The Branson Beauty (11 page)

He remembered the first time he'd driven to Branson, with Maggie, to meet her folks. It had been a two-lane road then. You had to go slowly, or risk your neck trying to pass someone in all those hills. They'd risked their necks a lot as they sped south that day, laughing and talking as she regaled him with stories of growing up in the Ozarks.

She'd spent her summers swimming in the lakes and playing in the woods with a pack of neighbor kids. She was always the first to try something—climbing a particularly tall tree or leaping over a wide creek no one else wanted to cross. Which meant she was also always the first to end up in the emergency room, where she became known as a regular. Hank had wished for a second that he'd known her then—his playmates didn't sound half as fun—but then again, no. If they had grown up together, they'd be good friends. And as he rode with her down Highway 65, her long, sun-streaked hair blown by wind from the open window and her smile crinkling the flawless skin around her bright brown eyes, he did not want to be her friend. He wanted to take her face in his hands and kiss her until …

He'd spent the rest of that drive trying to redirect his thoughts by staring at the scenery. And it had worked, at least a little bit. He'd been astonished that within a ten-mile stretch, you could go from standard rolling Missouri farmland to these craggy, ancient rock formations splitting the earth like some geologist's dream, and forests that seemed determined to one day overgrow them.

They had only been living in Branson for six months, he chided himself, and he'd already let his senses numb to the breathtaking landscape. And then, a twenty-foot-high hillbilly burst out of the snow at him. That, he thought with a sigh, is why the natural beauty has faded to the background. The huge billboard had survived the snowstorm and continued to advertise
ONE OF THE STRIP'S ORIGINAL SHOWS!
It was followed by dozens of others, on both sides of the highway, that trumpeted country singers, celebrity impersonators, magic shows, Chinese acrobats, and some museum that had memorabilia from the Titanic, which made absolutely no sense in landlocked Missouri, as far as Hank was concerned.

No wonder he didn't pause to admire the mountains and valleys anymore. The commercialization was easy to blame, so he'd stick with that for now. He needed to start thinking about the case again. He limited his attention to the road in front of him and carefully made the turns toward the boat landing, where Mandy's car would hopefully tell him something about why its owner had been strangled to death just short of her nineteenth birthday.

There were a fair number of cars still in the parking lot as he pulled in, and it had been plowed enough so that the cars might be able to get out. He guessed they all belonged to customers on yesterday's ill-fated voyage who had not yet bothered to come down and get them after they were picked up at the emergency docking point last night. Mandy's little Ford sat close to the boarding ramp. Made sense—she had been one of the first to get there. Bright crime-scene ribbon was draped all over it, and evidence tape covered every door handle. Thank God Sheila thought to stop here before she went back to the office last night, he thought, as he got out his pocketknife.

Ideally, he'd have the car towed to a nice warm garage somewhere and have it gone over for fingerprints and forensic evidence at the same time. But there were no tow trucks available, and he needed to at least assess what was inside right now. Potential clues could not wait however many hours it would take to get the car somewhere.

A loud crunch of ice had Hank turning from the car to the parking entrance, where he saw a car even smaller than Mandy's trying to get over the bump of snow into the lot. The tires spun uselessly as the car came to rest half in a drift. The driver hit the gas, which only rocked it further into immobility. The engine whine finally stopped, and Kurt managed to get his bulk out of the car and over the drift. He had his camera with him, at least.

“Whew,” the crime-scene tech panted as he staggered up to Hank. “I thought I'd never make it.”

Hank had thought the same thing. He made a mental note to lay off the Pecan Delights.

“I expected you to be here already,” he said.

Kurt nodded and spoke more quickly as he got his breath back. “Me, too. Took forever to dig my car out. Whew. And then getting out here. Good golly. I've never had to drive through that much ice.”

Obviously. Hank turned back toward the Ford, which looked kind of festive, if you didn't read what was on the ribbons fluttering in the wind. He moved toward it, pulling on latex gloves as—

“Um, sir? Sirs?” The voice cracked and rose sharply, which made sense as Hank turned to see a boy who couldn't have been more than sixteen standing behind them. Even the thick parka couldn't disguise the gawky limbs that were shaking as the kid stood there, clearly petrified to be confronting two strange men, one of them holding an open pocketknife.

