Controlling Interest (26 page)

“Hogan, you are certifiable. This is not high school. And you're talking to yourself instead of God.” He slid his hands across the top of his head. “Lord, I wish I knew what you're up to. Would you help us find Yasmine Patel and get this whole thing behind us?”

His gaze fell on the Gideon Bible stacked on top of a Book of Mormon and a Koran on the nightstand. There was also a
Watchtower
publication. Take your spiritual pick. No wonder people got confused.

He reached for the Bible and opened it randomly. Ecclesiastes 5:4: “When you make a vow to God, do not delay to fulfill it. He has no pleasure in fools; fulfill your vow.”

Oh wow. Did that mean the vow about fasting from women? That would include Natalie.

No more flirting?

But maybe that hadn't been a real vow. He'd just been sticking his toe in the water. But what if God took him seriously? Wouldn't that be par for the course if he'd just met the woman he could actually spend the rest of his life with?

“Remember, this is not my fault.” Natalie leaned over Matt's shoulder, peering deep into the bowels of the Miata's engine. “You're the one who left the dome light on last night.”

She couldn't see his face, but the set of his shoulders made it clear he was restraining a good deal of polluted verbiage. “Yeah, but
somebody
left her purse in the car and sent somebody else out in the dark to get it. And after
that
somebody looked all over the car, the
first
somebody remembered she'd locked it in the trunk.” He frowned at her over his shoulder. “And
you're
the one who doesn't own a set of jumper cables.”

“I do so,” she protested. “I loaned them to Nick, and he forgot to give them back.”

“Well, there ya go. Vindication.” He stood up and looked around the hotel parking lot. “Look for a guy in a truck. Somebody's bound to have a set of — look, flag that guy down. Hurry!”

Natalie bolted into the center aisle of the lot, waving her arms. “Hey! Stop, mister!” The driver of a minivan slammed on the brakes to keep from hitting her.

“Not that one!” shouted Matt. “The SUV over there with his brake lights on. Catch him before he backs out.”

“Oh. Okay.” Natalie smiled apologetically at the grandpa behind the wheel of the van and ran for the SUV. She banged on the driver's window. “Hello! We need help!”

The window rolled down. A mustachioed man wearing a red Dupont cap and matching jacket gaped at her. “What's the matter, miss? Somebody stealing your car?”

“No, we just need to borrow a set of jumper cables.” Dupont Man grinned. “Almost sent 'em off with my wife this morning. You're in luck.”

“I wouldn't exactly say that,” Natalie muttered, looking at her watch. She and Matt had both overslept, ten o'clock had come and gone, and it was going to be a close call getting to the riverboat landing on time. The boat would be in port for most of the day, but she and Matt wanted to meet it in order to catch Yasmine before she disembarked.

Mr. Dupont got out of the truck. “My name's Donald Wolf,” he drawled, giving a hike to a belt buckle roughly the size of the Talladega Speedway.

“I'm Natalie. Nice to meet you. My friend Matt and I are on our way to catch a riverboat coming in from Memphis.” She looked at her watch again. “We're . . . kind of in a hurry.”

“A hurry, huh?” His eyes twinkled under heavy brows. “Well, let's get a look at where you're at before I move my car.” He commenced a limping stroll across the parking lot, indicating with a jerk of his head that she should follow. “I'm headed over to the racetrack. You ever been to a NASCAR event? It's a lot of fun. My wife lets me shake loose a couple times a year if I don't overdo the hunting in the winter.”

Natalie adjusted her gait to keep from outrunning him. “Sounds like fun. I've never been to a car race.”

“You're joking.” Donald Wolf stared at this sacrilege. “Y'all come get in the car right now and I'll take you.”

“Thanks, but we're in the middle of — hey, Matt!” She waved as Matt came out from under the hood of her car. “This is Mr. Wolf. He's going to jump us off.”

“Great.” Matt approached to shake hands. “Matt Hogan. Thanks for the rescue. Somebody forgot to turn out the dome light last night.” He glanced at Natalie as if it were her fault.

She opened her mouth to defend herself, then noticed Matt's red ears. What good would it do to strip his masculinity in front of their Good Samaritan?

Rolling her eyes, she backed off to let the men discuss positive and negative charges. Mr. Wolf limped back to his SUV and moved it closer to the Miata. They realized the Miata's hood faced the wrong way, which meant putting the car in neutral and pushing it to the middle of the lane. A few minutes later, Matt got behind the wheel of the Miata and cranked it. It purred to life.

Natalie cheered. “Now we're cookin' with gas!”

Matt got out to shake hands with Mr. Wolf after he disconnected the jumper cables. “Thanks, man. If you're ever in need of investigative services, be sure and look us up.” Matt handed over his business card.

“Goll-ee. Sure will.” Hitching the belt buckle northward again, he stowed his cables in the back of the SUV and rumbled out of the parking lot.

Natalie snatched open the driver's door. “Come on! We've got to get out of here if we want to catch Yasmine.”

“I think we're cursed.” Cracking his knuckles, Matt took a frustrated turn across Vicksburg's deserted concrete flood levee.

Not only had the battery failure delayed them, but they found the boat had docked an hour and a half before the brochure indicated.

