The Branson Beauty (26 page)

“And now,” intoned the pastor, “Sister Danielle has a few things she would like to share.”

Hank was surprised. She had not been listed in the program. Danielle rose and walked, slowly but steadily, to the podium at the side of the altar. She placed a paper in front of her and smoothed it very deliberately.

“Mandy was my best friend. We knew each other forever, ever since she was five and I was four. We met here in Sunday school, when there was a mix-up in the classes and I got put with the older kids. She didn't let them put me back. She made them let me stay, so we could be together. She was like that. Always loyal and always your best defender. Even when she was five, she stood up to the grown-ups and got them to back down. She was like that.

“And if she couldn't convince you she was right, well, then she'd just take off. She'd run. But it wasn't running away. She never ran away or anything. It was more like she was running toward something. Toward her future, maybe. At least that's what I always thought … before.” She stopped and gripped the podium. The church was completely silent except for her shaky breathing into the microphone. She inhaled deeply and found her place on the smoothed paper.

“Her future … her future was running. She was so excited to go to OU. She was so excited to run at that level, maybe even more than that. She knew she could do it. Heck, everybody knew she could do it. After last year, after she won state. She was incredible. She made us all better. It was like a dream, running with her. My best friend.

“And she was more than just fast. She was kind. She was friendly to everyone. It didn't matter who you were. If she thought you were a good person, then Mandy liked you. She'd help you. She'd stick up for you. There was this girl in her English class one year who didn't really have any friends. She was kind of shy and lived outside of town, so she didn't really do much. Mandy wanted to invite this girl to her birthday party, but she knew the girl wouldn't come to something with a lot of people. So she threw a second birthday party, and that girl was the only one she invited. I think they just hung out, but that next Monday at school—you could tell. That girl was
so
happy.

“That's why…” Danielle stifled a sob. “That's why I don't understand … I don't understand this. Why Mandy? Good people aren't supposed to be murd— This isn't supposed to happen to good people. And Mandy…” Her voice was barely audible, even with the microphone. “Mandy was the best. And she always will be.”

No one heard what the minister said next. There was really no way to follow that. People were sobbing in their seats—women clutching each other, men trying to compose themselves so as not to have to meet anyone's gaze with teary eyes.

Ryan dabbed at his eyes. So did Tony, as he kept tugging at his tie with shaking hands. Jeffrey's eyes he couldn't see. The attorney was hugging his daughter, who had collapsed against him in the pew. Hank watched carefully, then slipped from the church and posted himself just outside the door, where he could see everyone as they made their way out into the clear, cold afternoon.

First came the high school classmates. Alyssa Sampson and Tall Jennifer stopped when they saw him.

“You arrested Chad.” It was an accusation, and Jennifer then looked surprised, as if she hadn't thought the words before she spoke them.

“Yeah, I did. He resisted arrest. And impeded a murder investigation. And was attempting to flee the jurisdiction.” The two girls' eyes widened in unison—he doubted they thought Mr. All That capable of such delinquencies. Hank now knew better. “How close is he to his brother, do you know?”

Alyssa frowned. “I'm not sure. He would talk about him sometimes, like he looked up to him, but was also kinda jealous, you know? Of all his brother's success, being a big-time player in New York.”

“Do you know what his brother does—what his job is?” Hank asked. “Did Chad talk about that?”

“He works for a bank or something, doesn't he? Some kind of stockbroker, maybe?” Alyssa said.

It was a hedge fund, actually, a very large one from which the elder Sorenson brother had transferred large sums of money that were not his. He had then hedged his own bets by leaving the country on a flight from LaGuardia to Grand Cayman and then disappearing.

When Hank had spoken to him that morning, the U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York had no idea where the Sorenson brother had gone after that. And Hank was pretty sure from the timing of his flight that Chad—whose plane from Springfield, by way of Dallas–Fort Worth, landed at LaGuardia two hours before Big Bro took off for the Caribbean—was supposed to have joined him. But whether Chad's plan was merely to enjoy the spoils of his brother's theft, or to flee the country after committing a murder—that was something Hank was still working on.

