Bill Hopkins - Judge Rosswell Carew 02 - River Mourn

by Bill Hopkins

  “Could be,” said Philbert.

  “No,” Theodore said. “More of a redhead.”

  Rosswell asked, “Strawberry blonde?”

  Theodore said, “Yeah, could’ve been strawberry blonde.”

  “Tall?”

  Philbert appeared to be measuring Rosswell’s height. “A little taller than you maybe. We weren’t that close.”

  Rosswell said, “Do you know exactly where this was?”

  Theodore pointed north. “There’s a big house up there. It’s on the river.”

  “Some kind of home for folks who aren’t right,” Philbert added.

  Rosswell said, “Do you know what happened to the woman?”

  Theodore spoke in a stage whisper, “We don’t know. But she does.”

  He hooked a thumb toward the house. “She’s the biggest damn gossip I’ve ever run into.”

  “Mrs. Bolzoni?”

  “Yeah,” said Philbert. “We came back about a month or so after we saw that and Mrs. Bolzoni told us the sheriff had dragged a woman out of a house and carried her off to Number Four.”

  “Judge, what’s Number Four?”

  “It’s what they called the psychiatric hospital before they changed the name.”

  Philbert said, “Why are you so interested in somebody the sheriff carted off to a loony bin?”

  Rosswell explained about Tina’s disappearance. He finished with, “Sounds like it might’ve been Tina.”

  A math problem arose. Rosswell encountered several pregnant women when he’d served as a medic in the military. Some showed early and some didn’t. Tina could’ve been anywhere from two to four or five months pregnant when she disappeared. In the Middle East, Rosswell had helped care for a woman who vowed that she was five months pregnant, yet all Rosswell noted was a thickening of her waist. The woman was well nourished, slender, muscular, and strong. Tina’s pregnancy was her first child, she worked out, and had great muscle tone. She could’ve been well along when she disappeared and perhaps hadn’t started showing. How far along was she when she told Rosswell? He didn’t know.

  Theodore said, “You think Sheriff Gustave Fribeau kidnapped your girlfriend?”

  “No way. But whoever kidnapped her could’ve reported her as being out of control or disturbing the peace or something and called Gustave.”

  “I don’t think we have sheriffs kidnapping women in Missouri,” Philbert said. “Judge, hope you find her.”

  “What’s the new name for Number Four?” Theodore asked.

  Roswell said, “State Sanitarium Number Four is now called Eastern Ozarks Mental Health Center.”

  Philbert tapped Theodore on the shoulder. “That’s the place we’re auditing.”

  Rosswell canned the tour of gift shops and instead spent the day fishing with Theodore and Philbert until it was suppertime. The three of them cleaned up and headed for the dining room.

  Mrs. Bolzoni pulled Rosswell aside. “You must reserve the supper.”

  A lapse of memory plus a good time fishing had pushed the requirement that he make reservations for the evening meal from his mind, thus threatening his presence at what he knew would be a fantastic repast. “Give me this one chance and I’ll never break the rules again.” Rosswell had fallen for that ploy a time or two. Now he hoped Mrs. Bolzoni would show him mercy. “I promise.”

  “I must make the little change,” Mrs. Bolzoni groused, then stood aside to allow Rosswell to sit with the rest of the guests.

  Caesar salad loaded down with Parmesan, cheese stuffed shells, crusty rye bread with plenty of garlic dipping oil, and, for dessert, tiramisu trifle, whipped up with strong coffee, chocolate, mascarpone cheese, sponge cake fingers, almonds, and, usually, amaretto liqueur.

  When Theodore and Philbert bit into the dessert, each gave Mrs. Bolzoni a head tilt.

  “Stop with the question you want to ask. I ran out of the amaretto,” said Mrs. Bolzoni.

  Rosswell took the hint and dug into the dessert, now assured by Mrs. Bolzoni that it didn’t contain any alcohol. After the third bite, he stopped to question himself if she had truly run out of amaretto or if someone had told her that he was an alcoholic. The fact wasn’t secret, so he wouldn’t have been surprised that she knew.

