The Branson Beauty (13 page)

So he'd been right about the perils of associating with a popular town girl. He slowly and deliberately holstered his gun and put his hands in his pockets.

“So … how long had you two been friends?”

Camo Callie relaxed very slightly—this girl seemed to do everything incrementally, except aim her gun—and smiled just a bit.

“We had English together freshman year.”

“Huh,” Hank said. “She didn't seem to be that into English.”

Camo laughed. “Oh, yeah. Neither was I. So we sat in the back and talked. Mrs. McCleary would get so mad. That was the last year she was teaching before she became the principal. Said we would be the death of her.

“So that's how we knew each other. She never changed, Mandy didn't. Even when she got so good at track, and so pretty that she was up for homecoming queen. She kept, you know, bein' true. She'd always talk to me in the halls, or eat lunch with me if I was by myself. No one else bothered to do that. She was … she was…”

She couldn't hold the tears back this time. She scrubbed them off her cheeks with the heel of her hand, and looked at Hank.

“You. Will. Catch. This. Person.”

He nodded. She pivoted back toward the woods, her rifle still thankfully slung over her shoulder.

“Hey,” he said, still standing there with his hands in his pockets. “I will need to talk to you again. How do I reach you … without causing you problems?”

She did not turn.

“You don't.”

 

CHAPTER

10

That had gone well—if your definition of “well” was getting summarily dismissed by a semi-educated teenager who could have taken you out with one halfhearted gut shot before you even knew she was there. If your definition of “well” meant arguing with a witness you would never be able to convince to give a formal statement, let alone ever—ever, ever—show up to testify in court. If your definition of “well” included sitting in a freezing car that wouldn't start while wearing jeans soaked from kneeling in the snow like some kind of commando moron. Yeah. It'd gone well.

Hank slowly counted to ten and twisted the key in the ignition again. Nothing. He said a prayer to whoever was the patron saint of automobiles. The car coughed and went silent. He tapped the steering wheel. How about the patron saint of poor, witless policemen? The engine whined loudly for a second and then started chugging normally. Air blasted from the vents, and he breathed deeply. That only made his nose start to run. He was tempted to wipe it on his sleeve like his two-year-old did, but settled for using the empty chip bag in the passenger seat. He was hitting all sorts of new lows today.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out as the car warmed up. From Sam.

Sheila interviewed roommate. Is searching dorm. Will call w/ update @ 6:30.

Good. It was five o'clock now. Hank scrolled down, looking at what he might have missed during his little chat with Camo Callie. A voice mail.

“We're out of marshmallows for the hot cocoa. Pick some up on your way home, will ya?”

Dunc. And another.

“We need some more milk, too. Preferably before dinner.”

Hank was starting to think that using his father-in-law instead of sending the kids to day care every day was not such a hot idea. There was also no way in hell he would be home in time for dinner. He thought for a minute, then texted Maggie. She could make the grocery run this time. Even though it was unlikely she'd be home for dinner, either.

Now somewhat certain the car wouldn't die on him, he took it out of park and drove slowly down the snowy road. He swore that the next time he came out here—and he knew there would be a next time, eventually—he would be better prepared.

*   *   *

Hank swung open the door to the office, stomping his snow-covered boots into the already soaked doormat a little harder than was necessary. The Pup bounded out of the hallway clutching a sheaf of papers.

“I got lots of stuff for you, Chief,” he said, waving the papers. “Where do you want me to start?”

Hank had no idea. Out of habit, he glanced at the wall clock before remembering that it was broken. He sighed. He might actually have to start wearing a watch. “How long do we have until Sheila calls?”

The Pup looked at his own watch. “About twenty minutes.”

At least that left time to make some coffee. Hank turned toward the hallway alcove where they had wedged a rickety end table that held the coffeemaker and a big bowl of sugar. Nobody liked cream, which was a good thing. The office had no refrigerator.

