Bill Hopkins - Judge Rosswell Carew 02 - River Mourn (19 page)

Betourne and the deputy
assessor
conferred, seemingly oblivious that Rosswell hovered next to
them. The two men hunched over a drawing of some kind, spread out on the table.
It crinkled when Betourne flattened it with his hand.

“We run into this all the time.” The assessor used his
chubby finger to highlight things to his deputy. “It’s something you’ll have to
be aware of. It’s not a big deal, but the first time you see it, it knocks you
off kilter.”

Rosswell cleared his throat. “Ready to order?” The men
looked at him.

Betourne blinked. “Judge Carew?”

“That’s me.”

“What are you doing waiting tables?”

“Community service.”

“I see.” Betourne folded his hands and stared at
something on the table, perhaps unsure about Rosswell’s sanity. “Let me finish
up with Allgood here. It’ll take a second. Then we’ll order.”

“Okay.” Rosswell didn’t move. The order would be the
last one of the day. He couldn’t hang around in the restaurant all afternoon.
Detective work awaited him. “I’ll wait here.”

“Yeah, that’s fine.” Betourne returned his attention to
Allgood. “Sometimes these lines”—he pointed to a couple of lines on the piece
of paper on the table—“can be ten or even fifteen feet from this line.” He
pointed to a third line.

Rosswell pretended to write on the order pad while scrutinizing
the assessor’s paper, trying to glean its purpose. It appeared to be a stylized
diagram showing a bird’s eye view of the plan of a building.

“Yeah,” Allgood said. “That’s weird.”

“You find them,” Betourne said, “in the old places a
lot. I always explain this to the new people who start working for me.”

“What was their purpose?” asked Allgood.

“Passageways behind the walls in the house were a fad
back then.”

Rosswell gasped and dropped his ticket pad and pencil.
I’d make a damn lousy
spy.

“Judge,” Betourne said, “are you okay?”

Rosswell said, “Tell me about those secret
passageways.”

Betourne stared at the paper a moment before he spoke.
“They’re not secret.” He returned his gaze to Rosswell. “About a hundred and
fifty years ago, passageways were all the rage among folks who could afford to
build big houses. There were a lot of rich river men in this county before the
Civil War. When my predecessors measured the houses that have them, they noted
the discrepancies between the outside walls and the inside walls.”

“What did they use the passageways for?”

Betourne said, “I was about to tell Allgood here that rumor
has it that before the war, a few of them were used in the underground
railroad, holding slaves until they could spirit them out at night and sneak
them across the river to Illinois.”

Allgood offered, “I’ve heard that rumor ever since I
was a kid. People said a couple of the houses were connected by a tunnel.”

Betourne said, “Those bluffs along the river are
limestone. They’re honeycombed with caves.”

Rosswell said, “How many of these houses are there?”

“In this county?” Betourne scratched his chin. “Five
or six with passageways. That’s all I know of for sure. I’d have to go through
every single real estate assessment to give you an exact number. I’ve never
heard of any with a tunnel connected to another house. Do you want me to look
up that information for you?”

Rosswell thought a moment. Could Ollie search for that
on the computer? Eventually, he said, “No, that’s okay. I don’t need the info.
I found it curious. It would be interesting to know. That’s all. Nothing more.
I’m a history buff and tidbits like that are worth knowing when you’re a
history buff. Don’t you think that’s interesting?”

Rosswell told himself to shut up, that he was babbling
like a spring-fed brook after a heavy thunderstorm.

Betourne and the deputy stayed silent, exchanging a
quick glance, then staring at their menus.

Maybe Rosswell could venture a couple more questions. “If
I wanted to look at the history on a particular house, your office would be the
place to go. Right?”

Betourne said, “Right.”

Rosswell pushed a little further. “What houses have
these passageways?”

“Let me think.” Betourne sucked his lips, then shut
them tight and focused on the ceiling before he answered. “In town, there’s one
down on Gabouri. One on La Porte. There are a couple north off 61 Highway toward
the river. Owned by two sisters. Then there’s also that mansion in the same
area where that red-headed guy runs a rehabilitation center.”

