by Bill Hopkins
Chapter 8
Last Monday Afternoon, continued
Turk Malone inhabited a log house at the end of Red Duck Cutoff, a twisting road that switched back and forth up the side of a steep hill.
Lawnmowers, Rosswell noted, must be scarce in the area, not to mention weed trimmers. The inside of every window was covered with aluminum foil. And not the plain kind. Instead, it was the fancy quilted kind. The afternoon sun transformed the panes to gold. An American flag hung on a pole wired to a broken gate. An old Harley-Davidson, a rusty Ford pickup, a brand-new Mustang, a questionable Plymouth Fury, and a dented Malibu decorated the yard. The pickup truck was covered with bumper stickers: What Would Nixon Do? I brake for horny toads. Don't Like My Smoking? Don't Breathe! Jesus is Coming Soon-Stash Your Porn.
There was also a new white GMC pickup. Ollie nodded when Rosswell called attention to it. "If that's not the one on the ferry, then it's a twin." He checked his watch and then rapped on the front door. "Four o'clock. Write that in your notebook."
"My report isn't chronological. It's by subject matter. It's more of a conceptual rather than a linear report."
"Listen-" Before Rosswell could finish the argument, someone eased open the door a crack.
"Yeah?" Female voice. The marijuana smoke drifted out, tickling Rosswell's supersensitive nose. The pot smelled like a skunk burning in an alfalfa hay bale. According to a street legend Rosswell had heard, the odor meant that it was strong crap. Rosswell smacked his lips a few times to dilute the taste in his mouth. Then another smell. Ammonia. Either the cat box needed emptying a month ago or someone was cooking meth. Smelled like the back wing of Satan.
Rosswell said, "Is Turk in?"
"He's asleep."
Rosswell thought it was more like passed out.
"This won't take long."
From the back of the house, Rosswell heard a male voice. "Is it the Schwan's man?"
Before the female voice could reply, Ollie yelled into the house, "I've got a special on brownies this week."
Presently, a semi-bearded man, skinny, not as tall as Ollie, jerked the door wide open. "Y'all ain't the Schwan's man." Turk's low-slung jeans threatened to slide down his legs, saved only by his lanky hips. No shirt and no shoes. He scratched the thick hair on his chest, which was healthier than his scraggly beard. A toothbrush and Turk's green teeth were strangers. The female companion must've hidden behind the door because Rosswell couldn't see her. She had sounded naked.
Rosswell said, "Turk, could we talk to you a minute?"
"No." The door slammed shut. The woman inside laughed.
Rosswell knocked again. And again it opened a crack and the woman said, "He's sleeping."
Rosswell waved a twenty-dollar bill in front of the door. "See if this will wake him up."
Turk opened the door fully and grabbed the money. "What do you want?" He hopped outside and slammed the door.
Ollie patted Rosswell's shoulder. "My friend here is looking for Ribs Freshwater."
Turk said, "Who?"
Rosswell fell into Ollie's interrogation rhythm quickly. They'd played this game before. "Ribs was on the ferry with you on Sunday. He's Cherokee."
"Didn't see no foreigners."
Rosswell and Ollie exchanged glances. Rosswell gave a slight shake of his head, hoping Ollie wouldn't pounce on the dense Turk. Instead of remarking on Turk's stupidity, Ollie scribbled a few lines in his notebook.
"Turk," Rosswell said, "did anything odd or unusual happen on the ferry?"
Turk folded the twenty and stuffed it into a back pocket. "Nope." He scratched his beard. "Wait a minute." Turk's face morphed into a mask of pain, as if thinking hurt his brain. "Yeah, something happened. A noise."
"What?" Ollie said.
After Turk hadn't spoken for a few moments, Rosswell prompted, "Do you remember? About the noise?"
"Oh. Yeah. There was a big noise."
Rosswell said, "Tell us about the noise."
Ollie said, "The big noise."
"Sounded like the boat run over something. The deck hand-what's her name-said the transmission had been acting up."
Rosswell tried again. "Was a Native American on the ferry?"
"Indian? Might've been. I mean, I seen him driving a white van, but he never come over to see what the noise was. Didn't get to inspect him up close."
Ollie said, "Tell us more about the noise. How did that happen?"
"Me and this guy was standing by the side of the boat and he said, 'What the hell was that big noise?' I looked around but didn't see nothing."
Rosswell continued the questioning. "Was the guy you were talking to named Charlie Heckle? Guy with a big scar on his face?"
"Don't know. I never seen the guy before. Didn't see no scar."
"What were you talking about?"
"Let's see." Turk scratched his chest. "Fishing. Yeah, fishing. Lots of catfish in the river. Big sons of bitches."
"Frankie Joe Acorn. You know him?"
"Kinda. We ride the ferry ever little bit. I do some work in Illinois ever once in a while. So does Frankie Joe."
"What kind of work do you do in Illinois?"
"Stuff. Some stuff. Different stuff."
"What kind of work does Frankie Joe do in Illinois?"
"Same as me."
Ollie broke into the interrogation. "Are you sure you don't know Ribs Freshwater?"
Turk slid his hand in the back pocket of his jeans where he'd earlier stuck the money. After a couple of seconds, he said, "Don't guess I know him neither. Don't know no Charlie Heckle and don't know no Indian and don't know no Ribs Freshwater and don't know no guy with a big scar and don't know no foreigners from Cherokee. Am I supposed to?"