  After completing his meal, he returned to his room to enter a lengthy report of the day’s happenings into his journal. Tina’s eyes were green, the same as the cover of the journal. Besides information on her disappearance, it contained photos printed from the Internet of missing young women who resembled Tina. Rosswell was no statistician, but he’d found that a number of such women were concentrated in a radius about three hundred miles around Sainte Gen. At the minimum, that would include parts of Missouri, Illinois, Kentucky, Tennessee, and Arkansas. Such a concentration was, at best, odd. At worst, there was an effort on the part of somebody to gather the women into the area.

  Maybe the women were outliers, oddities whose presence in the number of women missing in the general population indicated mere inconsistencies and nothing else.

  Around ten o’clock, he set the writing aside, scrolled down the contacts on his cell phone, and clicked on one. After three rings, his call was answered.

  “Rosswell? Is that you?”

  “It is. Listen, tomorrow I’m scanning and emailing you my entire file on Tina. Then we need to talk.”

  Chapter 4

  Last Monday Morning

  Rosswell arose early, donned his gray suit, and drove his black truck from The Four Bee to the courthouse. The “new” courthouse on the square. Built in 1885, remodeled in 1916, and again in 1987.

  What he’d mostly thought about yesterday was, as always, Tina. Some people divide pain into different classifications. Physical pain, like a broken leg. Emotional pain, like a broken heart. Psychological pain, like a broken spirit. And on and on. Rosswell did the opposite. Pain to him was one and undivided. Pain was the monster riding his back, its sharpened claws digging into his bones, his soul, his psyche. The pain was caused by an absence, which could only be driven from him by a presence.

  Tina.

  On the short drive to the courthouse, Rosswell imagined a shot of whiskey burning his throat, easing his pain. Maybe two shots to make it an even number.

  A honking horn snapped him back to reality. He chastised himself. “Damn it, quit thinking about booze and pay attention to your driving!”

  Theodore and Philbert hadn’t convinced him to drink a beer yesterday. Today could be alcohol free, too. He couldn’t fight something he couldn’t see. He’d wage the battle with tomorrow when it got here.

  Although he’d never planted so much as a black-eyed pea, Rosswell referred to the 1994 GMC pickup with glass pack mufflers as his farm truck. A portable satellite radio powered by a skinny wire stuck in the cigarette lighter made driving the truck bearable, since he loved listening to Cousin Brucie on the oldies channel. Vicky, his beloved Monarch Orange Volkswagen convertible, had been damaged by an irate dope pusher by the name of Johnny Dan Dumey a few months ago and wouldn’t be back in service for a while.

  Rosswell had shot Dumey between the eyes. Not necessarily for riddling Rosswell’s favorite ride with bullet holes, but for killing three other people and refusing to surrender after Rosswell got the drop on him. Johnny Dan shot a volley from his AK-47, Rosswell ordered him to surrender, and then Johnny Dan shot once more. None of Johnny Dan’s bullets injured Rosswell. They’d not even come close. Rosswell, however, shot once and Johnny Dan died, never knowing that Rosswell had earned the expert qualification—rifle and pistol—in the military.

  Rosswell parked at the corner of Merchant and Fribeau in front of Mabel’s Eatery, his restaurant of choice in Ste. Genevieve. A plaque on the French Creole Colonial building indicated that the brick structure had been built in 1793 by Jacques Fribeau, no doubt a great-great-great grand-something of Gustave Fribeau.

  At the payphone where Tina had called him, Rosswell placed his palm on the handset, praying silently (in case Someone w
as listening) for her safe return. Inhaling deeply, he hoped for her sweet scent. All he smelled was a stale human odor and rancid beer. People had no respect for payphones anymore.

  Inside the restaurant, he waved to the proprietors, chubby Mabel Smothers and her father, Ollie Groton. The pair had moved from Marble Hill some time ago to take advantage of the tourist trade in Ste. Gen. That and Mabel’s desire to leave a place that had too many memories of her dead boyfriend, Johnny Dan. Rosswell made his way to a corner booth in the back of the restaurant, badly lit by buzzing fluorescent ceiling lights. Ollie, enveloped by the scent of cinnamon, joined him. Whether Ollie had bought a new after-shave lotion or had been baking pastries, Rosswell didn’t know. The hope that Ollie had whipped up a fresh batch of real cinnamon rolls grew in Rosswell’s heart. The kind of cinnamon roll built with whole-wheat flour, whole milk, real butter (not margarine), fresh yeast, extra-large farm eggs, sugar, lots of cinnamon, and a dash of real mashed potatoes to make the whole thing light and fluffy.

