had bought it to wear for him. And he took her gun, because he would find whoever had done this to his beautiful Mandy, and he would make that person pay.
“He admitted that he was the one stalking her?” Hank asked.
“Oh, yeah. Although he doesn’t see it like that. They were in love, they were going to be together, et cetera, et cetera,” Sam said.
So Tony just sulked around, Sam continued, until Mandy’s funeral. Then Roy said something there that bugged him for a whole day until he figured it out.
“The lipstick,” Hank said.
“Yep,” Sam said. “Roy had said at the service that Mandy had been so pretty, with her dress and that red lipstick on. But she hadn’t been wearing it. It had been unopened in the bottom of her purse, and then Tony had it under his pillow at home, so how could Roy have known about it?”
“So that was when Tony, our wannabe Sherlock, went after Roy, wasn’t it?” said Sheila.
“Yep,” Sam said again.
The three of them left the room without a backward glance at Roy Stanton. Hank wanted to leave him there a while longer with only those pictures for company.
Sam went to type up his Tony notes. Sheila went to her desk to work on the job advertisement they would need to find a replacement for Duane. Hank stopped by the break room to top off his coffee—using his left arm, because his right one hurt like a sonofabitch—and took a minute to gaze out the window. It was starting to cloud over again. They’d probably have snow by morning. There’d be no boat plying the lake on its Sunday luncheon cruise, though. And there’d be no Mandy Bryson to come home for the weekend.
Hank turned away from the window and walked out of the room to see Gerald Tucker striding down the hallway. He looked as if he’d just finished his shift in the jail. He slowed when he saw Hank and started to smirk. Hank said nothing and moved to pass him.
“You’re in for it now, boy,” Tucker said as they passed. “You think you run things. But you don’t.”
Hank didn’t stop. He didn’t want to give GOB the satisfaction. As he continued on his way, he could hear Tucker’s receding footsteps, and something else. The unmistakable sound, over and over, of a metal cigarette lighter flipping open and shut, open and shut.
* * *
He needed to call the Brysons. He needed to start the paperwork. He needed to—
He pushed forward. The door to his office swung open and bumped softly into the wall. The chair behind his desk swiveled around and creaked loudly as the man sitting in it settled himself.
“Hello, Hank.” He was long and lean and wore a bolo tie.
“Hello. Can I help you with something?”
“You really should oil this chair. Once a month, and it stays smooth as silk.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. ’Course, you could have left that in your hand-off memo. If you’d cared to leave one.”
The man chuckled.
“Can I help you with something, Darrell?” Hank asked again.
“Well, son, it’s me who’s needing to be helping you. See, I realize now that I should have been offering you a … tutorial, say, before I left for the state senate. I am regretting that. But now I am here, and I think we should be having a bit of a talk. ’Bout the way things work. ’Round here.”
Hank planted his feet firmly on the thin, gray carpet and took a better grip on his coffee cup. He really would have preferred his chair, but it appeared that Darrell Gibbons had no intention of giving it up. He waited.
“I hear that you’ve been looking at my friend Edrick Fizzel’s finances. His bank account, his campaign donations, things of that sort. Now, Edrick is a good friend to this office. He’s taken care of us many a time. There’s no reason to be starting to stir things up there. Do you get what I’m saying?”
Hank hadn’t moved. And he wasn’t moved, either.
“I get what you’re saying. And I don’t agree. Fizzel has been bought and paid for by Henry Gallagher, who hired his son at way more than market rates. That’s not sticking to the spirit of campaign finance law. And he interfered with a homicide investigation on Gallagher’s orders. That’s illegal, too.”
Gibbons laughed. “Ain’t no way you can prove that. Gallagher never orders anybody to do anything. So you might as well put away your suspicions ’bout the other stuff, too. It’s only going to be causing yourself one great big headache.”
“I have no intention of stopping my investigation of Commissioner Fizzel.”
Gibbons sighed and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk.
