The Branson Beauty (20 page)

No kidding. But before he started talking about Albert's current condition, Hank needed a lot more background. The guy had no family, lived alone, and apparently had only one extracurricular activity, which was coaching the girls' track team. A check had turned up no arrest record, one overdue parking ticket out of Kansas City, military service during the Vietnam War, a Republican voter registration, a thirty-year-old divorce, and ownership of a little two-bedroom place on two acres out on Highway 248.

And the house was just as uninformative. The Pup had searched it yesterday with a warrant and found a treadmill, lots of health food, no alcohol, a desk with only routine bills and paperwork but no computer, two very hungry cats, and several half-finished landscape paintings. Sam had pronounced the cats “pretty mean” and the paintings “pretty good.” None of them helped further the investigation.

But then “Captain” Stanton got himself a fresh bourbon and started talking. And he made no attempt to distance himself from the man who'd basically sunk everyone's livelihoods. “Al Eberhardt is one of the best men I've ever served with. And that's the God's honest truth. Crazy Otis hired us both right about the same time … within six months of each other. That was back in '95. I called us ‘the Two Captains.'” His arm swept dramatically upward again, but this time he managed to hold on to his liquor. “Al didn't, though. He's what you would call understated. No dramatic flair. Can't act worth a can of beans.”

Albert kept mostly to himself. He enjoyed his job—the peace of the lake, the moderate challenge of navigating the well-worn paddle-wheel route. He especially liked being able to disappear into the pilothouse without having to interact with the tourists. Roy shook his head sadly—it was obvious that, even after twenty years, he could not relate to such reticence. But that didn't mean, he added quickly, that Albert didn't get along with people. People he knew, well, he got on with them just fine. It just took him a while to warm up, that was all.

Roy wasn't sure his friend had always been that way. He had a feeling that Albert had withdrawn after coming back from Vietnam. His marriage had ended, and he'd bounced around, working in factories mostly, until he came to Branson, where Otis had taken him on. And taken him in. That was how Otis worked. All manner of lost souls. Folks who needed a chance, or just a little bit of help. Otis would reach out a hand. He wouldn't give out handouts, no. He'd give you a job, a way to support yourself.

“And that was how it was with Al. I don't think he ever really shook Vietnam. I don't know for sure what happened to him there, but…” He trailed off. “That was how we became friends, you know. I was in 'Nam, too. We were the only two 'Nam vets on the boat. We'd talk about it every once in a while. He didn't like to, actually. Something about what he did over there. Went on a lot of bombing raids. I think he did napalm drops, but the couple times I brought it up, he got up and left the room. But he knew the military, and we'd joke about it sometimes. It's nice to know that someone else gets it, you know?”

None of Albert's habits or routines had changed recently, as far as Roy knew. Work had been normal—excepting Sunday's mishap, of course—and Albert wasn't having any financial problems. The guy never spent money on anything except painting supplies and running shoes. Hank leaned in. About the running …

“Oh, goodness. He runs every day. Has ever since I've known him. Absolutely crazy. About ten years ago, he was on a run and met Gene, the high school track coach. Gene talked him into helping out. He didn't want to at first—you know, the whole shy thing. But I told him the opportunity wouldn't have fallen in his lap if he wasn't meant to do it. Plus, it's hard for the school to find folks willing to coach things.” He smiled sadly. “Except drama, apparently. They've never needed my help. I offer every year, but they always already have someone.” He stared pensively at his stack of plays for a moment before a sip of his drink got him back on track.

So Al had started coaching. Originally, Roy said, he'd helped with both the boys' and girls' teams. But after a few years, he'd realized that the girls were much more open to his suggestions and techniques than the boys, so he began working only with them. And it was no coincidence, Roy said with pride, that now the girls' team was one of the best in the state, and the boys' was not.

“Did he ever talk specifically about Mandy Bryson?” Hank asked.

Roy thought. “I don't know, honestly. He talked about all of them. What their times were, how they'd done at the last track meet. I don't remember him talking specifically about anybody. Oh, except Tony Sampson's sister. Told me he liked her a whole lot better than he did her brother. Said that Tony did his job well, learned the ropes pretty quickly, but Albert just couldn't figure the kid out. Always looking over his shoulder. I teased him, told him it was because Tony wanted his job.”