Suddenly, Hank thought of Sheila again and stopped short. Not because she was the one who usually made the coffee—she'd made very clear to him on his first day that just because she was the only woman in the office did not mean she was his secretary and he could darn well make his own darn coffee. No, he stopped because it was Sheila who always figured out the staffing. She knew who was on duty, where they were patrolling, and when they hit overtime. It was the kind of managerial crap that made his head ache, and he had gladly let Sheila take over the whole thing as soon as he'd figured out what a pain it was.

He started the coffee pot and walked into his office to look at the names scrawled on a whiteboard on the wall near his desk.

“This current?” he asked Sam.

“Yeah, I think so.”

The guys who'd worked through the night and morning on the snowstorm were now off. Duane was back on guarding Albert the Moron at the hospital. And Gerald Tucker was out guarding the
Branson Beauty
at its temporary dock. Hank frowned. He'd have to do something about that, soon.

He turned to Sam. “What's the most important thing you've got?”

Sam looked flustered. He had clearly not expected to be asked to do the prioritizing himself. He bounced on the balls of his feet for a moment.

“Okay,” he said with a rush of breath. Hank envied the ease with which Sam's sinuses appeared to be working. “I think this is pretty important—according to all the old folks I talked to and that Tony guy who works on the boat, the door up to the second level was some kind of fire door. You could get out, but it locked from the outside. So if you were outside, you couldn't get in. All the old folks remember Mrs. Honneffer's son holding the door open for them when they got there.” He looked at the notes still clutched in his hand. “And Mr. Dovecoat—he's a nice man, very funny—and Mrs. Lois Campbell, they each told me they saw that at one point, Mrs. Honneffer's son accidentally let go of the door and it slammed shut. That's how they know it locked. They couldn't get in until he opened it again.”

Very good, Hank thought. “And why do you think that's important, Sam?” he asked.

“Well,” Sam said slowly, “that means that the second level was pretty much closed off, right? So the murderer has to be one of the people already up there, right?”

“Yep,” Hank said. “Seems like we can focus on them first and not have to worry so much about the other hundred people downstairs, doesn't it?”

The two men grinned at each other. Sam looked down at his notes again.

“I interviewed all the old folks who were at the private party. They all said pretty much the same thing. Nobody acted funny, and they didn't notice anything weird going on. Except for the crash, of course.”

Hank thought for a moment. “Did Leonard Dovecoat say anything about the elevator?”

“Oh, yeah. He said it was broken. He and Mrs. Honneffer's son went to look at it after the crash, and it was off its track or something. Wouldn't work. So Mr. Dovecoat said that all the ‘old birthday biddies'—I told you he was funny—were stuck up there. Apparently he was the only old person there who could use the stairs. The rest of them had to take the elevator up and then had to be carried down by the paramedics. Makes me glad I'm a cop.” He grinned.

“Yeah,” Hank said. “But nobody's holding them at gunpoint.”

Sam stared at him in puzzlement.

“Never mind,” Hank said. He popped out to the coffee machine, poured himself a cup of just-done brew, and came back to the office. “What about the waiter interview?”

Sam shuffled his papers.

“Name is Tim Colard. Should I start at the beginning with him?”

“Yeah,” Hank said as he settled in his chair and dug in the desk drawer for the box of tissues Maggie had sent to work with him a few weeks back.

“He arrived at work an hour before the boat was supposed to leave, like he always does. Said because he's got the most seniority, he gets to work the private dining room whenever it's rented out. I guess that's a big deal in waiter-world. Anyway, he was going between the kitchen and the dining room, getting stuff ready, when people started showing up. He was coming out of the kitchen doorway when he bumped into two women in the hallway. One was quite old, and he later figured out that was the birthday guest of honor, Mrs. Honneffer. The other was the victim.”

“How does he know it was Mandy?” Hank asked.

“He didn't know her, but when he went back into the kitchen a few minutes later, she was in there. She was sitting at the table crying. Mrs. Pugo—she's the cook—was patting her on the back. Mr. Colard never figured out why she was so upset, but said she stayed in the kitchen with them. Said Mrs. Pugo told him it was one woman protecting another.

