“What was she doing down there?”
“I don’t know. It’s not the kind of place she usually had any business, but…” He shrugged weakly. “Mickey didn’t have any business down there, either. Neither did I.” Benny opened his mouth like he wanted to say something else, then stopped himself.
Wanda saw him pause, and gently urged him to continue. “What is it, darling? Is there something you’d like to tell us?”
He looked nervously at Leo, then back to Wanda. “I’m … I’m not in any trouble, am I? You’re not police?”
“Did you do something wrong?” Leo asked him.
Wanda waved a hand to override him. “No, nothing like that. We’re just trying to find out if the Natchez’s parent company is liable for the accident that caused Misty’s death. We aren’t cops, and you’re not in trouble.”
“What if I did something that was … kind of a little wrong? I didn’t hurt anybody,” he said before anyone could ask. “I just…” His voice fell to a whisper. “I found Misty’s body. I tripped over her, in the dark. I slipped in her blood, and I…” He gulped dryly. “I freaked out! I hollered for help, but I knew she was dead. There was so much blood. I couldn’t see it all, but it was all over me, and I had this moment, you know? I was on my hands and knees on the deck and I found her sweater. She was holding it in her left hand, so I picked it up, and I … I kept it.”
“You kept it?” Leo stopped writing.
“She must have been carrying it, and dropped it. I panicked, see? I wanted something that belonged to her. God, you must think I’m pathetic.”
“It’s not pathetic, it’s sweet,” Wanda cooed. “Oh my, that’s why you came to work here, isn’t it? You used to come here together.”
Miserably, he nodded. “We came here on our first date.”
“First date?” Leo asked dubiously.
“Only date,” he said, even more sadly. “I miss her so much, that’s all. I swear, I’m not some kind of weirdo.”
“Keep telling yourself that. Let me see this sweater.”
Benny recoiled. “I don’t have it here! It’s at home, at my new apartment.”
“Have you washed it?” Leo demanded.
“I washed it twice, and then I had it dry-cleaned. I wasn’t trying to cover my tracks, or get rid of any evidence, I swear! But it had this weird orange fur on it, and it made my hands itchy.”
Leo’s eyes narrowed. He snapped the notebook shut. “Okay. I’ve heard enough.”
Wanda gave him the side-eye. “What? You have?”
“Yup. Get out your phone, and get us a car. Let’s go back to the boat.”
7.
Wanda walked back up the ramp, onto the Natchez. “We could’ve gotten some lunch first. Lamar’s looked like a fun place to eat.”
“I don’t care if my food looks like it came from a fun place. The food on board is fine.” Leo joined her on the deck, and looked toward the Grand Saloon. Lunchtime stragglers were still wandering toward the buffet or picking out tables. “Let’s get something here. I bet we can find everybody we need around the buffet, anyway.”
“Everyone we need?”
“Yeah, I’ve got a theory. Let’s round up the usual suspects.” When she gave him a puzzled frown, he added, “It’s just an expression.”
“I know, but we left creeper Benny in Vicksburg.”
“He’s not a suspect. Come on, let’s see who we else we can find.”
His wife shook her head. “He stole her sweater and kept it. That’s awfully suspicious, if you ask me.”
“No, he didn’t. Take her sweater, I mean.” He strolled toward the seating area and stared around, pinpointing persons of interest.
Caitlyn Beaumont came up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. “Mr. Storgman?”
“Oh! Hi there, Miss Beaumont. Hey, would you do me a favor?”
“Anything you need, just ask.”
“Is anyone using the backstage area of the Bayou Lounge?”
“Not right now.”
“Good. I want to call a meeting there. Could you scare up the following people, and have them meet us there in fifteen minutes?” He took a napkin and wrote a couple of names. “And don’t let any of them leave the boat.”
“Sir … is there something I should know?” She looked down at the napkin. “I think these people are on shift right now…”
“That’s why I’m giving you a little time. Besides, I need to make a phone call before we have this chat.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” She walked away, paused to give Leo a worried look over her shoulder, and kept going.
“Phone call?”
“Vicksburg PD.”
Wanda gave every appearance of trying very, very hard not to jump up and down and squeal. “Misty was murdered!”
“Quieter, dear. Let’s just say she was killed. Maybe manslaughtered, I don’t know yet.” He pulled out his phone, and as he made for the backstage area, he pulled up a number for the local police.
By the time Leo ducked around the curtain and stage, he had received assurances that a unit was on the way. And by the time he realized they weren’t alone backstage, it was too late for him to chase down Caitlyn and suggest a different meeting place.
“Storgmans!” announced Ryan Forge. The other two members of Dead Report took up the cheer. “Good to see you again, dude. Seriously.”
“Nobody’s supposed to be back here right now,” Leo grumped.
“Oh, we didn’t reserve the space or anything. We just heard rumor of a magician’s assistant who drowned on that very stage,” he said in his best TV voice. “Back in the 1970s. He was doing the Houdini trick with the water tank. Super dangerous. He died and everything.”
“Great.”
“Have you got any good EVPs?” Wanda asked, suddenly all hip to the lingo.
