Bill Hopkins - Judge Rosswell Carew 02 - River Mourn (7 page)

Rosswell contemplated the ferry crossing the river to fetch
a passenger on the Illinois side. Without losing view of the water, he asked
Ollie, “What the hell is Ribs Freshwater doing up here?”

“Killing people.”

“If Ribs is in Sainte Genevieve County, then there’s a
good chance that Nathaniel is here also.”

“Probably not. Nathaniel’s tall, real white, and has
orange hair. Jasmine would’ve noticed him. And she didn’t mention anything
about a guy who looked like that.”

“She likes you.”

“Who likes me?”

“Jasmine was fixing to jump your bones in front of
Pops.”

“Too skinny for my taste.” Ollie picked at an
invisible thread on his shirt.

“Pops is not skinny.”

“You’re very funny, Judge Carew. Maybe you should take
your show on the road.”

“Jasmine was wearing overalls. You couldn’t tell if
she was skinny or not. I thought she was rather pleasant-looking.”

“That watch cap made her look like a Canadian. Who in
their right mind tries to make himself look like a Canadian?”

“Herself.” Rosswell aimed a thumb in the direction of
the departing ferry. “Besides, she
is
Canadian a few
generations past.”

“Before you get too entangled with my love life, let’s
find Turk Malone and Frankie Joe Acorn.”

“Let’s talk to Maman Fribeau first.”

“Turk and Frankie Joe are suspects, too. Those guys
were on the boat when the murder happened.”

“Murder? What murder? Are you calling it murder?”
Rosswell’s heart began its trip-hammer routine again. He couldn’t think about
the word “murder” and Tina in the same sentence.

“If you really did see a woman thrown off the boat, those
boys may know something useful.”

“Okay, you’re the research assistant. After we finish
with those two, we’ll see Maman, then chase down Ribs with a big ponytail and
Charlie with a big face scar.”

Tina recaptured Rosswell’s thoughts. He wouldn’t know
what to do if he was the one who found the body in the river. What if it was
Tina’s body? He wondered if he should shoot himself when he found her body, or
wait until after her funeral. Would he shoot himself in the courthouse square
or sneak off to a secluded location? What was the protocol for suicide in a
case like this?

Ollie’s voice broke through his morbid thoughts. “Besides,
we could get chomped on by chiggers, eaten by mosquitoes, and bit by snakes if
we dare go see the witchy woman down in The Trackless Waste. That would end our
careers as amateur sleuths.” Ollie continued blathering until Roswell
interrupted.

“Wait. Snakes?” Rosswell avoided snakes if at all
possible. The thought of slithering reptiles brought him back into the
conversation. “What kind of snakes?” He wasn’t maniacally afraid of serpents
although he didn’t seek them out. Stir chiggers and mosquitoes into the mix,
and Rosswell thought that maybe Ollie could go see Maman by himself. Then he
could file a report with Rosswell later. “I hate bugs of all kinds. And I’m allergic
to snake venom.”

“Allergic?”

“If a poisonous snake bites me, I break out in death.”

“Judge, you faced down a serial killer and now you’re
afraid of snakes? Fraidy cat, fraidy cat, ate so much, your head’s too fat.”

“Serial killer? You’re talking about the father of
your grandchild. And I’m not a fraidy cat.”

Snakes, chiggers, and mosquitoes were the
best
things they would
run across in The Trackless Waste. And as far as being a fraidy cat? Rosswell
admitted to himself that he was a fracking scared crapless bunny rabbit when it
came to wild critters. Or wild humans.

Turk
Malone inhabited
a log
house at the end of Red Duck Cutoff, a twisting road that switched
back and forth up the side of a steep hill.

Lawnmowers, Rosswell noted, must be scarce in the area,
not to mention weed trimmers. The inside of every window was covered with
aluminum foil. And not the plain kind. Instead, it was the fancy quilted kind. The
afternoon sun transformed the panes to gold. An American flag hung on a pole
wired to a broken gate. An old Harley-Davidson, a rusty Ford pickup, a
brand-new Mustang, a questionable Plymouth Fury, and a dented Malibu decorated
the yard. The pickup truck was covered with bumper stickers:
What Would Nixon Do? I brake for
horny toads. Don’t Like My Smoking? Don’t Breathe! Jesus is Coming Soon—Stash
Your Porn
.

There was also a new white GMC pickup. Ollie nodded
when Rosswell called attention to it. “If that’s not the one on the ferry, then
it’s a twin.” He checked his watch and then rapped on the front door. “Four o’clock.
Write that in your notebook.”

“My report isn’t chronological. It’s by subject
matter. It’s more of a conceptual rather than a linear report.”

“Listen—” Before Rosswell could finish the argument, someone
eased open the door a crack.

