Bill Hopkins - Judge Rosswell Carew 01 - Courting Murder (26 page)

Rosswell attended the memorial mass
for Tina. He owed that much to Father Mike, Frizz, and, of course, Tina. Yet Rosswell knew something that none of those other people would admit. Tina was alive. Why was everyone in a rush to put her in her grave?

Tina was gone, he admitted that. The who, how, when, and why she’d disappeared, he couldn’t even begin to guess.

But not dead. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—accept that. And he had physical proof.

Rosswell had spent hours reviewing the surveillance videotapes the hospital turned over to Frizz. First, Rosswell watched the tapes covering 12 hours before he got there and then 12 hours after. Then 24 hours before and after. Then 36.

On one grainy black-and-white tape, he saw a tall man with close-cropped curly hair pushing a laundry cart into the parking lot. Of course, the cameras didn’t cover the area where the man had parked his vehicle. The man—Rosswell was convinced it was Nathaniel Dahlbert—had kidnapped Tina. Why, Rosswell couldn’t fathom. The FBI, the Missouri Highway Patrol, Frizz, and hell, yes, even Junior Fleming had scoured the whole area. Nothing.

Still, that was physical proof. If Nathaniel had wanted her dead, he would’ve killed her in her bed. Therefore, she was alive. And it was imperative in Rosswell’s mind that Nathaniel must have received help from someone inside the hospital. But again, the who, how, when, and why eluded him.

Rosswell wandered from the church and stood in the sunshine. Several people shook his hand and muttered platitudes. The scent of the incense and flowers in the church lingered in his nose. Sweat began rolling down his face.

I need to ask Father Mike for an exorcism. A demon possessed me, and that’s why I’m wearing a black, three piece suit on a sunny, hot, and humid day.

“Rosswell,” Purvis said from behind him.

Rosswell gasped when he turned around. “You’re wearing a suit!”

Purvis said, “I couldn’t bring myself to shave.”

“Thanks for reporting what you saw. And thanks for coming back for the service.”

“I’m sorry things didn’t turn out the way you wanted.”

Frizz joined them. “Purvis, you did what you could. No one could’ve identified somebody that far away in the dark.”

Rosswell said, “It wasn’t Tina.”

Purvis nodded. “If it wasn’t Tina, then who stole her car? And why did the thief jump in the river?”

Frizz said, “Let’s step over here where we can talk privately.”

The three men walked to the side of the large brick church where they stood in the shade of a tall cedar tree. A mockingbird, high on the roof of the church, began its repertoire of songs.

“This isn’t for public consumption, hear?” Purvis and Rosswell murmured their agreement. “We found Johnny Dan’s ledger in his garage. Had tons of transactions listed, but no names. He used a code of some kind. He scrawled at the bottom of one page he was going to kill someone.”

“Who?” Rosswell asked.

Frizz said, “Johnny Dan called him Toothpick Chief.”

Rosswell nodded. “Ribs Freshwater.”

Frizz said, “That was my first guess.”

Purvis said, “Who’s he?”

Frizz said, “He’s a tall, skinny, Native American who, by the way, has disappeared.”

No one spoke for a long time.

Rosswell said, “I … uh … kind of checked up on Nathaniel Dahlbert. His house is clean and empty. Must’ve had one hell of a moving crew to come in at night.”

“We were there way before you were, Judge,” Frizz said. “We couldn’t find clue one. I wouldn’t be surprised if Ribs and Nathaniel are together, somewhere on the run. I’ve sent out a persons of interest bulletin on them both.”

Rosswell didn’t ask and Purvis probably didn’t know enough to ask what the fire marshal’s investigator had turned up after sifting through Nadine’s house. Rosswell suspected that the investigator had built a bombproof case against her. That could demolish Frizz if it ever got out that he was protecting a dope pusher. Rosswell had also heard through Ollie that Frizz had hired two lawyers: One for divorce and one for bankruptcy.

Purvis said, “What about DNA, Frizz? You got any tests back?”

“Neal’s taking care of that. He ran a profile on the male corpse that he matched to a sample in Eddie Joe’s car. Also matched up to the knife I found under the judge’s couch. Johnny Dan must’ve slipped in and planted it.” Frizz removed his hat and wiped his head with his handkerchief. “Obviously we don’t have the female corpse, but we have a sample from Ambrosia’s toothbrush and comb from her house. In case she ever shows up.”

Purvis shook his head. “Look on the bright side. You’ve made some progress.”

Frizz said, “Progress. Yeah, progress.” He fanned himself with his hat.

Purvis screwed up his face, or at least the part of it that Rosswell could see. “Candy?”

“A weird girl,” Frizz said. “It seems that the younger generation is getting weirder instead of smarter.”

Purvis said, “Why did Candy confess to the murders?”

Frizz cleared his throat. “There’s a lot of … activity going on around here.” He cleared his throat again. “If we can put any stock on what Candy told us, Johnny Dan was screwing Mabel.”

Purvis said, “That’s no surprise, is it?”

“None at all,” Frizz said. “According to Candy, Johnny Dan was also doing her until Ollie interfered. Then Ribs Freshwater started chasing Candy and apparently came out on top—so to speak. Ribs was well on his way to winning Candy all for himself. But Johnny Dan still lusted after Candy even though he was going with Mabel.”

Purvis said, “I missed something. How would all that make Candy want to confess?”

