The Branson Beauty

by Claire Booth

  “Good afternoon, Branson Daily Herald, this is Jadhur. How may I help you?”

  Hank identified himself and answered a few questions about the status of the murder investigation. Then he asked if Jadhur was going to have anything on the boat fire in Friday’s edition of the paper.

  “Yeah, we’ll have that. It’ll be short. There’s no new art—uh, I mean pictures—to go with it, cuz we couldn’t get down to the dock after the fire, so it won’t be on the front page. I talked to the fire marshal, so we’ll have the cause and everything.”

  Hank counted to ten. “Really? The cause, huh? What’d the marshal say?”

  “Oh, same thing he told you, I’m sure. That due to the damage caused by removing the paddlewheel, fluid leaked and ignited, starting the fire. That is what he told you, right?”

  Hank gripped the phone tightly. “That is what the fire marshal thinks, yes.”

  Jadhur was no dummy. “So, what do you think?”

  Hank decided not to think, and spoke instead. “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.”

  Jadhur pounced. “So you’re saying it wasn’t an accident?”

  “I’m saying I don’t know what it was, and I don’t think they do, either.”

  After a few more questions, Hank hung up the phone. He swiveled in his chair and caught a glimpse of his computer screen, which still showed the web page with Gallagher’s Citizen of the Year article. He smiled and bit into his candy bar.

  * * *

  “We’re coming to you live from the Branson Events Center, where the grieving small-town community has gathered for a prayer vigil after the shocking murder of homecoming queen Amanda Bryson. The eighteen-year-old was found strangled to death Sunday on the showboat the Branson Beauty. Police have not made an arrest.”

  The Springfield Channel Twelve reporter cut to video of a group of middle-aged women, hands clasped in prayer as a portly man in a clergy collar railed against the encroachment of evil. Then came a shot of a bunch of teenagers holding candles and singing. Then it was back to the reporter, strategically positioned in front of the building, so that the emotional crowd was clearly visible in the background.

  So far, Hank hadn’t seen anyone actually connected with the case—except a plain-clothed Sam, at the corner of his TV screen, trying to nonchalantly circle the crowd. He wasn’t doing a very good job, slouching quickly from person to person and constantly swiveling his head from side to side. Fortunately, it didn’t appear anyone was paying any attention to him. He’d told Hank that he’d never “gone undercover” in all his years with the department. Hank hadn’t pointed out that the kid had only been a deputy for four years or that actual undercover work involved a lot more than not wearing a uniform. He hadn’t wanted to quash Sam’s enthusiasm, which had been considerable. So instead he’d just said yes, he knew Sam would do fine and no, it wasn’t a good idea to wear a fake mustache.

  Hank was glad to see Sam had listened and was his normal clean-shaven self. He grinned and put his feet up on the coffee table as the reporter interviewed a sobbing teen who said she’d been in Mandy’s algebra class two years ago and was “totally freaked-out” by the killing. Hank took a sip of his beer. And then sat up straight, adjusting the ice pack on his swollen shoulder.

  “Also with me tonight is Branson County Commissioner Edrick Fizzel. Commissioner, you are the one who organized this vigil, correct?”

  Fizzel’s nose was not nearly as red as it had been when he visited Hank on Tuesday. And he’d obviously anticipated a TV appearance—his porcupine hair had been tamed with enough gel to nicely reflect the camera’s spotlight. Since Rudolph’s nose could no longer guide the sleigh home, his hair apparently was picking up the slack. Hank leaned toward the TV.

  “Why, yes, Tom, it was my idea. I thought it was important to allow the community a chance to grieve. And,” he added, turning from the reporter to face the camera directly, “I want to assure y’all watchin’ tonight that Branson is perfectly safe and you should keep comin’ on down here. We are the Ozarks’ vacation destination.” His smile oozed snake oil and backwoods smarm. Hank was pretty sure he saw hair gel dripping onto his collar.