Hank wondered how much pressure Albert's job did put on him. Enough to send him over the edge? That sounded possible. But what was that edge? Running the boat aground? Murdering his track star? Or both? What had happened that day?

Roy hadn't seen Albert before the boat launched that morning, which wasn't unusual. In fact, he hadn't seen him at all. He'd pondered going up to the pilothouse after the boat ran into the rocks, but thought better of it. In what Hank considered an atypical burst of self-awareness, Roy said he figured Albert didn't need any more drama right then.

The crash had sent everyone, staff and guests, rushing into the hallway to get a better look out the big windows. Roy didn't think Mandy had come out, but he was sure everyone else in the kitchen had. They all milled around in the hallway for maybe ten minutes. Roy supposed someone in the crowd could have ducked into the kitchen during that time, but—being focused on the unbelievable sight of the
Beauty
's wheel wedged between the rocks—he had not paid any attention to the kitchen door, so he didn't know for sure. He did know that he hadn't seen anyone new on the deck. The only passengers there were the rude ones from the private dining room. And the only other staff member to show up was Tony Sampson, who appeared a few minutes after the crash. Roy wasn't sure whether he had come from the main deck below or the pilothouse above.

Tony and Tim eventually got all the passengers down the hallway into the lounge and things quieted down. And after Tim cleaned up the lunch dishes, no one had used the door between the dining room and the kitchen. He had no idea if it had been locked at some point or not. Hank did not tell him it had been.

Tim had served the coffee, which ran out way too soon. He had told Mrs. Pugo to water it down, but did she listen? No. Irritating woman.

“So I—not unlike the poor
Beauty
—was stuck between a rock and a hard place. I could go into the lounge with those ungracious people, or I could stay in the kitchen with silly Mrs. Pugo and a weepy teenager.” Roy sighed. “I chose to stay. At least Mrs. Pugo had not insulted my professional capabilities. We played cards for some time, and then Mandy wanted to get some air.”

He had also stepped out, to use the facilities, and last saw Mandy walking past the dining room and toward the stairs to the pilothouse.

“I'll be honest,” Roy said, leaning forward and grasping his drink with both hands. “I didn't think about her again. Now I look back and know I should have wondered where she'd gone off to, but there was so much going on once you and the Coast Guard came aboard. I didn't hear anything in the dining room. I wish I had. That poor thing.”

Now Hank leaned forward.

“Do you think Al did it?”

“He loved those track girls of his,” Roy said. “Why would he kill one of them?”

“That's what I'm asking you,” Hank said. “Would he have killed her?”

Roy thought for a long moment. “I don't think so.… He has some demons, though … so I don't know.”

“What about you,” Hank asked. “Did you kill her?”

The “captain” stared at Hank for a long moment. He'd expected the question about Albert. He wasn't expecting one about himself. Hank watched him very carefully.

“No, I did not,” Roy said slowly. “I'd never met her before. I watched her walk off, and that was the last I saw of her.” He raised the glass to his lips with a steady hand. Innocence or good acting? Hank wished he knew.

 

CHAPTER

18

“Yeah,” Hank said. “The whole thing stinks.”

His wife took a step back. “No. Not the case. You. You stink. Dear God, where have you been? You smell like an ashtray that caught on fire and was put out by a bottle of whiskey.”

Hank glared at her. “You can't put a fire out with alcohol.” He started to shrug out of his coat, which seemed to have absorbed most of the fuel and smoke smell from the boat explosion site.

“Wait a minute,” Maggie said. “Go take everything off out in the garage. You do that in here and you'll stink up the whole house.”

Hank had no intention of stripping in the freezing garage. And Maggie apparently had no intention of letting him traipse through the house radiating toxic fumes. They stood there in the kitchen staring at each other until Duncan came shuffling in from the living room. “I'm off to bed—oh, you're home. Finally.” He put his empty cocoa mug in the sink. “Your wife only beat you by half an hour. Make sure both of you busy people go in and kiss your children. It was the last thing they asked for before they went to sleep.”