“Son, you aren’t getting it. You got a chip in the game now. You got leverage. That’s worth a hell of a lot more than some piss-ant public corruption conviction. That ain’t going to get you anywhere. I’m not telling you to ignore this. I’m telling you to use it.”
Hank stood there, hoping his face was impassive. His mind was churning, however.
“Why do you care if I have a chip in the game?”
Gibbons leaned back in the chair again. “I have a soft spot for this office. Was sheriff here for twenty years. You wouldn’t have this new jail if it weren’t for me. I’d like to see it continuing to prosper, not getting bulldozed by people richer and smarter than you. I’d like to see you care for it properly.”
“To me, caring for it properly means upholding the law.”
&nbs
p; Gibbons rolled his eyes. “You are an uptight one, ain’t you? The law can be shades of gray. Very little is black and white down here.” He paused. “You like this job, don’t you? You’re good at it. Being in command suits you. You could be taking this department places. Make it what you think it should be. If you get elected when your appointment runs out.”
Hank decided he’d had enough of this conversation. He took a step toward his desk. Gibbons ignored him.
“My, ah, endorsement would be very valuable. Of course, I haven’t decided yet who I might be backing in the next election. Could be a tough call.”
“Could be,” said Hank, taking another step forward.
“Well, I should be getting on my way.” Gibbons stood up and carefully smoothed down his bolo tie. He extended his hand.
Great. Hank knew he had to take it. He forced himself into what he hoped was the same state of relaxed nonchalance as Gibbons and did so. His arm was killing him. Gibbons came around the desk and slapped him on the back as he headed for the door.
“Oh, and good luck, son, on that murder. Those things can be tricky. Devil’s own handiwork. They take time to solve, so don’t go getting discouraged.”
“Oh, that.” Hank’s nonchalance was flowing easily now. He put down his coffee cup. “I closed that.”
Gibbons turned around and faced Hank again. “What?”
“Yeah. Taped confession. Walked me through how he did it. The whole deal.”
Gibbons just stared at him. Hank reached around and grabbed the door, then gave the distinguished state senator a slap on the shoulder. “You take care now.”
* * *
He pulled up to the house just in time for dinner. Thank God he wouldn’t miss another one. He opened the door in from the mudroom and was met with clapping and shrieks of laughter from down toward the bedrooms. Dunc was at the stove, cutting into what appeared to be another kind of casserole.
“What’s going on?” Hank asked.
“Oh. They’re playing with—well, you’ll see.” Dunc pointed toward the living room with his spatula.
Hank grabbed a soda from the refrigerator and walked out into the living room. The TV was turned on to the local news, but he couldn’t hear it over the commotion Maribel and Benny were making. They came bounding into the room and skidded to a stop when they saw him. Benny threw himself at Hank, shouting, “Og!”
“What are you two talking about?” He bent down to pick up Benny and stopped short. Racing down the hallway toward him was a dog. A squat sausage of a thing, with a very small head, a misaligned jaw, and mismatched ears. Its tongue lolled out to the side as it stopped next to Maribel and sat down. Hank recognized it immediately.
“What the hell is that thing doing in my house?”
Maribel just started clapping and jumping up and down. Benny wrenched away and toddled over to stick his face next to its muzzle.
“No—stop. Benny, get away. It’s going to bite—” He grabbed his son and spun toward the kitchen. “Duncan!”
Dunc appeared in the doorway, still holding the spatula. He folded his arms.
“Yeah, that’s right. We got a dog from the animal shelter. This afternoon, after lunch. After you ran out on us, and Maggie stood us up altogether. I decided they deserved a little love and companionship. So there.”
Hank sputtered. He could think of nothing to say, or at least nothing that would be suitable in front of his children. “You … you had no right to do that without talking to us first. How dare…”
“I live here, too,” Dunc said, waving the spatula at him. “And I’m the one who’s around all day, so what do you care?”
Hank pointed helplessly at the thing, which had flipped over onto its back and was wiggling in delight as Maribel scratched its belly. “But that? That thing? Why on earth did you pick that one?”