  “Judge, heard you were busy yesterday morning.”

  Rosswell overlooked the jab, not yet ready to discuss the body in the river. “Where’s my food?” The scent of frying bacon put him in the mood for breakfast. Although he’d wolfed down a huge amount at The Four Bee yesterday morning, Mrs. Bolzoni questioned him if he skipped her breakfasts. Occasionally, he begged off, as he’d done this morning, claiming lack of time. There was no courteous way of informing Mrs. Bolzoni about his addiction to Mabel’s chocolate gravy. “My blood sugar level is perilously low.”

  Ollie, who’d formerly served as Rosswell’s snitch in their hometown of Marble Hill, kept his entire body shaved and boasted a star-shaped purple tattoo on his bald head. That, plus his height and lack of eyebrows made Ollie exceptionally unsuitable for undercover work. When he looked at Ollie, Rosswell recalled DaVinci’s Mona Lisa, who also lacked eyebrows. The muscular Mensa member knew computers and could ferret out information on anyone or anything. The big man could also persuade a canary to sing the blues. In short, Rosswell thought Ollie was handy as a thumb on a monkey. In addition, Ollie pumped iron regularly. But no steroids. Rosswell had checked.

  “Freaking frost!” Ollie said. “Calm your buns. Mabel’s bringing your food. Don’t be so damned cranky.”

  “I get cranky when I don’t eat.”

  “When’s that? You eat all the time.”

  “I’m going to be busy today. I’m skipping supper.”

  “You need to skip more than one meal or you’ll blossom soon.”

  Rosswell changed the subject to what Ollie wanted to discuss earlier, although first, he wanted to know how much Ollie knew. “What do you mean, I’ve been busy?”

  Ollie squeaked a high-pitched sound a mouse might make after the bar of a trap slammed across its spine. “Sheriff Fribeau was in here drinking coffee Sunday morning after he came from The Four Bee. He didn’t realize that I could hear every word he and one of his deputies were saying.”

  “And he said I’d filed an unfounded report about someone tossing a woman off the ferry.”

  Ollie nodded. “Something along those lines. I doubt if the sheriff will put much effort or info into his report.”

  “The woman looked like Tina.”

  “Did you tell Gustave that?”

  Rosswell stared at the table. “No.”

  Ollie said nothing, perhaps worried that Rosswell would drive himself into the depths of depression if he convinced himself that he’d watched his dead sweetie being tossed into the Mississippi River. If that’s what Ollie thought, Rosswell shared his concern. He teetered at the edge of the chasm of depression, trying not to stumble on the loose rocks. Some days, the rocks were looser than other days. If he let himself fall, any possibility of rescuing Tina would fade into a cold breeze while he tumbled to the bottom.

  Rosswell phrased it carefully, hoping to allay what fears for his sanity that Ollie might have. “Sunday morning, I saw three vehicles on that boat. The guy with the body got into a white van on the passenger side. I’ll assume someone else was driving. That’s two people. Then, two other vehicles. A white pickup and a white SUV. That means there was a minimum of four people on the boat. How could anyone throw a body overboard with three other people around?”

  “You forgot to count the guy running the boat. Five people total.”

  “Okay, Ollie. Then how could anyone throw a body overboard with four other people around? Someone surely saw something.”

  “Maybe they did see something. Maybe all of them were in it together.”

  Mabel appeared with Rosswell’s regular breakfast: four eggs fried hard, six pieces of crispy bacon, and two whole-wheat biscuits, all covered with thick dark gravy. The chocolate concoction helped the crunchy stuff go down easier. And Rosswell always ordered the largest and strongest cup of coffee available anywhere in the county.

  Mabel clenched her jaw. “Morning, Judge.”

  Rosswell had difficulty making out her words. “Morning, Mabel.”

  She poured coffee for both men, and then left in a hurry.

  “Damn.” Rosswell grabbed a knife and fork, then bulldozed into his food. “She hates me, doesn’t she?” He stabbed at the meal. “Is this stuff poisoned?”

  “She’s pregnant.”

  The knife and fork clattered to the floor. “Oh, dear God.” He breathed deeply, trying to keep from breaking down. He swallowed. If the father was who he thought it was, then Mabel might be near term, the same as Tina. A chubby woman like Mabel often didn’t show a pregnancy the same as a woman built like Tina. “Johnny Dan’s?”