“Nathaniel Dahlbert?” Sweat poured down Rosswell’s
face. His heart ran the Kentucky Derby in record time.

“That’s him.” Betourne leaned around, watching
something behind Rosswell. “And right there are the two sisters.”

Rosswell glanced and witnessed Karyn Byler and Jill
Mabli, replete in their waitress outfits, receiving their marching orders from
Mabel.

“Another thing, Judge. You’re staying in one.”

“The Four Bee?”

“That’s the one.”

Rosswell stopped on his sprint for the door long
enough to dump the apron, pencil, and ticket pad into Mabel’s arms.

“What’s your daddy’s cell number?”

Mabel told him.

“If you see him and I haven’t talked to him, tell him
to call me immediately. Oh. And I don’t think Betourne is going to give you a
tip.”

“Why not?”

“I forgot to take his order.”

Rosswell’s hunger intensified when he hurried out of Mabel’s
into the hot afternoon sun. He’d faint if he didn’t soon eat something.
Instead, he punched Ollie’s number.

The phone rang three times and went to Ollie’s voice
mail. Rosswell cursed, disconnected, then tried again. When Ollie’s number rang
the second time, Rosswell caught sight of his research assistant traipsing out
of the courthouse. Ollie stopped, pulled out his cell phone, and began tapping
keys.

Rosswell again punched the phone off and hollered, “Ollie!”

Ollie swiveled his head until his gaze fell onto
Rosswell, who darted into the street, and narrowly missed being run down by a carload
of gawking tourists. The car had Ontario tags with a bumper sticker that read:
I’M FROM TORONTO! KISS ME!

“Judge, you’re going to get run over if you don’t
start watching where you’re going.”

Rosswell panted for a few seconds before he could
talk. “I’ve been trying to call you.”

“Phone reception is lousy in the courthouse.
Especially in the vaults.” Ollie stared at his phone for several seconds. “Also,
I’ve been getting texts from Candy.”

“Candy Lavaliere from Marble Hill?”

“Yep.”

Rosswell had known her for a decade. Big woman.
Premature silver hair with a gentle, stunning face, soft and clear almost to
the point of translucence. Tanned and buff, she smelled like Ivory soap. She
wore big charm bracelets on her arms that rattled and clanked. Rings on every
finger. She was an expert shooter who also lifted weights and had read every
book in the public library…twice. Ollie’s intellectual equal was Candy, the
cosmetologist who loved to dance.

Rosswell whispered, “So you two are doing the—”

“We’re talking. That’s all.”

“Yeah, talking. Well, where have you been this morning?
Talking?”

Ollie straightened to his full height, puffing his
chest out. “I’m your research assistant. I’ve been researching. They usually
close right on the dot of noon on Saturday. I had to give them twenty bucks
under the table to stay a few extra minutes. You owe me.”

“Researching what?”

“An interesting tidbit I found in
The Complete History of Sainte
Genevieve County, Missouri
by Marie Vienneau.” Ollie stretched his neck, craning to see what was
shaking at Mabel’s. “What a crowd. Let’s go to McDonald’s. I’m starving.”

They ate in silence. After two quarter-pounders, Rosswell
munched on a chocolate chip cookie. “What was so interesting that you ran off
from Mabel’s on her busiest day ever?”

“The French have always been hosts, no matter who came
through. If it was German traders, they set out a feast with lots of beer. If
it was Irish miners, whiskey flowed freely. During the Civil War, when Union
troops marched through, the French hoisted the Stars and Stripes and had a
grand old time. When the Confederacy came through, they hung pictures of
General Lee and feasted until dawn.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“Farmers say that you can eat as long as you own some
dirt. The French say that you can eat as long as you own a restaurant.”

“You’re babbling.”

Ollie made a face as if he’d sucked on a rotten lemon.
“Try this. Passageways in the houses of Sainte Genevieve County.”

Rosswell choked. “You knew about them?” He coughed a
few cookie crumbs onto the table, then sipped water from a plastic cup.

“Everybody knows about them. I thought you would have
said something before now.”

“Me? Why?”

