Bill Hopkins - Judge Rosswell Carew 02 - River Mourn (4 page)

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 was
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?”

Ollie’s eyes flicked open. “Rosswell. Scratch that.
Judge Carew, you need to realize something. Tina’s not coming back because she
hasn’t been kidnapped.”

“You heard Gustave say that.”

“Right. Along with everyone else saying the same
thing. You think your girlfriend was kidnapped, you think you saw her body
thrown off a boat, and you think the guy you killed was behind the kidnapping
and Tina being dumped in the drink. Busy rascal for being dead, that Johnny Dan
is.”

“And you,” Rosswell said, stabbing his fork in Ollie’s
direction, “think I’m nuts.”

“I think you have…stress issues.”