The Branson Beauty (27 page)

 

CHAPTER

24

“Hello, Callie.”

He had bolted for his car and managed to get to it in time to cut off the pickup as it started down the long driveway out of the church parking lot.

“How am I supposed to follow him if you do that?” she snapped as he walked up to her truck door.

“It's nice to see you again, too,” he said. “Why didn't you come in to the funeral?”

She glared at him. “I was here to see who came. And he was the one who didn't go into the fellowship hall. So he's the one who needs to be followed.” She jabbed a finger in the direction Tony's Chevy had taken.

“Relax,” Hank said. “I know where he's going. What do you know about him?”

Another glare.

“Come on, Callie…”

“Don't talk to me like some grown-up that thinks I'm just some stupid teenager,” she snarled. “You're no better than I am. You don't know who did it, either.”

Well, that was true. He tried again.

“Okay, look. I'm interested in what you know about him. Do you know him from school?”

She eyed him, and he knew she was wishing they were back in her woods with her rifle pointed at him.

“Yeah,” she said after what felt like several minutes. “He was two years ahead of me. Me and Mandy. He didn't really do much. No sports or clubs or anything, I don't think. I never even talked to him. I know he hung around with them, though. The track girls, cuz his sister was one of them. So he knew Mandy.”

“That gun of yours turn up? The one you lent Mandy?”

She shook her head.

“If it does—and I am very serious about this, Callie—you need to tell me immediately. I won't concern myself with any other guns you got—you understand me?” Callie nodded slowly. “But that one could be the key to solving Mandy's murder,” he continued, “so you tell me. Got it?”

She nodded again. He stuck out his hand. “Don't push it,” she said, and threw the truck into reverse, backing away toward the other exit out of the parking lot. Hank grinned and went to move his own car out of the way for the people just starting to leave the fellowship hall.

*   *   *

Rudolph was shaking. Standing in front of him and shaking so much that the newspaper rattled in his hands as he waved it in Hank's face.

“Do you have any idea…?” Rudolph sputtered. “That you would slander this town's most respected citizen … to even suggest…”

Hank plucked the paper from the county commissioner's hand and smoothed it out. It appeared that Jadhur had taken full advantage of the sheriff's quote for the boat fire story. And moved it to the front page.

SHERIFF QUESTIONS ACCIDENTAL FIRE

TABLE ROCK LAKE—Authorities continued this week to investigate the cause of the fire that sank the
Branson Beauty
on Tuesday. State fire officials are calling the blaze an accident, but County Sheriff Hank Worth thinks otherwise.

“It's awfully coincidental that an old boat, badly in need of updating and with significant personnel expenses, suddenly caught fire in such a way that no real investigation of it can take place,” Worth said earlier this week.

The
Beauty
, one of Branson's oldest and most beloved tourist attractions, has been navigating the waters of Table Rock Lake for three decades. Originally owned by “Crazy” Otis Schornberger, the boat was purchased after his death by Gallagher Enterprises, which has run the operation for the past two years. It employed more than 100 people, many of whom started with Schornberger in the 1980s. There are no records of it being retrofitted at any point in its existence.

“We kept the
Beauty
meticulously maintained. It received a yearly bow-to-stern inspection and daily upkeep,” said Henry Gallagher, president of Gallagher Enterprises. “It was the crown jewel of our business here in Branson County, and I am devastated by its loss.”

The
Beauty
ran aground Sunday morning during a routine cruise. The showboat's paddlewheel wedged between boulders south of Poverty Point and had to be removed in order for the boat to be towed to shore. The cause of that incident is still under investigation, Worth said.

The hasty amputation of the paddlewheel likely led to fuel or hydraulic fluid leaking and caused the fire, according to fire investigator supervisor Mike Salvatore of the Office of the State Fire Marshal. The entire boat is now underwater, and the wreckage is too dangerous to send down divers, he added.

According to sources, Gallagher Enterprises had insured the boat and accompanying business for $20 million. With the fire officially ruled an accident, that payout should not be questioned, industry experts said.