Rosswell said, "No."
Turk said, "Who are you guys?"
"I'm Rosswell Carew and this is Ollie Groton."
"You must be cops."
Ollie said, "No, we're not cops. We're not private eyes. We're a couple of friends looking for Ribs."
"Am I in trouble?"
Rosswell shook his head. "Not for anything that I know about."
Ollie said, "Have you lived around here very long?"
"All my life. Why?"
"Curious. That's all."
"Thanks." Rosswell offered his hand to Turk. "We appreciate your help." Turk's handshake was limp. Like his brain.
Ollie shook with Turk. "Yes, we appreciate your help."
Turk nodded, then slipped through the door and shut it. His female companion said, "Did they ask about the white man?"
"No."
"Let me see that money."
Driving back to town in Rosswell's truck, Ollie broke the silence. "That guy looked awful. Like Charles Manson on a good day."
"A mullet would improve his appearance."
"He lied. About everything."
"Not everything. We aren't the Schwan's guys."
"But why? I mean his lying."
Rosswell pulled into a gas station. "I can think of a couple of reasons. The best one is that he's stupid from all the dope he's smoked. Or snorted. Or shot up."
"Another easy answer is that he usually lies to anyone he talks to, especially anyone who might be in authority."
"We told him we weren't cops or detectives."
"And he didn't believe us."
"Ollie, think of another reason."
"He's in on the murder."
"What about all those vehicles parked in front of Turk's house?"
Ollie leafed through the notebook. "What about them?"
"Maybe there were a lot more people in that house than Turk and his woman."
"Could be. Or maybe Turk and his girlfriend own them all." Ollie scribbled in his notebook. "I'll let you know when I check those tags." He nodded at the gas pump. "Fill it up and take me back to the restaurant. It's supper time."
Rosswell picked up a takeout fried chicken meal from Mabel since he'd told Mrs. Bolzoni to skip his supper.
I'm missing the beef braciole. The braciole w
as Mrs. Bolzoni's specialty. Neapolitan rolls of beef stuffed with raisins, pine nuts, garlic, parsley, and cheese. Yummy. Rosswell's mouth watered at the thought of the dish cooked in tomato sauce, which was then used to season pasta. In Naples, it was a Sunday dish. In Ste. Genevieve, it was a Monday dish. None of the guests at The Four Bee who followed the rules ever went hungry. Rosswell had managed to circumvent the "no reservation, no meal" rule once. Twice, no way.
A block from The Four Bee, Rosswell detected a white van parked on the street in front of the bed and breakfast. Mrs. Bolzoni stood talking at the driver's door. The driver's features weren't visible. Keeping the scene in view, Rosswell drove to a side street and parked. Although he didn't have his binoculars, he was able to read the tag on the van. Rosswell vowed to keep his field glasses in his car from then on. He wrote the license plate number on a slip of paper, stuck it in his pocket, and tried to appear inconspicuous. In a tourist town residents pay little attention to strangers.
After a few minutes of conversation, Mrs. Bolzoni waved good-bye to the driver, who eased down the street, ostensibly in no hurry. Remembering what Ollie had told him about the number of white vans in the area, Rosswell realized that the vehicle could be irrelevant to his hunt. But maybe it was the same van that he'd seen on the ferry.
When the vehicle drove past the intersection, Rosswell's stomach clamped when he spotted orange hair.
Nathaniel Dahlbert.
Rosswell, his heart performing its thumping routine again, followed at what he hoped was a safe distance. Nathaniel wouldn't recognize him in an old black truck. If Rosswell were in his beloved Vicky, Nathaniel would spot the bright orange VW convertible in half a heartbeat.
This is the guy with rusty hair.
What had Nathaniel and Mrs. Bolzoni been chatting about? The conversation had appeared neutral if not downright neighborly. He couldn't clearly see Nathaniel's face. Mrs. Bolzoni laughed and smiled as she gestured with her hands. She didn't double as a dope pusher although Rosswell had witnessed stranger things in his many years on the bench. For now, it was best not to ask her any questions about the strange man.
Nathaniel turned north and, about a mile out of town drove up a driveway onto a bluff where a huge mansion stood. The sign said River Heights Villa.
Johnny Dan Dumey, Ribs Freshwater, and Nathaniel Dahlbert had been connected in a dope pushing scheme in Bollinger County. The problem was Rosswell couldn't prove it. Now what were Ribs and Nathaniel up to? Was the white van that Nathaniel drove the same one that Charlie had driven onto the ferry? Were all three of them hooked together in a devilish murder scheme? Or kidnapping scheme? There was no evidence to carry to Gustave Fribeau. Without concrete evidence, the sheriff wouldn't welcome Rosswell. Gustave graded Rosswell's detecting ability as lower than a worm's belly.
Rosswell turned onto a gravel road and traveled an alternate way to The Four Bee where he'd add another item to Ollie's research list. Once inside his room, he called Jim Bill. "Did you get the file I emailed you?" When the fire marshal assured him that he'd received it, Rosswell said, "I've got more information."
After the phone conversation, Rosswell wrote for forty-five minutes in his journal. He'd spent uncounted hours logging tons of information into the book. It was not a mere journal, but a casebook. The threads of the mystery grew stronger and more tangled. If Rosswell could unravel the stringy mass from the information residing in his brain and his casebook, he would find his way to Tina.
He prayed he didn't find her in a grave.