“Usually we wait until nightfall,” said Sean, who was snacking on a small plate of deli meat and cheese he’d swiped from the buffet. “But our fearless leader thought he saw a spirit back here.”
“I did see a spirit. I’ve seen him several times. I think he’s fucking with me,” Ryan complained conspiratorially. “He’s an old-fashioned-looking guy, like from the forties or something.” Then he added, to the room at large: “And I want him to know that he doesn’t scare me!”
“Who doesn’t scare you?” JoHanna Potts put her head around the curtain.
Leo welcomed her inside the somewhat darkened space, where the buzz of the lunchtime crowd was muffled by the curtains, the boxes, and the equipment. “Come on in, Ms. Potts. You too, Mickey. I see you.”
Mickey Lee Payne came in behind her, and then Kitty Strobe, wearing her big round sunglasses. “What are we doing here?” she asked, as if she wasn’t sure whether or not to expect a response.
“Good question.” Caitlyn brought up the rear. She pulled the curtain back into place behind herself, offering the group a small measure of privacy. “Mr. Storgman? What’s going on?”
“We’re talking about Misty Sighs,” he declared.
“The ghost?” asked Kevin.
“She’s not a…” Leo didn’t swear, but he grumbled with a lot of asterisks. “Never mind. She’s dead, that’s the thing.”
“From an accident!” Caitlyn exclaimed. “Everybody knows … That’s what everybody said…” she finished weakly.
“Maybe, and maybe not. But she had help. That’s what we’re here to talk about. I want you all to help me piece together what happened the night she died.”
All three of the Natchez employees began to protest, but Wanda held up her hands. “Everybody, please. Hear him out. We’re just trying to finish our report for the insurance company.”
Leo nodded approvingly. She’d made a good call, to frame it that way. It’d keep the perp from bolting. He wished he’d thought of it, but slipping back into cop mode had been too easy. He’d forgotten the absence of his trusty badge.
A license wasn’t quite the same thing. Not by a long
shot.
He tried not to watch as Wanda went over to Sean and whispered something in his ear. He nodded and winked at Leo. Leo didn’t return the wink. He pulled out his notebook, flipped through a couple of pages, and flipped back again.
He took a deep breath and began. “Twelve days ago, Amanda Simpson—better known as Misty Sighs—died on the texas deck of the Natchez. We can all agree on that, can’t we?”
Everyone nodded, even Ryan Forge—who couldn’t have confirmed anything more complex than his birthday.
“On the night she died, Misty left work in the Grand Saloon, and went down to the texas deck, where there was at least one light out. But she didn’t go alone. Ms. Potts, you were also on the texas deck that night. Do you want to tell me why?”
Her face went not just blank—but stony. “None of your goddamn business.”
“I’ll settle for that,” Leo said. “What I really want to know is whether or not you heard an argument.”
She shifted her weight back and forth, very slightly.
“You’ve already admitted you were there.”
The clerk caved. “Fine, I heard Misty. She was talking real drunk, real loud.”
“To whom?” Leo asked.
“I don’t know. Somebody who was real hushed, like they were trying to calm her down. I didn’t stay to listen. I had my own business to attend to.”
Kitty wanted to know, “What business was that?”
“I already said. Nobody’s but mine.”
Leo let it slide again. “So who was Misty arguing with? Anyone could’ve made up a story about somebody else doing the arguing. It could’ve been lovesick Benny, who believed they were truly meant to be—and was totally wrong. It could’ve been you, Mickey—you were halfway stalking her. She could’ve told you to leave her the hell alone, and things got strange. But I don’t think that’s how it went down.”
“No?” Ryan Forge hung on Leo’s every word.
When Leo glanced back, he saw Sean sitting beside him—his hand discreetly holding the record button on one of their audio devices. “No,” he said, returning his attention to the assembled crewmembers.
“Why not?” asked Sean.
Leo grunted impatiently. “You guys stay out of this.” Then he answered the question, regardless. “Because the texas deck was a busy place that night. Ms. Strobe, you were also there.”
“What?” she said, too fast for it to sound casual. “What? No I wasn’t.”
“Yeah, I think you were. Earlier that evening, you two had been down on the boiler deck, doing your drinking and drawing thing.”
“So?”
“You never mentioned it, not when I asked about the night she died.”
Ryan Forge made the kind of “ooooooh” noise that a roomful of third graders makes when the teacher gets a kiss from her husband.
“Shut up!” Kitty Strobe said to him, before Leo had the opportunity. “That doesn’t mean anything.”
“Not by itself, no. But I have a theory.”
“You’re crazy if you think I had anything to do with Misty’s death. I told you, she was my only friend onboard this boat. Why would I hurt her?”
Leo sat down on the edge of the stage and faced the dim-lit room. “I don’t think you did it on purpose, necessarily. Here’s partly what I know happened, and partly what I bet happened: You and Misty sat on the deck and drew pictures while you drank. Wild Fox was putting on a little show for some kids out there. That’s why she was late getting to work,” he said to Caitlyn. “Not because she was watching the show, but because she was drawing it.” Back to Kitty, he continued, “At some point, while you two were talking … your secret came out. Maybe you confessed after a few bacon Bloody Marys. Maybe Misty guessed.”