“I … I need to ask you … ask you not to do that. Sir. Sirs. The police … they came and put all that stuff on it.” He raised a shaking hand toward the Ford. “You can't … can't…” He trailed off, and his hand fell to his side.

Hank looked at the Gallagher Enterprises name tag pinned to the parka.

“Ezra? Ezra. Hi. My name is Hank Worth, and I'm the sheriff.” He slowly raised his hands. The one with the knife stayed up, and the empty one reached into his pocket for his badge. When he saw the badge, Ezra heaved a sigh so big that his breath formed its own little cloud and floated away.

“Thank the Lord,” he said. “I didn't … I didn't know what I was going to do.”

Hank didn't know what Ezra would have done, either. They were the only people for miles around, and he was fairly certain the kid didn't have any self-defense tricks up his parka sleeve.

“You're the parking lot attendant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I'm going to need to talk to you as soon as we're done here with the car, okay?”

Ezra nodded and didn't move.

“I'll come get you when we're ready,” Hank said, probably too gruffly. Ezra flushed red and slunk off toward the hut at the other end of the lot.

Hank sliced through the tape on the driver's side door handle and pulled it open. Here we go, he thought.

A crumpled receipt in the center console—$23.76 for gas and coffee at a Conoco in Norman early Sunday morning. A half-full cup of coffee—frozen solid—in the cup holder. A hairbrush and a couple of CDs on the passenger seat. A
Beginning Psychology
book on the passenger-side floorboard. A necklace or some kind of chain hanging from the rearview mirror. In the glove box, her registration and insurance—both in her parents' names—and an emergency flare, tire pressure gauge, and one of those special hammer things to break a car window if you were trapped. Her father had equipped her well.

The driver's seat was too close to the steering wheel for Hank to fit. Instead, he kneeled in the snow outside the door and stuck his hand under the seat. A lot of crumbs, two gum wrappers, and an unsealed envelope. Hank lifted the flap and stared at a stack of twenties. Two hundred dollars. In an envelope carefully hidden under the seat. What the hell? He carefully tagged it and moved around to the passenger side as Kurt took photos of everything. Once Kurt was done, Hank lowered himself into the seat, carefully lifting the psychology textbook off the floor. Was that what she had planned to major in? Was that one of her tests next week? He fanned through the pages until his gloved thumb caught on a piece of loose-leaf paper. He slowly pulled it out and unfolded it.

Dearest Mandy,

I have been waiting for so long. I know that you need me. I know that you want me. I have waited for you and you have not answered me. You are mine. Not his. Not ever his. No matter how far away you go, you will always be mine. You will come back to me. It is almost time. You are mine only. You need to start acting like it. I am getting tired of the waiting. It is almost time.

—A (SQUIGGLE)

 

CHAPTER

9

It was a single sheet of paper, and it felt like it weighed a thousand pounds as Hank sat there with it in his hands. He read it again. Typewritten. No spelling mistakes, but no big words, either. He flipped it over. Nothing on the back. It was folded in thirds. There were none of the little headers at the top like you get when you print out an email. It must have been mailed. The creases were still crisp. She hadn't unfolded it much. Why? This wasn't a toss-off letter. This was something that should have been noteworthy. More than a bookmark. This should have scared her.

Unless she was used to them.

Hank yanked his phone out of his pocket.

“Sheila. Are you there yet?”

“What? No. It's a long drive, remember? And there's snow. Where you been?”

“Look, get there as fast as you can,” Hank said. “And go through her dorm room. You need to be looking for letters. Hopefully emails, too. Ask her friends if she was worried. Scared.”

There was silence. “Why?” Sheila said slowly. “What'd you find?”

“She had a stalker. I found a letter in her car. It can't be the first one. There have to be more.” He prayed that Mandy had kept them. “Call me as soon as you get there.”

He cut off the call before Sheila could say anything else and stared at the letter again. He wasn't sure how long he'd been looking at it when he heard Kurt cautiously clear his throat. He looked up.