  The noise of the falling silverware had attracted attention. “Hey, I’m Karyn.” Rosswell jerked around to stare at the waitress, a brunette garbed in a crinkly blue dress, something that could’ve been worn by the counter girls at a Woolworth’s in the 1950s. “Need more coffee?” Her smile and granny glasses—the round kind worn by John Lennon and Elton John—set off her face, making Rosswell ache to trust anything she said. He always trusted a beautiful young woman with a serene face. Especially if she was bearing coffee.

  Rosswell shook his head. “No, but I need fresh hardware.” Despite what he’d said, Karyn topped off his coffee, handed him tableware wrapped in a napkin, and then threaded her way back to the waitress station. He enjoyed the view.

  “Pay attention.” Ollie hunched over the table to speak in a low tone. “You know damn good and well it’s Johnny Dan’s. Mabel never cheated on him.” He moved back and straightened in his seat. “Not all that much.”

  Mabel couldn’t attract a whole lot of men, what with her bad skin and stringy hair. As far as looks went, the only redeeming feature about Mabel was that she didn’t look like Ollie. She had the same body build as her mother, Benita Smothers, a nurse who looked like a Sumo wrestler and never missed a meal. Yes, she could cook, but maybe Mabel had something that didn’t show. Pondering what that mysterious attraction might be, Rosswell also wondered when Mabel would start showing. She was presumably as far along as Tina. But with that body build, maybe Mabel would never show.

  Rosswell unwrapped his tableware. “She won’t ever like the man who killed her boyfriend.”

  “Unadulterated bullshit.” Ollie stood, obviously intent on walking away. “Eat your food. If it’s poisoned, it’s the fast-acting kind. Mabel has compassion.”

  “Sit back down.”

  “I’m busy.”

  Rosswell saw only one other customer in the place. “No, you’re not.”

  “How do you know I’m not busy? This is the height of the tourist season. This town is packed with folks from all over the country every single day. And they’re all hungry. A couple of busloads are due any second.”

  “Hey, I’m Jill.” At the sound of another voice, Rosswell gawked at the redheaded waitress. “Need more coffee?” Same kind of blue dress that Karyn wore. Where do they buy those ugly things? Rosswell gulped from his coffee cup while he tried to determine if she was wearing contacts. Her pert nose
and sparse eyebrows gave her a look that approached stunning.

  “Yes. Please.” When she’d disappeared, Rosswell resumed his defense. “You think I wanted to kill Johnny Dan? I gave him every chance in the world to surrender. He was shooting at me. I had no other choice. He made the choice for me.”

  “You didn’t answer my question. What makes you think I’m not busy?”

  “For one thing, I’ve had three waitresses over here, two of them fawning all over me. There’s only one other customer in here besides me.” Rosswell lowered his voice. “One time you took the job as my snitch.”

  “I don’t like that term.” Ollie sat. “I’m not a snitch. That sounds like you forced me into something after you threw me in jail. Research assistant. That’s what I am.”

  “I’ve got an assignment. Research this.”

  “Research what?”

  “Your daughter hates me because I killed the father of her child. Help me prove that Johnny Dan was involved with whoever kidnapped Tina.”

  Karyn sashayed over. “Need some water?” Her voice reminded Rosswell of a soft rain falling with a steady rhythm on a tin roof during a hot afternoon. She’d unbuttoned the top button of her dress since she’d last visited the table. Rosswell wondered if that had been for his benefit.

  Jill scampered up to stand next to Karyn. “This is my station. Vamoose.” Jill fluffed her hair and, although Rosswell could be wrong, he was sure he saw her wink at him. A silver heart on a chain graced her neck. Had she only now put that on? And, through all the other odors in the restaurant, Rosswell noted a peculiar scent. When Jill stepped closer, he knew that she’d dabbed on a perfume smelling of ginger. Odd, but not unpleasant.

  “Each of you bring me a water. Please.” Both women raced for the water station.

  Ollie whispered, “Whoever kidnapped Tina? You don’t know who kidnapped her. Besides, how the hell would me rubbing salve on Mabel’s wound help you find Tina?” He closed his eyes, bowed his head, and folded his hands.

  Rosswell wondered what Ollie was doing. After waiting a few seconds, his impatience overwhelmed him. “Are you praying that I’ll go away?”