“Will Chad get out?” Jennifer asked. “Don't you have to give him bail?”

Hank smiled. “That decision is up to a judge, actually. And the one yesterday didn't believe that Chad will stick around, so he decided not to let him out.” Throwing phrases like “Wall Street” and “corporate raider” and “one percenter” at a country judge from the Ozarks had that effect. It had been one of the more enjoyable bail hearings of Hank's career.

The girls looked disappointed. They were starting to move away as more people came out of the church when Hank caught a glimpse of Alyssa's brother still sitting in his pew inside.

“What's up with Tony? Why didn't he sit with you guys?”

Alyssa shrugged impatiently. “He's all upset. Been that way since the boat crash, but he's gotten real bad since it burned up. It means he has no job, so he might have to give up on his dream of moving out. And that's made him all moody. He said after the vigil that we had all just jumped on the bandwagon. That we liked the attention.” She sniffed dismissively. “He can be a tool. I'm glad he drove himself.”

Hank looked back in at Tony, who had gotten up and was walking toward the door. Hank turned as someone tugged his sleeve.

“Thank you, Sheriff, for sending that young man over to put a lock on my door,” said Mrs. Pugo. The showboat's cook clutched a large handkerchief and wore a dress that looked to be made out of the same material as her flowered armchair. He asked why she had wanted to come to the service.

“Well, now … I am still having a hard time with myself. For not going after her. For forgetting. I thought the least I could do was come and pay my respects before the Lord.” She swiped her nose with the handkerchief. “I got atoning to do. And so does he.” She pointed at Roy Stanton, who was trying to inch behind her and get out of the cluster of people in the doorway. “I had to convince him to come. Told him that he needed to do some praying for that poor child, too. He done forgot her, too.”

Hank turned and said hello, loudly, as Stanton started down the steps. The actor stopped and gave him a nod.

“Why, hello, Sheriff. Of course I was going to come and pay my respects to that dear girl.” Mrs. Pugo rolled her eyes. “She was just lovely,” he continued. “All dressed up for the day, with her fancy dress and her hair done and that bright red lipstick. Such a tragedy.”

He bobbed his head again and continued down the stairs and away from Mrs. Pugo's fluttering—and well-used—handkerchief. Hank tried to do the same, gently prying her hand off his arm. He spotted the Honneffer family coming out of the church and gestured toward them. “You understand…”

“Oh, yes, yes.” Mrs. Pugo bobbed politely in Mrs. Honneffer's direction and moved away as they approached.

“How do you do, Sheriff?” said Frances Honneffer, who seemed to have shrunk into a state of even greater fragility than she'd been in earlier in the week. She held her granddaughter Ashley's hand. Michelle stood on her left. “Are you any further along in … in finding…”

He glanced behind her to Patricia Honneffer, whose look told him she was remembering his Presidents' Day promise to her. He answered them both. “I'm getting closer. Definitely closer.”

Mrs. Honneffer nodded, and they all moved away, headed for the fellowship hall and the reception of tea and cookies. Jeffrey shook his hand as he moved past. Strong handshake, strong hand. Hank sighed. Jeffrey could theoretically have killed Mandy, but Hank was now giving him only ten-to-one odds. Sheila had done some digging into his background, and the guy didn't seem to be a womanizer. All he did was work. He had shown no particular interest in Mandy. As far as Sheila could determine, he had never even been alone with her—he'd always just seen her at family gatherings, surrounded by plenty of other people. He wasn't known to drink, didn't have money problems, and was mentally stable, at least according to friends and legal clients. He was, essentially, a very boring man. Now, very boring men often made fantastic killers, but Hank wasn't feeling it this time. Maybe even twelve-to-one.

Ah, but the odds significantly improve with this one, he thought as he turned back toward the church doors. Ryan was trying to slip through unnoticed. Hank stepped in front of him.

“Hello there.”

Ryan's smile was forced. “Hi.”

“It's good to see you here. I wasn't sure you would come. You know, having moved on and all. Where's Kelly?”

Ryan swallowed noisily. “She, ah … she had to go back to St. Louis.” He bit his bottom lip.