  “I also want to take the opportunity to assure everyone that we are doing all we can to find the murderer. This was not a random act. Poor Amanda Bryson was being stalked. She was targeted, hunted down. You can be sure, Tom, that we will hunt down her killer. I have been told that there will be an arrest very soon.”

  Hank’s jaw dropped. He hadn’t told Fizzel that Mandy had a stalker. And he certainly hadn’t said he was close to making an arrest. He glared at the TV.

  “And,” Fizzel said, twisting his face into an expression of almost comic concern, “anyone with any questions or concerns about this can call the new sheriff. After all, protecting us is his job.”

  Hank almost threw his beer at the television. That pompous jerk. That was all he needed—a swarm of freaked-out, candle-waving vigil-goers hounding him about the case.

  His cell rang. He snatched it off the coffee table and saw it was Sam.

  “Please tell me you have something good.”

  “Uh, not really,” Sam said. “There was nobody important here—no suspects, I mean. The only person I recognized from the boat was Tony Sampson. He was with a group of girls that I think are from the track team.” Hank heard Sam flipping pages. He’d sent the Pup with last year’s BVHS yearbook.

  “It was just here…” Sam muttered. “Aha. Okay, yeah. That one, that’s his sister. Alyssa Sampson. Her and two others, a tall one and a short one. They were all here. Just saw them drive off in a newer Ford Fusion. Black. My bet is it’s the tall one’s mom’s car. She was driving.”

  “What’d they do while they were there?”

  Sam thought for a moment. “The girls were into it. Went right up front, got their candles, did the prayer circle, everything. Tony stayed in the back. Kept taking his phone out, fiddling with it. Didn’t really seem like he wanted to be there.”

  Hank heard the yearbook close.

  “Oh, and Chief?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I just think you should know that the commissioner dude was going around to everyone and handing out business cards. At first, I thought they were his business cards, which would have been weird. This isn’t a business meeting, right? Why would…”

  “What’s the point, Sam?”

  “Oh, yeah. Anyway, they weren’t his cards. They were yours. Or at least ones with your name and phone number on them.”

  “What?”

  Sam chuckled, not noticing Hank’s tone. “It was pretty funny. He gave me one. Said I should ‘Let the sheriff know we’re all concerned.’ I told him I’d be sure and report in.” He laughed again. Hank just glowered some more at the TV news, which had moved on to the weather.

  “Huh … What’s he doing? He…”

  Hank pulled his attention back to Sam. “What’s who doing?”

  “Well, people are starting to leave, and I’m sitting here in my car—you know, my car, not the squad car—and the commissioner is standing over on the side of the building talking to somebody. They just walked behind the building, like they didn’t want anybody else around. I can’t see the other guy very well. They look like they’re having quite a conversation, though. The other dude is waving his arms all around. Looks pretty upset. I’m going to go see … ah, shoot. They’re leaving. The commissioner’s going back to the crowd. And the other one is walking toward the parking lot … toward me.” Hank heard some loud shuffling and a thud, followed by a mumbled curse.

  “I’m ducking down, so as he doesn’t see me,” Sam whispered loudly.

  “Why?” Hank was not sure that kind of stealth was necessary. “How would he know you’re a deputy?”

  “Cuz we’ve met. It’s Terry Cummings.”

  “Who?” Ha
nk said.

  “You know, the guy who works for Mr. Gallagher. The one who was out at the boat with him.”

  The Company Man.

  “Follow him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sam’s beloved 1983 Bronco coughed to life. Hank heard the phlegm clear from the engine—Sam had been trying his hand lately at tuning the thing himself—and then more excited shuffling. “He’s getting into a red Ford Explorer. I’ll call you when we get wherever he’s going.” The Pup hung up.

  Hank sat there in his cozy living room and envied the kid’s energy. Envied it like he was an old man muttering into his sweet tea as he sat on the nursing home porch. But he wasn’t old—thirty-seven wasn’t old. Then why did he feel like it? Lately, especially, he’d taken to looking around and wondering how he’d gotten here. To this point. Kids. And a mortgage. And a father-in-law. And an entire law enforcement department. For which he was solely responsible. It was just yesterday that he had been in college, hanging out with his roommates, dating a beautiful girl named Maggie. Just yesterday, dammit. He dragged his busted frame off the couch and toward the kitchen. He needed another beer.