“My guess,” Frizz said, “is that Candy somehow suspected Johnny Dan of the murders. Truth be known, he’d probably knocked her around some. She knew he was violent. If Candy confessed, she’d take the heat off him and then Johnny Dan would take the heat off Ribs, who was her true love.”

Rosswell said, “I don’t believe a syllable that Candy has uttered. There’s not a smidgen of evidence that Johnny Dan smacked on Candy.”

That is, if Ollie’s telling me the truth about his investigation of what Candy did and didn’t do.

Purvis stroked his beard for a few minutes, apparently trying to digest the soap opera without a scorecard. “Mabel screwed Johnny Dan who screwed Candy who then screwed Mabel’s father. Perverted. That doesn’t make sense.”

Frizz said, “A lot of this doesn’t make sense. But Candy’s a couple of beads short of a rosary. She’s liable to think or do anything.”

Rosswell recalled a slightly different version of the Candy story, one supplied by her shortly before the memorial service. She’d called Rosswell over to her golf cart.

“Johnny Dan made me confess,” she said in a voice so low that Rosswell had to strain to hear it.

“How did he do that?”

Candy began crying. “He caught me talking to Elbert.”

“Elbert? Who’s that?”

Candy sniffled. “You remember when I got first place in the pie baking contest at the county fair last year? And the year before that?”

“Uh … no. I don’t really keep up—”

“Elbert gave me those prizes. ’Cause I talked to him. Some. Not much. Just some.”

Rosswell completed the thought for her. “Johnny Dan said if you didn’t confess to the murders, he was going to kill Ribs and probably Ollie, too, then tell everyone you … I guess the term is … uh … cheated … to get the prizes for both years. Am I right?”

“Yes. If that got out, I’d never be able to show my face in Bollinger County again. Judge Carew, please don’t tell anyone.”

“Never in a million years.”

Now, with Frizz and Purvis standing before him, he didn’t burden them with Candy’s scandalous yet unverifiable story. He’d promised. Instead, Rosswell said, “I killed the murderer.”

Rosswell needed to have another chat with Father Mike about that.

That night at Picnic Area 3 of Foggy Top State Park, Rosswell leaned against his black pickup truck under a full moon in a cloudless sky. The temperature had gone down to around 80 degrees but the humidity stayed high.

He pulled the envelope from his back pocket, opened it,
withdrew Tina’s letter, and re-read for—what?—the thousandth time?

Dear Rosswell, I love you so much. When I wake up in the morning, you’re the first thing I think of. When I go to sleep at night, you’re the last thing I think of. You’re on my mind every hour of every day. I want to know you and love you the rest of our lives. I’ve got something really important to tell you. I’m so happy to tell you. And I want you to be happy, too. I’m pregnant.

When you finish reading this letter, come to me and hold me and never let me go.

I love you always,

Tina

Rosswell folded the letter, replaced it in the envelope, and slid it into his breast pocket.

He drove for town, regretting that he’d killed the best mechanic for miles around. Vicky needed repairs. Lots of them and soon. She was fixing to carry him on a journey. He was going to find Tina. Wherever she was. Where was he going to go? He didn’t know.

When he parked at his house, his phone beeped.
MISSED CALL
. It was from a payphone in Ste. Genevieve, Missouri. How cruel, thought Rosswell, to get a call from the town where their special place was. Tina and Rosswell had spent a weekend in the old French town at the Southern Hotel. His phone beeped again.
VOICEMAIL
. He clicked on it.

Tina spoke to him.

“Rosswell, come get me. I’m—”

The message stopped.

Rosswell didn’t take time to pack.

The End

My first readers Sara
leNeve
McDaniel Snipes (RIP), Candy Harvey, Jill Mabli, and Ruthie Deck Burkman; Guppies (Sisters in Crime group); fellow writers who patiently gave me incredible amounts of their time (especially Hank Phillippi Ryan, Alan Orloff, Leslie Budewitz, Serena Stier, Grace Topping, Jess Lourey, Deborah Sharp, and Allan E. Ansorge); Charles and Marian Hutchings; Lois Jackson of the USDA for permission to use the cover photograph, Patricia B. Smith (editor extraordinaire), Susan Swartwout, and the thousands of people who’ve told me stories since I was a child.

None of this would’ve been possible without my wife, Sharon Woods Hopkins, who is my toughest editor, most honest critic, and who’s one super-excellent writer.

About the Author

Bill Hopkins is retired after
beginning his legal career in 1971 and serving as a private attorney, prosecuting attorney, an administrative law judge, and a trial court judge, all in Missouri.

His poems, short stories, and non-fiction have appeared in many different publications. He’s had several short plays produced.
 

Bill is a member of Mystery Writers of America, Dramatists Guild, Horror Writers Association, Missouri Writers Guild, SEMO Writers Guild, Heartland Writers Guild, Romance Writers of America, and Sisters In Crime.
 

Bill is also a photographer who has sold work in the United States, Canada, and Europe.

He and his wife, Sharon (a mortgage banker who is also a published writer), live in Marble Hill, Missouri, with their dog and cat. Besides writing, Bill and Sharon are involved in collecting and restoring Camaros.
 

Courting Murder
 
was the first novel of the Judge Rosswell Carew Mystery series. The second novel of the series,
 
River Mourn (2013)
,
won first place in the Missouri Writers’ Guild Show-Me Best Book Awards in 2014.

Sharon and Bill have started a publishing company, Deadly Writes Publishing, LLC
, and they welcome submissions. Visit their website for more information.

www.deadlywritespublishing.com

Visit Bill at

Judge Bill Hopkins