“Rosswell, try to keep up. You said there was an
entrance to the cave in Nathaniel’s place.”

“I didn’t know there would be actual passageways.
Maybe a door built around a cave entrance. Not an actual passageway.”

“Rosswell! Where do you think the noises were coming
from when we were in the cave?”

“Ah! From the passageway.”

“Besides, they’re in the book. You
have
read the history
book haven’t you?”

Rosswell coughed again, spewing more cookie crumbs
onto the table. “I’ve been kind of busy.” He drank more water. “There were a
few pages I glanced at.”

Ollie positioned his right forefinger in front of
Rosswell’s face. “That’s the number one reason why you hired me. Good thing you
did.”

“Listen, in fact I did find out something about
passageways.” Rosswell detailed his conversation with the county assessor.

“That jibes with Vienneau’s book.”

“Exactly.”

“And you think Nathaniel is using the passageways to
stash bodies or dope or something.”

Rosswell shrugged. “I don’t know what he’s doing,
except that it’s illegal.”

“Argumentum ad ignorantiam.”

“I was absent the day they discussed that in law
school. What are you talking about?”

“Argument from ignorance. You lack evidence to the
contrary, therefore you assume something else. You don’t know what that bright
light in the sky is, consequently it must be a visitor from another galaxy. You
don’t know what Nathaniel is doing, thus, it must be illegal.”

“Do you know how many times you’ve read my mind?”

“Once? Twice? I give up. Tell me.”

“Nathaniel buys a house that has guard towers and
secret passageways.”

Ollie held up the forefinger again. “Wait one minute.”
He riffled through a file folder. “Here.” He plunked down a document similar to
what Betourne had shown his deputy assessor. “It’s not a secret. It’s filed at
the courthouse. It’s not exactly a house plan. It’s measurements of the house.
See this line here? It’s almost five feet from this line. You know what that
means now, don’t you?”

“Yes, I said I heard the assessor explaining it. Don’t
tell me all that crap again. I got it, okay?”

“Then how do you propose we search the passageways?
False alarms are out. Maybe we could go out there and ask him real nice.”

“We go to The Four Bee first.”

“And your landlady will pat our heads and let us
search her house?”

“Listen to this.” Rosswell sketched his idea.

When he finished, Ollie said, “Judge, sometimes I
think
you
might be the genius in this relationship.”

Rosswell reached a hand over his shoulder and patted
himself on the back.

“Although,” Ollie said, “I don’t know why you’re so
short.”

“I was taller but when I was in the military, they
beat the crap out of me.”

“Mrs. Bolzoni, I want
to
introduce my friend, Ollie Groton. You may have seen him around.”
They’d driven to The Four Bee after leaving McDonald’s.

Mrs. Bolzoni, clutching a broom and standing on the top
step of the front porch of her bed and breakfast, peered down at Ollie shuffling
on the sidewalk. Shading her eyes from the afternoon sun with her hand, she angled
her head first left, then right. “This thing on your head, this purple thing,
is what should I think?”

“It’s a purple star, Mrs. Bolzoni.”

“Looks like spider.”

Ollie nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Purple?”

Ollie nodded again. “Yes, ma’am.”

“You got reason for purple spider drawn on the top of
your head?”

“Good question, the answer to which escaped and is wandering
loose.”

Mrs. Bolzoni caught Rosswell’s eye. “It’s a good
question says he, somewhere running around.” She turned to face Ollie. “Why all
the grease?” She sniffed the air. “You smell like oil well.”

“It’s Vaseline, ma’am. It keeps my bald head from
chafing in the heat and the wind.”

“Mrs. Bolzoni,” Rosswell said, “Ollie and his daughter
own a restaurant downtown. Mabel’s Eatery. Maybe you’ve eaten there.”

“I don’t go to the downtown.” Her eyes squinted and
her lips pursed, as if the idea was worse than biting into a French fry. “I fix
good food right here.”

She began sweeping the porch, aiming for things that
Rosswell couldn’t see. Women, he’d decided long ago, had evolved the detection of
dots of dust to a much higher degree than men. In fact, he admitted to himself,
that skill was lacking in men altogether.

She said, “I’m busy. Go away.”