  CHAPTER

  22

  Sam’s phone kept going straight to voice mail. And since he was out of uniform and not driving a squad car, he didn’t have a police radio. Where the hell was he? It was past eleven, so it had been almost five hours since Sam had followed the Company Man from the church. That was more than enough time to make several trips to Springfield and back. Hell, that was enough time to drive the 250 miles to St. Louis. And there was nothing stopping Sam from calling with an update while on the road. But he had not.

  Hank slammed his own cell down on the kitchen counter, then picked it up again. Enough. He had pulled Cummings’s address, which was up near Springfield. He stared at the scratch paper he’d scrawled it on and shook his head. He just didn’t think that was right. Cummings had not been at that vigil on his own behalf. And if he had left with something to report, it was likely he had not gone straight home. Hank went back to the laptop on the kitchen table. Perhaps it was Henry Gallagher’s address that needed visiting.

  An hour later, after sifting through way too many databases to figure out which of Gallagher’s numerous properties he actually lived in, Hank silently coasted to a stop about twenty yards from a nondescript wooden gate at a curve in a quiet country lane that had, mercifully, been plowed. The shortleaf pine trees rose tall and thin on each side and cut the moonlight into jagged slivers that bounced off the piles of snow. He couldn’t tell if Sam had come this way or not.

  And he couldn’t tell if Gallagher had surveillance cameras mounted on or near the gate. It was safer to assume the guy did, though. All he needed was Gallagher giving Fizzel a still video shot of the county sheriff climbing over his estate gate in the middle of the night.

  Hank stayed out of sight of the possible cameras and turned his car around, rolling back the way he came as he looked closely at the estate fence. It finally ended about half a mile away from the gate. He eyed the closest trees and could see no cameras, so he climbed out of his car and walked along the fence as it turned away from the road and into the woods.

  The snow, hard now after days in the sun, cracked and split under his boots. The clear cold numbed his cheeks and felt like shards of ice as it passed through his sinuses. He moved carefully, avoiding snow drifts and staying several feet away from the fence. He was about thirty yards from the road and contemplating going back and just banging on the gate when he saw them. Footprints, coming from the east, perpendicular to his own trail and the fence. They then continued along the property line and out of sight. They were fresh, and they were huge. Only one person could have left such size-fifteen gouges in the snow. Hank smiled in relief and set off to track down the Pup.

  * * *

  He found Sam lying full out behind a small knoll about a hundred yards behind the main house. He had on a camouflaged coat and snow pants and was looking through a huge pair of binoculars. Hank, also shielded by the hill, crawled up behind him and then paused. He did not need to draw attention to them by scaring the bejeezus out of the kid. He was pondering how not to do this when Sam—without moving a millimeter—said, “Hi, Chief. Could you be a little more quiet, please? And get down.”

  He obviously needed to redefine his notion of stealthy movement. He flopped onto his belly, slid up next to Sam, and peered over the knoll at the house. No wonder Sam was hiding. There were enough windows in that thing to see into the next county. The entire back was made up of nothing but huge panes of glass and the occasional oakbeam. Gallagher must have quite the view during the day, looking out over acres of hills and rolling forest. But at night, the view turned inward, and the brightly lit interior became the show. At least it had tonight. Hank hoped Sam had seen all of it. He could make out two figures standing near what looked like the entry foyer. It appeared that the shorter one was leaving. That must be the Company Man, although Hank couldn’t positively identify him from this distance. He didn’t need to be close to recognize the taller one with the snooty, upright posture, however.

  “Uh, sir?” Sam still hadn’t moved. “Where’d you park your car?” Hank watched Gallagher swing open his front door.

  “Out on the road. Why—?” Hank stopped and then swore. It was out on the road, where the Company Man would drive right past it on his way out. A solitary Crown Victoria half-blocking an otherwise deserted country lane. No, that wouldn’t give away their presence at all.