“You don't look so good, Hank,” Kurt said.

“Don't feel so good, either.” He unfolded himself from the passenger seat and got out of the car. “You finished with the trunk?”

Kurt hefted his camera and nodded. Hank walked to the back and poked his head inside. He waved his hand out toward Kurt. “Gimme your flashlight.”

*   *   *

The little twin bed creaked as Hank sat down on it, trying not to muss the frilly purple bedspread. White iron bed posts matched the curlicue curtain rods. A poster of some country singer, impossibly handsome in his cowboy hat, was taped to the lavender wall over the five-drawer dresser. Another, of Jackie Joyner-Kersee running down a track in her prime, hung over the dainty white desk.

They had to be fairly recent additions. The furniture, though, felt as though it had been picked out by a thirteen-year-old reveling in the newly granted freedom to choose for herself. There wasn't much clutter. A few trophies and some yearbooks on the bookshelf, a basket of old hair ribbons on the desk. He supposed she'd taken everything else to school.

His gaze settled again on the desk. He rose and pulled out the little wicker chair. He didn't quite trust it to hold him, so he moved it aside and knelt in front of the drawers. There had been no other notes in the car. He doubted he'd get lucky enough to find any here.

The top drawer was a jumble of office supplies. The next was packed with what looked like graded high school homework. He paged through all of it. Aside from figuring out that she wasn't very into writing English essays, he learned nothing. The bottom drawer was stuck. He wiggled it back and forth until the obstruction gave way. It was a brochure, now bent from his tugging. He smoothed it out on the desktop.

Calfort's Firing Range and Gun Shop

“Straight Shooters Since 1972.”

Well.

He opened it. It listed the shooting range hours of operation and a sampling of the guns for sale.
.380 semiautomatics for concealed carry
was circled in blue pen. He looked at the address and phone number. It was pretty far out of town. He knew there were closer places. Why was she interested in this one? Maybe … He whirled toward the bookcase and yanked the most recent yearbook off the shelf. Calfort … Calfort. Yep. Callie Calfort. Three pictures down from Mandy.

He snapped the book shut, put the brochure in an evidence sleeve, and laid them both on the purple bedspread. He went through the rest of the room as quickly as possible, but found nothing else. He grabbed the stuff off the bed and headed downstairs.

“Mr. Bryson, may I borrow Mandy's yearbook?” He didn't mention the brochure.

Bill and Gina Bryson were sitting on the same couch as the night before. Hank doubted they'd even gone to bed.

“Yes, of course,” he said hoarsely. “Take anything you need. Did you find anything?”

“I don't know yet,” Hank fudged. “But I do need to ask you—did Mandy have any hobbies, any other interests?”

They both shook their heads.

“No,” Mrs. Bryson said. “Just school and track. She enjoyed going up to the mall in Springfield with her friends, that sort of thing, but otherwise, she didn't have time for other kinds of activities.”

“Did she ever have any interest in shooting? Going to the firing range?”

They both stared at him in puzzlement.

“Good heavens, no. What on earth makes you say that?” Mr. Bryson asked.

“Were any of her friends into that kind of thing?”

Mrs. Bryson's soggy face firmed up for a moment. “No. Not at all. Her friends were in-town kids. Kids she knew from sports, or from church.”

“Okay,” Hank said soothingly. Time to change the subject. “Did Mandy seem worried about anything when she came home at Christmas? Or after that, when you spoke with her at school?”

The Brysons looked at each other.

“She seemed stressed, but not about Ryan. She thought that was going great. It was about her schoolwork,” Mrs. Bryson said. “When I asked, she kept saying that she didn't know how people did it, all the schoolwork and competing in a sport at the same time.”

“Did she still enjoy track?”

“Oh, yes. Good gracious, yes,” Mr. Bryson said. “It was her main outlet. I think she'd die if she couldn't run…”

Mrs. Bryson's agonized intake of breath seemed to suck all the air from the room. Mr. Bryson buried his head in his hands. “I'm sorry … I'm sorry,” he mumbled from behind them as his shoulders started to shake.