“Yeah?” Female voice. The marijuana smoke drifted out,
tickling Rosswell’s supersensitive nose. The pot smelled like a skunk burning
in an alfalfa hay bale. According to a street legend Rosswell had heard, the
odor meant that it was strong crap. Rosswell smacked his lips a few times to
dilute the taste
in his mouth. Then another
smell. Ammonia. Either the cat box needed emptying a month ago or someone was
cooking meth. Smelled like the back wing of Satan.

Rosswell said, “Is Turk in?”

“He’s asleep.”

Rosswell thought it was more like passed out.

“This won’t take long.”

From the back of the house, Rosswell heard a male voice.
“Is it the Schwan’s man?”

Before the female voice could reply, Ollie yelled into
the house, “I’ve got a special on brownies this week.”

Presently, a semi-bearded man, skinny, not as tall as
Ollie, jerked the door wide open. “Y’all ain’t the Schwan’s man.” Turk’s low-slung
jeans threatened to slide down his legs, saved only by his lanky hips. No shirt
and no shoes. He scratched the thick hair on his chest, which was healthier
than his scraggly beard. A toothbrush and Turk’s green teeth were strangers. The
female companion must’ve hidden behind the door because Rosswell couldn’t see
her. She had sounded naked.

Rosswell said, “Turk, could we talk to you a minute?”

“No.” The door slammed shut. The woman inside laughed.

Rosswell knocked again. And again it opened a crack
and the woman said, “He’s sleeping.”

Rosswell waved a twenty-dollar bill in front of the door.
“See if this will wake him up.”

Turk opened the door fully and grabbed the money. “What
do you want?” He hopped outside and slammed the door.

Ollie patted Rosswell’s shoulder. “My friend here is looking
for Ribs Freshwater.”

Turk said, “Who?”

Rosswell fell into Ollie’s interrogation rhythm
quickly. They’d played this game before. “Ribs was on the ferry with you on
Sunday. He’s Cherokee.”

“Didn’t see no foreigners.”

Rosswell and Ollie exchanged glances. Rosswell gave a
slight shake of his head, hoping Ollie wouldn’t pounce on the dense Turk. Instead
of remarking on Turk’s stupidity, Ollie scribbled a few lines in his notebook.

“Turk,” Rosswell said, “did anything odd or unusual
happen on the ferry?”

Turk folded the twenty and stuffed it into a back
pocket. “Nope.” He scratched his beard. “Wait a minute.” Turk’s face morphed
into a mask of pain, as if thinking hurt his brain. “Yeah, something happened.
A noise.”

“What?” Ollie said.

After Turk hadn’t spoken for a few moments, Rosswell prompted,
“Do you remember? About the noise?”

“Oh. Yeah. There was a big noise.”

Rosswell said, “Tell us about the noise.”

Ollie said, “The big noise.”

“Sounded like the boat run over something. The deck
hand—what’s her name—said the transmission had been acting up.”

Rosswell tried again. “Was a Native American on the
ferry?”

“Indian? Might’ve been. I mean, I seen him driving a white
van, but he never come over to see what the noise was. Didn’t get to inspect
him up close.”

Ollie said, “Tell us more about the noise. How did
that happen?”

“Me and this guy was standing by the side of the boat
and he said, ‘What the hell was that big noise?’ I looked around but didn’t see
nothing.”

Rosswell continued the questioning. “Was the guy you
were talking to named Charlie Heckle? Guy with a big scar on his face?”

“Don’t know. I never seen the guy before. Didn’t see
no scar.”

“What were you talking about?”

“Let’s see.” Turk scratched his chest. “Fishing. Yeah,
fishing. Lots of catfish in the river. Big sons of bitches.”

“Frankie Joe Acorn. You know him?”

“Kinda. We ride the ferry ever little bit. I do some
work in Illinois ever once in a while. So does Frankie Joe.”

“What kind of work do you do in Illinois?”

“Stuff. Some stuff. Different stuff.”

“What kind of work does Frankie Joe do in Illinois?”

“Same as me.”

Ollie broke into the interrogation. “Are you sure you
don’t know Ribs Freshwater?”

Turk slid his hand in the back pocket of his jeans
where he’d earlier stuck the money. After a couple of seconds, he said, “Don’t
guess I know him neither. Don’t know no Charlie Heckle and don’t know no Indian
and don’t know no Ribs Freshwater and don’t know no guy with a big scar and don’t
know no foreigners from Cherokee. Am I supposed to?”

Rosswell said, “No.”

Turk said, “Who are you guys?”

“I’m Rosswell Carew and this is Ollie Groton.”

“You must be cops.”

Ollie said, “No, we’re not cops. We’re not private
eyes. We’re a couple of friends looking for Ribs.”

“Am I in trouble?”

Rosswell shook his head. “Not for anything that I know
about.”

Ollie said, “Have you lived around here very long?”

“All my life. Why?”

“Curious. That’s all.”