  Hank slithered back down the knoll, stumbled to his feet, and took off toward the hole in the fence that Sam had found earlier. The force of his sprint caused his boots to sink deeply into the snow. He lifted his legs higher with each step, plowing his way back toward the road and praying that no one from the estate would have occasion to walk out this way before the snow melted.

  By the time he reached the road, his lungs felt frozen solid from the huge gulps of cold air he was downing. The stitch in his right side made him double over as he stumbled over to his car. He collapsed behind the wheel and said yet another prayer that the damn thing would start as he turned the key. The car chugged awake and he sped toward the main road, coughing uncontrollably as his abused airways protested their treatment.

  He had no idea if he’d made it in time—there was no way to tell whether the Company Man had already driven past. He made it to the intersection with Highway 176 and yanked the car hard to the right. The back wheels slipped and then caught as he made the turn. He knew there were a few driveways close by. He found the nearest and again yanked the steering wheel to the right. He slid the car in behind someone’s battered Chrysler minivan and killed the engine, hoping it looked like an ordinary car parked for the night. He crouched behind the seat and peered out the back window, trying to regain his breath.

  Two minutes later, a red Ford Explorer drove past at a high rate of speed. Hank slumped against his seat in relief. He’d made it. He stiffly turned himself around and started the car again. He was pretty sure the guy was just headed home to Springfield—it was almost one in the morning—but he had to make sure. He pointed the Crown Victoria north and hoped his coughing stopped before he got there.

  * * *

  “He said what?”

  Sam, who had been fairly definitive two seconds earlier, began to back off.

  “Well, I can’t be sure. I was lip-reading. You know, through the binoculars. But it looked like he said, ‘You’re on your own.’”

  “Then what?”

  “Then the suspect … er, Cummings, he said something like, ‘I did what you—’ and then he turned, so I couldn’t see any more. Then they were both so hot, they were moving around a lot and I couldn’t do any more lip-reading.”

  After what seemed like an eternity of yelling, arm-waving, and finger-pointing, Gallagher had disappeared down a hallway. Cummings sat and waited.

  “But how did he wait?” Hank asked. “How did he sit? What was he doing?”

&
nbsp; The Pup stared at him with late-night exasperation he didn’t even bother to try to conceal. “He sat. On a couch. You know, like people do. Sit on couches. With their butts.”

  Hank shifted in his own seat, the lumpy, listing desk chair in his office at the Branson substation. The heat had been off for hours, and both of them still wore their coats.

  “Watch.” He leaned back, casually linking his hands behind his head and stretching his feet out in front of him. “Or this.” He sat up straight, shoulders back, feet flat on the floor, hands in his lap. “Or—”

  “Oh, I get it.” Sam paused, then carefully arranged his gangly limbs. When he was done, Hank smiled. “Good. Our Company Man is in trouble. Then what happened?”

  Sam—who had positioned himself slumped forward, with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands—straightened. “Gallagher came back after about fifteen or twenty minutes. And then you showed up.”

  Hank nodded. Cummings hadn’t done anything else interesting, just driven home to Springfield and disappeared inside his house, which was a standard brick Tudor-type thing on the south side of town. Hank had a feeling the guy hadn’t gone right to sleep. But it was about time Hank did. He stood up and was about to dismiss the Pup when he stopped.

  “You mind telling me why you got a full camouflage outfit with you? And high-powered binoculars?”

  “Oh, that’s my hunting gear. It was still in my trunk from when I went out with my dad last month. I usually leave it in there. You never know when you’ll need it.” He grinned. “I never thought I’d use it for work, though, that’s for sure.”

  “I didn’t know you hunted.” They were both up and moving toward the front door.

  “Oh, yeah. Ever since I was little. You should come sometime. Give it a try.”

  “How do you know I don’t hunt?”

  Sam burst out laughing. Apparently his deference to superiors expired at midnight. “You sound like a freight train, for one thing. I could hear you coming the minute you left the road. You probably scared off any game from here to Arkansas.”