“Really? Huh. How does that make you feel?” Hank leaned in just a little. Ryan dug deeper into his lip and glared at Hank.

“How d'ya think? Lousy. The whole thing is lousy. She's talking about it all over the place. You should see her Instagram page. I'll never be able to get a date now.”

“Will you talk to her when you get back? Tell her how it makes you feel?”

Ryan let go of his lip and curled it into a sneer. “What's the point? She doesn't care how I feel.”

Hank stifled a chuckle. The irony of that was obviously lost on young Ryan. “Can you do anything to get her to stop?” he asked.

Ryan shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat. “I've been thinking about it, and I maybe could put the heat on—” He stopped short, and his eyes widened. “I don't think I should be talking to you anymore.”

“Why not? Kelly doesn't have anything to do with Mandy, with her murder. Right?” He had continued to lean slightly closer throughout their conversation—by now, he hung so far over the shorter Ryan that the kid was forced to angle his whole torso back to look up at him—because he'd refused to shift his feet and take a step back. Interesting. “Does she?”

“No!” He spat the word in Hank's face. “No, she doesn't. Cuz I don't. I didn't want to kill her … I just didn't want to be with her anymore. I didn't do it.”

Ryan finally broke position, stepping back and spinning quickly away. He took the steps down two at a time, his hands still crammed in his pockets as he hurried to catch up with the rest of his family. Hank pulled himself out of his lean and realized Ryan was one of the last ones out of the church. A few older women who had to be parishioners stood just inside the doorway talking to the pastor. But Tony was no longer there. Neither were the Brysons, but Hank didn't necessarily need to talk to them. The
Beauty
's second-in-command, however …

He ducked back inside and saw a side door, up near the altar. He jogged down the side aisle, hoping he wasn't violating some kind of Baptist pew decorum rule, and pushed open the door. A narrow walkway led toward another building and then branched off toward the parking lot. He saw Tony headed toward the back and either a beat-up Chevy sedan or an even more rusted pickup of indeterminate make.

“Hey there,” he called. Tony came to a slow-motion stop and turned around.

“Oh, hello, sir. Can I help you with something?”

“Yeah, I thought since you were here, I'd clear up a few things,” Hank said. “Whose idea was it to move all the folks from the private dining room into the lounge after the crash?”

Tony stopped dabbing at his bloodshot eyes and stared at the ground. “I don't know.” He shrugged. “Could have been either one of them—Tim or Roy. Wouldn't have been Mrs. Pugo. She, um, she doesn't really take the lead on stuff.” He looked up at Hank with now-dry eyes. “Anything else, sir?”

“Yeah,” said Hank. “When did you go to the second level? How soon after the crash?”

Tony thought for a moment. “A few minutes after, I guess.”

“And where were you when the crash happened?”

“I was down on the main level. Just here and there. It wasn't a very important part of the route—for me, I mean. I didn't have much to do.”

“So you came upstairs after the crash? Why? Weren't there more people to take care of down on the main level?”

Tony nodded slowly. “Yeah, I guess so. I just thought about how ticked off the private party would be. And I wanted to get up to the pilothouse, too. To see what had happened.”

“And what did you see up there?”

“Just Captain Eberhardt. Sitting stone still. Like he'd been frozen. I couldn't get him to move, or even look at me. I didn't know what to do, so that's when I went back down to check on the folks on the second level.”

“And was the dining room locked?”

“I don't know.” Tony ground the toe of his shoe into the snow on the sidewalk. “I went straight to the lounge. Look, I got to go, okay? I have an interview at a theater. I got to find a new job.”

“Yeah,” Hank said. “You sure do. What kind of job are you interviewing for?”

“Assistant stage manager,” he said. “Can I go now?”

Hank nodded and watched as Tony walked quickly down the snowy sidewalk to the beat-up Chevy. That kid is becoming more and more interesting, he thought as he headed back around to the front of the church. The loud roar of an engine stopped him. He turned to see the derelict pickup pulling out at a distance behind Tony's Chevy. The driver appeared to have long, light brown hair.