“Eventually, the victim calmed down enough to tell Mr. Colard her name. She helped heat up the meal and then played cards with them for a little bit after the boat crashed.”

Hank perked up. “Then what?”

Sam started reading directly from his notes. “Ten or fifteen minutes after the crash, the witness—I mean Mr. Colard—and the show captain-slash-actor guy, and Tony Sampson moved all the guests from the dining room to the lounge. They thought a change of scenery would keep them all calm. Also, lunch was over and they didn't have any more food to serve, so they thought it would be best to move them out of the dining room. The witness offered everyone coffee or water, but they were starting to get upset, and he didn't want to deal with that, so he went back into the kitchen. Mrs. Pugo, Mr. Stanton—he's the show captain—and the victim had started playing cards. The witness joined them. After approximately fifteen minutes, the victim started to get fidgety. She said she really needed to get some air. The witness heard Mrs. Pugo tell her to go out the kitchen door and turn right, toward the dining room and away from the lounge, where the guests were located. This seemed quite odd to the reporting witness—I mean Mr. Colard. The victim said thank you and left.” Sam looked up. “Mr. Colard did not see the victim again.”

Hank leaned back in his chair. “Did you talk to Mrs. Pugo?”

The Pup shook his head and looked slightly apologetic. “She's not answering her phone, and I haven't had a chance to drive over to her house.”

“That's fine,” Hank said, and meant it. The good Mrs. Pugo was now a much bigger player in this drama, and he wanted to hear her story in person. “I'll be able to do that later. You have her address?”

Sam had just started to dig through his stack when Hank's desk phone rang. They both froze, Sam with a paper in midair and Hank with his coffee mug halfway to his mouth. He took a drink before picking up the phone.

“Hey, Sheila.”

“Hey. I found them. Well, I found a few of them. The letters. There have to be others, though. Her room was messy. Typical college dorm. She was not the neatest thing, bless her heart. I need to go through it again. I've got three so far.”

Hank put her on speakerphone and sent the Pup for a fresh pad of paper to take notes.

“You got them in evidence sleeves?” he asked the phone.

“Of course I do! What am I, a rookie? Geez. You send me down here and then have no faith in me?”

“Okay, okay. Sorry,” Hank said as Sam stifled a snicker. “Before you read the notes, I've got a couple of questions for you. Did you find a gun?”

Silence. “What did you say?”

“Did you find a gun in her room?”

“No, I did not. Find a gun. In her room. Would have mentioned that first off, don't you think? I might not have gone through all the stacks of papers yet, but I did search the entire room, and there wasn't any gun,” Sheila snapped. “She had one?”

“Yeah,” Hank said. “I talked to the girl who loaned it to her. And it wasn't on her body or in her car, and no one found it in the search of the boat.”

Everyone silently contemplated that for a moment, until Hank asked about Mandy's roommate.

“Sweet kid. She knew about the stalker. Mandy showed her a letter right before Christmas break. She knew Mandy had gotten more, but said that basically Mandy refused to talk about it, even though it was obviously freaking her out. The two girls who lived next door said the same. She didn't know who it was and seemed to think that if she ignored it, it would all go away.

“The roommate said she seemed much happier when she came back after the break. She talked about Ryan all the time, and about feeling more secure. Hmm. Was that when she got the gun?”

“Yep,” Hank said. “What'd she say about coming back to Branson this weekend?”

“She seemed pretty excited. Kept talking about Mrs. Honneffer, and about getting to surprise Ryan. She got up at about five on Sunday morning. She'd had some big track shindig the night before, which was why she didn't go up on Saturday. I'm trying to get ahold of those people now.”

Again, silence fell. Hank's chest tightened. He stared at the phone and thought about Bill Bryson's little girl.

“Okay, Sheila. We're ready. Read them.”

“I'll read them in order of how they seem to have been sent,” Sheila said. “Here goes:

“Dearest Mandy,

I know that my first letter might have come as a surprise to you. This kind of love could surprise anyone. It is that deep and that strong. I watch you walking to class and I ache with longing. I want to touch you. I want to be with you. You are my perfect angel.