“Well, now, that’s a funny story. They couldn’t decide, see. Maribel wanted one with cropped ears and Benny wanted one with floppy ears—”
Benny put his hands up to his own ears and flapped them enthusiastically. Then Maribel chimed in. “So we con-prized, Daddy.”
“You what?” Hank asked.
“They compromised,” Dunc said. “One ear’s up, one ear’s down.”
“You always say me and Benny need to con-prize,” Maribel said. “You proud of us?”
Hank looked at his kids, who now sat on either side of the devil-dog he’d returned to that fed-up owner earlier in the week. They beamed up at him. He could feel them vibrating with joy from three feet away. They looked up at him and waited. And he knew he couldn’t create another crack. Their childhood was going to be filled with enough of them as they all went along. He couldn’t add more just because they’d chosen possibly the worst pet in the history of the world. He knelt down.
“We can keep him.”
He was tackled by all three of them. His kids laughed with glee, and the dog managed to lick both Hank’s hands and his face while digging his claws into his stomach. He bit back a yell of pain as Benny sat on his bad arm. He struggled to sit up and asked, “So, what are we going to name him?”
“Oh, we know already,” Maribel said. “I said he’s pretty, but Benny said he’s a boy—”
Benny shouted, “Boy! Not girl!”
“—so we call him handsome. Guapo. That’s what Grandpop said is Spanish for handsome. Is he right, Daddy? He’s not so good on the Spanish.”
Hank laughed. That was sure true. But Dunc had gotten it right this time. He looked at the dog, who was now sitting in his lap. Everything else about the mutt was contradictory, so why not?
“Guapo it is,” he said.
He started to shove Guapo the Dog off his lap when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Edrick Fizzel pop up on the TV screen. He froze. “Quiet,” he said, in the even, low tone he seldom used that everyone in the house knew meant instant obedience. No one moved.
“… extremely pleased to announce that the county of Branson has caught Mandy Bryson’s killer. Our entire community worked tirelessly to bring this murderer to justice. The county commission wants everyone watching to know that we hold the safety of our citizens and guests as our highest priority. I, Commissioner Edrick Fizzel, will continue to make sure that this killer’s court case is handled properly. We will lock him up and throw away the key. Thank you.”
Hank stared at the screen as it went to commercial. He patted Guapo on the head. He didn’t know what else to do. Throwing a chair out the window didn’t seem wise.
“I didn’t know you’d arrested somebody.”
Maggie came into view and stared down at him. Her look changed from congratulatory to concerned as she saw his expression. “Babe…?”
“No one knew. That I’d arrested someone. No one who would leak it … except…” He patted Guapo again.
“You haven’t announced it?” she asked.
“No. I. Have. Not.” Pat.
“Who leaked it?”
“Darrell Gibbons.”
“Why would he do that?” she asked. “Oh…”
“Yeah. Gave the glory to his man Fizzel.” He looked up at his wife. “I got to admit, it was a good play. Totally one-upped me.”
“So he’s playing politics?”
“He’s trying to put me in my place. Show me that he still runs things. That I need to take his suggestions.”
Maggie cocked an eyebrow. “Well, then, he doesn’t know much about you.”
Hank gave her a weary smile. “No, he doesn’t. But I guess I don’t know much about Branson politics. I’m going to learn, though. You can bet on that.”
She reached down and ran her hand through his hair, stopping halfway.
“Wait a minute. What the hell is in your lap?”
Guapo, who had been amazingly still, looked up and saw an exciting stranger. He struggled to get his stubby legs underneath him while his tail started whirling like a boat propeller. He desperately wanted to sniff this new person. Hank started to lift him off his legs.<
br />
“Meet the newest member of the family. He might actually not be that bad.”
And then Guapo piddled in his lap.
Fantastic.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CLAIRE BOOTH is a former true-crime writer, ghostwriter, and reporter. She lives in California. The Branson Beauty is her first novel. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE BRANSON BEAUTY. Copyright © 2016 by Claire Booth. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