The sound of his slippers scuffing on the carpet faded away as Duncan walked down the hallway. Maggie gave Hank a once-over that ended in a resigned glare. “At least go down to the basement and take them off by the washer. I'll go check on the kids.”

*   *   *

“Oh, man. You stink.”

Hank was getting more than a little tired of hearing that. Especially from the deputy he had hoped would have more to offer than obvious statements of fact. Sheila wrinkled her nose—the exact same way Maggie had the night before—and stepped back. Hank scowled at her.

“It's nice to see you, too. I'm looking forward to hearing your report. Why don't you have a seat?”

She eyed him as she slowly sat in the chair in front of his desk. “I thought the boat fire was yesterday.”

“It was,” Hank growled. “But I only have one winter coat. And it was either wear it—even though it smells, um, pungent—or leave the house in only a sweatshirt. Since it's about ten degrees out there, I was not going to do that—even though it managed to stink up the rest of my clothes just in the couple of minutes I had it on.”

Sheila chortled. “It's not that cold. Jeez, a person would think you'd never been through a Missouri winter before.”

“I've been through quite a few,” Hank protested. “Never gotten used to them, though.”

Sheila gave him a dismissive sniff—which, Hank happily noted, she paid for with a large noseful of smoke stench. When she finished coughing, he said, “I know you've sent in a couple of updates, but why don't you lay out everything you learned all at once. That'll be the most helpful to me and Sam.” Hank looked at the chair Sam had been sitting in seconds ago. “Where'd he go, anyway?”

The Pup trotted back into Hank's office. “Just taking care of something, Chief.” Sheila didn't seem at all annoyed about being made to wait, which was strange. Then Hank noticed that his coat no longer hung on the rack by the door. Sam sat down with an excess of nonchalance and readied his pen and notepad. Well, Hank thought, at least I don't have a problem with these two showing initiative. He sat back and let Sheila report on her trip.

She reached into the large reusable grocery bag at her feet and pulled out several sheets of paper, each one in a plastic sleeve. “I found two more letters. So that's a total of five, including the ones I read you over the phone. I went through every piece of paper in that dorm room, and that's all I found. When you read them, it does sound like there's at least one missing, though.”

The first new letter seemed to come before the one where the writer had obviously seen Mandy and wrote that he wanted her to stop wearing ponytails:

My Mandy,

I hope to be able to see you soon. I want to know what your world is like although I know that it is incomplete without me. I miss you every day. I will come, just to watch you. Soon my love.

The other letter Hank hadn't yet heard came after Mandy had been home during the holidays.

Mandy,

You have not been a good girl. To be with other men when you know you are mine is a sin. I had hoped we could be together over Christmas, but you kept looking at other men. You had no time for me. That hurt me. You need to know that. You need to be better. You need to be mine only.

The first letter was signed with the same squiggle as the others. The second was not signed at all.

“You think he was losing patience with her?” Sam asked.

Hank nodded.

“And then the extraordinary luck…” Sheila stopped herself. “That's a bad word … the extraordinary
coincidence
that he happened to be on the
Beauty
that morning. The only person who knew she was coming was Mrs. Honneffer, right?”

Hank nodded again. “Mrs. Honneffer. And her son. They both made the arrangements with the boat staff for the party. She said she didn't tell Ryan, because she assumed he already knew.”

“But these notes aren't from Ryan. He had dumped her,” Sam said.

“Yeah, he isn't the stalker,” Hank agreed. “But that doesn't mean he isn't the killer. He clearly wanted to be rid of her. If he discovered her on the boat, who knows?” He turned to Sheila. “What did people down there know about him?”

All Mandy's college friends knew about Ryan was what she told them, Sheila said. He was smart, funny, and cute. They all thought the two were still dating. Mandy's roommate, an eighteen-year-old from Tulsa, did say that she thought he had gradually stopped calling as often. It was difficult to say for sure, though, because of course Mandy had her own cell phone and could have taken his calls anywhere.