Now the
Delta Queen
floated in lonely splendor out on the river, her calliope silent, half a dozen American flags on her top deck flapping in a desultory breeze. All passengers had departed for a frolicsome day of touring antebellum mansions, making a pilgrimage through the National Military Park, and pigging out on southern cuisine. Two crew members crawled like circus performers over the enormous red paddle wheels at the stern of the boat, scrubbing them with long-handled brooms. Otherwise, all was still.

Natalie stood at the foot of the levee clutching Yasmine's backpack — which she'd insisted on bringing because Yasmine “might need it.” Natalie turned to look at Matt. “We missed her again. Now what do we do?”

“We get on that boat and talk to people. See if anybody knows where she is.”

“Maybe she's still on board.”

“Why would she be? She knows we're trailing her.” Matt walked down the sloping levee to join Natalie. “Bottom line, we don't know if she's coming back, or if this was her destination. Come on. Let's see if they'll let us look for her.”

He hurried onto the gangplank. Natalie stood a moment before taking a deep breath and tiptoeing behind him, staring uneasily at the unruffled brown river. When he stopped abruptly halfway across, she bumped into him and lost her balance. With a little squeal she grabbed his arm.

He looked down at her, amused. “What's the matter?”

“Water — ” she gulped — “it makes me really nervous.”

“I didn't think you were scared of anything.”

“Well, now you know.”

He smiled, but let her stick close as they covered the remaining distance to the boat's front deck.

The temperature had warmed to the mid-seventies, the breeze taking humidity from the river and flinging it into their faces. The boat loomed, white and glistening like a wedding cake, her upper three decks ringed by white balcony railings. The wheelhouse bulged on top like a knotted forehead.

Matt was beginning to think nobody would challenge their entrance onto the boat, but the door to the lower cabin was blocked by a yellow-painted chain.

A voice came out of the darkness beyond the chain. “'Morning, folks. Can I see your ticket?”

Matt took off his sunglasses and peered into the cabin. A shadowy, knobby-kneed figure sat in a folding chair tipped back on two legs against the far wall. He had on a limp canvas cap and khaki uniform-style shorts.

“We don't have a ticket. We just want to talk to one of your passengers.”

“Everybody's gone ashore.” Mr. Knobby Knees clumped his chair onto the deck and rose. “Did this person know you were coming?”

“Not exactly.” By now Matt's eyes had adjusted to the dimmer light inside the cabin. The man's nametag said “Hewitt —
Delta Queen
Steward.” He was on the shrimpy side, and his khaki shirt was open one button too far.
Ego alert.
“We don't mind waiting.”

“You can't come on board unless you have a ticket.”

Matt looked at Natalie. “Okay, look, we're detectives from Memphis. We want to talk to a woman who got on the boat there. Her name's Yasmine Patel.”

“Yasmine? What did she do?”

Natalie took a breath. “Then you know her?”

“Maybe.” Hewitt looked cagey. “Why are you looking for her?”

“Her family's worried about her. They hired us to find her.”

“Runaway, huh?” Hewitt's expression was avidly curious. “She doesn't look like a minor. The family got money?”

Natalie scowled at him. “Mr. Hewitt, we're not telling you anything else until we know if Yasmine's safe. Is she on the boat or not?”

Hewitt shrugged. “And I'm not telling
you
anything else unless you pay for a tour. My time's valuable.”

Matt reluctantly pulled out his wallet. This trip was racking up business expenses right and left. After getting burned by George Field, he'd become a lot more cautious. “I'll need a receipt.” He handed the steward a twenty, which disappeared in his pocket.

“You can get one at the ticket office when you get back on shore.” Hewitt unhooked the chain across the doorway.

Resigned to being shafted, Matt exchanged glances with Natalie as Hewitt picked up the radio on his belt and called a staff member to take his place at the passenger entrance. Momentarily a young man dressed in a waiter's uniform arrived and made himself comfortable in the folding chair.

Hewitt nodded at Matt. “Okay, let's go. I'll show you the dining room first.”

“Do we have to do this?” Natalie muttered as they followed the steward around the outside deck, where they skirted lounge chairs and plastic tables bolted to the floor.

“Play along. We'll find out what he knows and take it from there.”

Matt stuck close to Natalie as they entered a large, well-lit dining room. Fine white cloths covered the tables; brass chandeliers hung from the low ceiling. A thick red carpet complemented two walls full of framed black-and-white photographs of river scenes from bygone days. Antique cutlasses, swords, and guns decorated the third wall, and on the far side of the room a row of windows looked out on the river.

“This is really nice,” Natalie said with apparent sincerity.

“Yeah, if your AARP membership has kicked in,” Matt muttered.

“Our seven-day cruise makes a great anniversary celebration.” Hewitt glanced at Natalie, then gave Matt a significant look.

Natalie shook her head. “Mr. Hewitt, we're not married, and we're not interested in a cruise, so let's just cut to the chase. What do you know about Yasmine Patel?”

Hewitt peered at her from under that ridiculous cap. “Is her family offering a reward?”

“As a matter of fact, they are.” Matt didn't like this guy's looks, but he was all they had to work with. “But we have to actually talk to her before they'll cough up the moolah. So where is she?”

“She isn't on duty right now.” Hewitt shrugged. “She talked about going on shore to buy a pair of shoes. Her afternoon shift starts at noon, which is when we cast off. If she comes back early, I can let her know you're here. You can wait for her in the lounge, if you want.”

Matt frowned. When something sounded too good to be true, it usually was.