“Please, Mrs. Bolzoni. You should hear this. Ollie
discovered a method to keep all the bugs out of his restaurant.”

Mrs. Bolzoni smiled and shook her finger at Ollie. “You
do good thing then. Keep all them frogs out of your restaurant. Not good to
have frogs where decent people eating. No frogs allowed here.”

Ollie scratched the purple star. “Frogs?”

Rosswell whispered to Ollie, “Shut up, I’ll tell you
later,” then closed his eyes and prayed to Whoever was listening for strength.
When he opened his eyes, he saw the look of love shining in Mrs. Bolzoni’s countenance.
She stared at Ollie in rapture. “No, Mrs. Bolzoni, not frogs. Bugs.”

“Oh. Bugs.” She started the sweeping routine again. “They
bad too.”

Ollie said, “I’m quite the genius, you know.” He
reached for his wallet.

Rosswell leaned forward and again whispered to him, “Leave
your Mensa card in your billfold.”

“Okay.” The wallet returned to Ollie’s pocket.

Rosswell climbed the steps so he could stand closer to
Mrs. Bolzoni. “You know how the health department is, all snoopy and scaring up
things to bother restaurant owners with.” The closer he got to the house, the stronger
grew the delicious odor of beef stew—tonight’s special. And pouring a big
helping of stew over a chunk of cornbread would be the closest approach he
could make to heaven this side of death. When supper was over, he’d be cast
down to earth by the nap monster that followed him after large meals. “Ollie’s
process can help you keep the health department bureaucrats happy when it comes
to certain issues.”

“Like bugs.” Mrs. Bolzoni spit on the grass. “Health
department all over people who let the bugs roam free.”

“Right.” Rosswell moved closer to Ollie. “This man
right there has found a way to get rid of roaches. And it’s a way the health
department approves of.”

“Why you tell me this stuff?” Mrs. Bolzoni waved her
hand, starting inside. “I got to fix the rest of the food. No time to listen to
purple spider men about roaches. Good thing I don’t got no roaches.” She put
her hand on the knob to the front door of The Four Bee.

Rosswell spoke in a low, yet distinct voice. “You have
roaches.”

The old woman froze. Rosswell listened to her breath,
rasping as she started panting. “No.”

“Mrs. Bolzoni, I’m sorry, but you have roaches. I’ve
seen them.”

“That’s a cockroach and bull story. I’ve not seen them
bugs.” She whirled around, stomped down the steps and skidded to a stop, within
an inch of Ollie’s midsection. With one hand, she raised the broom above his
head. “You try to steal an old lady’s life savings. I saw about this on the
television.”

“No, ma’am. I won’t charge you anything. You see, this
method I’ve got, while it’s wonderful, isn’t perfect. I’m trying to get all the
bugs out of it.”

Mrs. Bolzoni clamped her mouth shut. When she relaxed,
she said, “You get bugs
out
of it? I thought you try to get bugs
in
of it.”

Rosswell said, “Ollie, cut the corny jokes.”

“Mrs. Bolzoni, I promise you that you will not see one
roach in your house when I’m through. But you won’t pay a cent. I’ll get my
money from the customers I help after I help you. When they hear you praise me,
they will line up at my door, asking for my help.”

“Don’t chase off my ghosts. I charge extra for the
ghosts talking.” Mrs. Bolzoni’s free hand grabbed Ollie’s belt buckle. “You try
to mess with this old woman and she cut you.” Clutched in her other hand, a
broom waving close to his head emphasized the threat. The sun glinted on her
thick glasses, throwing a sparkle into Ollie’s eyes.

He winced. “Yes, ma’am, I believe that.”

“We are Italian. My daughter got paper to shoot gun.
You hurt her momma, she shoot you. You try something funny, I cut you.”

“Not a doubt in my mind.”

“Mrs. Bolzoni, Ollie believes you. Now, can we poke
around for the roaches?”

“Where you poke first?”

“We’ll start with the parlor, if that’s all right with
you.”

“Okay,” she said, “but if this purple spider guy messes
with me, I cut him and feed him to the fishes down there at that river.”