Hank stopped reading. Twenty million. Interesting. Jadhur apparently had better sources than Sheila did, because she'd been trying to get that figure ever since she got back from Oklahoma. He was wondering how soon Gallagher would get the money when the paper was snatched from his hands, forcing him to return his attention to the irate politician standing in his substation lobby.

“You can't operate like this!” Rudolph was almost yelling now. “He is the most important businessman in the county, he—”

“He certainly is,” Hank cut in. “But do you want to tell me why you were chatting with his flunky at the vigil yesterday?”

Rudolph looked as though Hank had hit him with a two-by-four. He clamped his slack jaw closed and glared up at him.

“How do you know that? You weren't there.” He looked as if he regretted the words the second he uttered them. “What I mean is … I don't know what you mean. I spoke only to the concerned citizens who attended the vigil. And the pastor. Yes, yes. The pastor. We prayed together. Yes, yes … when was the last time you prayed, Worth?”

Hank couldn't help laughing. “Nice try. I'm not asking you about the pastor, or your religious pedigree. I'm asking you about Terry Cummings. What were the two of you talking about behind the church as the vigil let out?”

Rudolph took a step back and began to look a bit wary. His gaze darted around the lobby as if he were looking for hidden cameras. He should know I don't have the money for those, Hank thought. He crossed his arms and waited as Fizzel, now a decidedly un-Rudolph-like shade of white, shifted from foot to foot in front of him.

“I was … I was offering my condolences … about the
Beauty
. That's all.”

“Really? Then why was Cummings so upset? What did you do to make him mad … Commissioner?” Hank drew out the last word with a mix of contempt and distaste that he had honed in KC interrogating gangbangers whose drive-bys shot up uninvolved bystanders. He'd never gotten to use it on a politician before. Fizzel blanched and took another step back.

Hank took a shot in the dark. “Were you talking about me?”

Fizzel got even more pale, which Hank hadn't thought was possible. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down. “Why would we be doing that?” he asked in a shaky tone that confirmed Hank had scored a direct hit.

“Well…” Hank was coming up with this on the fly. “You already gave me a warning. Then I tried to get Gallagher in here to explain his holdings and the state of his showboat business. Then his chief assistant was seen yelling at you. And now, you're awfully upset about an observation I made in the newspaper. You're not doing a very good job of keeping me in check, are you?”

Fizzel flushed, his face regaining its standard red hue. “I was the chief supporter of your appointment as sheriff. You wouldn't be here if it weren't for me. You should … you should … act as if you appreciate that fact.”

Hank raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Oh, but I do. I very much appreciate my job and the responsibilities that come with it. But here's the thing
you
need to appreciate. You might have hired me, but you can't order me around. I am not your employee. I am the law.” He couldn't believe he'd just said that. In Kansas City, that would have gotten him laughed off the streets. Down here, though, it fit. So he said it again. “I am the law. And I will uphold it. And if anyone broke the law, or thinks they can cash in by committing fraud, I'm going to stop it. And then I'm going to arrest them. And anyone who might be helping them.” He paused. “So, what do you know about the boat fire?”

Fizzel's throat convulsed again. Hank's eyebrows climbed even higher as he waited. And waited. This guy was not quick on his feet. Hank sighed. “Who have you talked to at Gallagher Enterprises since the fire?”

“Uh … Mr. Cummings, at the vigil. And … uh … that's all.”

“Bullshit,” Hank said. “You told me when you came here Tuesday afternoon that you'd already spoken to someone there. So you at least did that.”

Hank slowly pulled out of the commissioner that he'd spoken to Cummings a few hours after the Tuesday morning fire. And then every day after that. Rudolph insisted that the conversations were only about his concerns for the welfare of the
Beauty
's employees—“my people,” he called them—and that they had nothing to do with keeping Hank in line.