“Thanks.” Rosswell offered his hand to Turk. “We
appreciate your help.” Turk’s handshake was limp. Like his brain.

Ollie shook with Turk. “Yes, we appreciate your help.”

Turk nodded, then slipped through the door and shut it.
His female companion said, “Did they ask about the white man?”

“No.”

“Let me see that money.”

Driving back to town in Rosswell’s truck, Ollie broke
the silence. “That guy looked awful. Like Charles Manson on a good day.”

“A mullet would improve his appearance.”

“He lied. About everything.”

“Not everything. We aren’t the Schwan’s guys.”

“But why? I mean his lying.”

Rosswell pulled into a gas station. “I can think of a
couple of reasons. The best one is that he’s stupid from all the dope he’s
smoked. Or snorted. Or shot up.”

“Another easy answer is that he usually lies to anyone
he talks to, especially anyone who might be in authority.”

“We told him we weren’t cops or detectives.”

“And he didn’t believe us.”

“Ollie, think of another reason.”

“He’s in on the murder.”

“What about all those vehicles parked in front of Turk’s
house?”

Ollie leafed through the notebook. “What about them?”

“Maybe there were a lot more people in that house than
Turk and his woman.”

“Could be. Or maybe Turk and his girlfriend own them all.”
Ollie scribbled in his notebook. “I’ll let you know when I check those tags.”
He nodded at the gas pump. “Fill it up and take me back to the restaurant. It’s
supper time.”

Rosswell picked up a takeout fried chicken meal from Mabel
since he’d told Mrs. Bolzoni to skip his supper.

I’m
missing the beef braciole.
The braciole was Mrs. Bolzoni’s
specialty. Neapolitan rolls of beef stuffed with raisins, pine nuts, garlic,
parsley, and cheese.
Yummy
.
Rosswell’s mouth watered at the thought of the dish cooked in tomato sauce,
which was then used to season pasta. In Naples, it was a Sunday dish. In Ste.
Genevieve, it was a Monday dish. None of the guests at The Four Bee who
followed the rules ever went hungry. Rosswell had managed to circumvent the “no
reservation, no meal” rule once. Twice, no way.

A block from The Four Bee, Rosswell detected a white
van parked on the street in front of the bed and breakfast. Mrs. Bolzoni stood talking
at the driver’s door. The driver’s features weren’t visible. Keeping the scene
in view, Rosswell drove to a side street and parked. Although he didn’t have
his binoculars, he was able to read the tag on the van. Rosswell vowed to keep
his field glasses in his car from then on. He wrote the license plate number on
a slip of paper, stuck it in his pocket, and tried to appear inconspicuous. In
a tourist town residents pay little attention to strangers.

After a few minutes of conversation, Mrs. Bolzoni
waved good-bye to the driver, who eased down the street, ostensibly in no
hurry. Remembering what Ollie had told him about the number of white vans in
the area, Rosswell realized that the vehicle could be irrelevant to his hunt.
But maybe it was the same van that he’d seen on the ferry.

When the vehicle drove past the intersection, Rosswell’s
stomach clamped when he spotted orange hair.

Nathaniel Dahlbert.

Rosswell, his heart performing its thumping routine
again, followed at what he hoped was a safe distance. Nathaniel wouldn’t
recognize him in an old black truck. If Rosswell were in his beloved Vicky,
Nathaniel would spot the bright orange VW convertible in half a heartbeat.

This is the guy with rusty hair.

What had Nathaniel and Mrs. Bolzoni been chatting
about? The conversation had appeared neutral if not downright neighborly. He
couldn’t clearly see Nathaniel’s face. Mrs. Bolzoni laughed and smiled as she
gestured with her hands. She didn’t double as a dope pusher although Rosswell
had witnessed stranger things in his many years on the bench. For now, it was best
not to ask her any questions about the strange man.

Nathaniel turned north and, about a mile out of town
drove up a driveway onto a bluff where a huge mansion stood. The sign said
River Heights Villa
.

Johnny Dan Dumey, Ribs Freshwater, and Nathaniel
Dahlbert had been connected in a dope pushing scheme in Bollinger County. The
problem was Rosswell couldn’t prove it. Now what were Ribs and Nathaniel up to?
Was the white van that Nathaniel drove the same one that Charlie had driven onto
the ferry? Were all three of them hooked together in a devilish murder scheme?
Or kidnapping scheme? There was no evidence to carry to Gustave Fribeau. Without
concrete evidence, the sheriff wouldn’t welcome Rosswell. Gustave graded Rosswell’s
detecting ability as lower than a worm’s belly.

Rosswell turned onto a gravel road and traveled an
alternate way to The Four Bee where he’d add another item to Ollie’s research
list. Once inside his room, he called Jim Bill. “Did you get the file I emailed
you?” When the fire marshal assured him that he’d received it, Rosswell said, “I’ve
got more information.”