“Yeah. Just like handing out my name and number to all of those people at the vigil had nothing to do with keeping me in line. My phone in Forsyth has been ringing off the hook with people freaked out about the murder. Like that's not going to cause me to spend less time investigating the boat fire.”

A smirk flashed across Fizzel's face and was just as quickly gone. Hank wanted to punch him in his red nose. He took a step back instead. “The law” would lose a lot of his moral high ground if he hauled off and hit somebody—even if it was a politician.

“I really think—” Hank started, when the bell on the lobby door jangled loudly and the one person with even less restraint than he had burst in.

“I knew it. And I'd be able to say ‘I told you so' if you'd just answer your damn cell phone and listen to my suspicions,” Sheila said as she bent down to brush crusty snow off her boots. “That little weasel took a boatload of cash—hah, boatload—from Gallagher during the last elect—” She straightened up and noticed the weasel standing next to Hank. “Well, what do we have here? It's nice to see you, Commissioner. It'll save me a phone call to ask you about these campaign contributions from the last election. Seems you took the maximum amount from Gallagher Enterprises, along with the maximum amount from Gallagher personally, and his wife, and that Cummings guy. I seem to remember you being pretty far behind Percy Wilcott. ‘Fizzel has fizzled out. Vote for someone new.' Heh, that was good. But then you started running TV commercials. Commercials. Nobody's got the money to do that. But you suddenly did. Said all kind of nasty things about poor Percy.” She dug a sheaf of papers out of her marshmallow penguin parka and waved it in the air. “And I'll bet these donations don't even come close to paying for all that airtime. What'd you take under the table?”

Hank turned to see that Fizzel had gone white again. He took the papers from Sheila and began to casually flip through them. “What else did Cummings tell you, Commissioner? Or do you want me to do this with your bank statements, too?”

Fizzel's shoulders slumped. “He told me that I'd better get you to shut up about the
Beauty
sinking. That you were creating problems and that it was my job to protect this county's most important business. That was why they were so generous when I ran for re-election.”

Hank pounced. “They—they who?”

“Well, Gallagher Enterprises, of course.”

Sheila snatched back the campaign finance papers. “These list a lot of money, but everything complies with the law. Where'd all the extra money come from—the money for all of those commercials?”

Fizzel scowled. “I don't have to say anything. We're not involved in this, and—”

Both Hank and Sheila leaned forward until Fizzel was forced to take a step back. His red-faced belligerence had turned into ashen fear. Hank felt as if he was finally getting somewhere.

“Who's ‘we,' Commissioner?” Sheila asked. Then she smiled. “Wait a minute. Didn't your son get hired by Gallagher Enterprises? Before the election? I remember that was one of your pro-business things. That you were supporting jobs—and just look at the opportunities for young people around here now. And then you'd talk about your son.”

“So?” Fizzel said. “This area needs jobs. Everybody knows that.”

“And wasn't it nice that your son got one of them,” Sheila said. “Especially considering that he still lives at home and doesn't have to pay rent. Tyrone sees him while he's doing his mail route, and—”

Fizzel cut her off. “Oh, he pays rent.” Then he stopped and his face got even more red. Hank stood back in silent enjoyment and watched Sheila go in for the kill.

“Really?” she said. “How much, exactly? How much does he get paid and then how much does he give you for rent?” She started listing figures as Fizzel stood there mute. She stopped when she got to three grand a month and the veins in his neck bulged. He would not make a good poker player, Hank thought.

“And now we know,” Sheila said. “That kind of money month after month would buy a lot of TV commercials.”

Fizzel spun on his heel and marched out the door. Hank turned to Sheila.

“Get those bank statements,” Hank said. “Oh, and nice work.”

Sheila smiled, patted her already immaculate ebony hair into place, and headed to the phone.

 

CHAPTER

25

Dunc was laughing over the
Daily What's-It
when Hank got home that evening.

“Well, son, that's one way to do it,” Dunc said, waving the newspaper at him. “Poke the tiger right in the eye. You're not trying to make any friends in this job, are you?”