“Secret?” Her voice was tight and high.
“You wanted her to keep quiet about it, and you knew she was a drinker and a blabber. You begged her. Pleaded with her. But she had to get to work while she still had a job, and after her show, she went up to the texas deck—probably trying to get away from the two dumbass boys who wouldn’t leave her alone. You were there, too. You followed her, maybe. Or maybe it was just a coincidence.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’d both been drinking. It was dark and wet, and you had an unfair advantage. Do me a favor, would you? Take off those sunglasses.”
“No.”
He swung his feet back and forth against the stage. “I won’t make you, but the police will. You’re getting a mug shot.”
At this, she panicked and came forward—rushing him. He almost reached for his gun, but he didn’t have it on him and he wouldn’t have needed it. It was just a reflex. Christ, she was fast. Way faster than she looked.
She stopped, barely a foot from his face. She whipped the glasses off, revealing a pair of vivid green eyes. “See? They’re perfectly normal.”
“Or very good theatrical contacts.”
“I have a sensitivity to light!” she said shrilly.
Leo believed her, sort of. “That might be true, but that’s not why you wear the long sleeves and long pants outside when it’s hot enough to bake cookies on the lounge chairs. That’s not why you wear the sunglasses indoors and everywhere else—though it makes for a neat cover story.”
Wanda snuffled. Her nose twitched. She ran her finger back and forth beneath it, trying to defuse a sneeze.
“I think you do it because of the fur. You’re a joker, aren’t you? Kitty’s not just a nickname.”
“No,” she protested, backing away. “That isn’t true at all.”
“I bet you’re a meat eater, like any other cat. I found the receipts from the bar; Misty wasn’t the one ordering the barbecue nachos or the bacon Bloody Marys. That was you.”
“I like nachos. I like bacon. None of this means anything.”
“I bet when you take those contacts out, you can see very, very well in the dark. Even when you’ve been drinking. Even when you’re only trying to convince your friend to keep her trap shut. I know you fought with her, so don’t pretend you didn’t.”
“There’s no proof. Not a bit of it.”
“You sure? What about the sweater you were wearing that night?”
Her face froze. She did not ask, “What sweater?” but she looked like she wanted to.
“Benny has it. He pried it out of her hand, thinking it was hers. But I saw what that kid had in her wardrobe—tiny shorts and tiny shirts and tiny dresses, everything showing skin. Nobody onboard covers up in this heat, except for you.”
Kitty Strobe retreated a little farther.
Wanda sneezed. Ryan Forge ceremoniously blessed her.
“My wife, over here—” Leo gestured with one hand. “She’s got allergies. Benny has them, too. He kept trying to wash the cat hair out of his souvenir.”
Kitty looked at the edge of the curtain, which was now functioning as an exit. “You don’t understand.…” It was hardly more than a whisper. She tugged at her collar, and the pull of her finger revealed a thin seam of light orange hair. “She was going to tell everyone.”
“So what?” Wanda demanded. “What’s wrong with being a joker?”
“It’s awkward, it’s embarrassing, and I am trying to be taken seriously as a professional! Even when nobody knew,” she said, a touch more calmly. “Even then, the stupid nickname stuck and I couldn’t get out from under it—no matter how hard I tried.”
“I know that feeling. Back at the precinct, before I retired, you know what they called me? Ramsey, or Ramshead.” To Kitty he said, “I didn’t love it. Honestly, it drove me crazy at first, and then I got over myself. That’s the shame here, really. I’m not saying there’s no hate in the world and all the jokers everywhere have it swell—but you can live with this just fine, and that’s what you should’ve done. You killing Misty … that was a hate crime. But you didn’t hate her. You hated yourself.”
The curtain slipped aside, and two uniformed officers joined the p
arty. “Olivia Strobe?” one of them asked.
“She’s all yours.” He didn’t need to point her out. She was already trying to run. “You can call her Kitty.”
She got about as far as the end of the stage before the cops brought her down. They picked her up and cuffed her.
“I’ve got her confession on tape!” Sean announced, trailing after them. “Guys! We’ve got it on tape! We totally helped!”
Ryan put his hands on his hips and stared into space. “We did totally help,” he declared, with his great and ridiculous gravitas. “Guys, ‘Death on the Water’ is going to be our best episode ever.”
Leo hopped down off the stage. “You know what? I bet it will. You kids have a good time with that recording, and don’t forget to share it with the nice policemen before they leave the boat.” Then he put his arm around Wanda and drew her away from the ecstatic young men of The Dead Report. “Now come on, baby. Let’s go finish this honeymoon.”
In the Shadow of Tall Stacks
Part 5
THE ARREST OF KITTY Strobe caused its own repercussions on the Natchez. Wilbur, still trying to understand what Kirby Jackson was insisting that Cottle had to do for him, managed to be in Jackson’s stateroom when he and Captain Montaigne were discussing how to replace Kitty. “I can cover her shifts for the next few days,” the captain said, “but that’s only a stopgap. We have to get another licensed pilot onboard ASAP. Preferably have someone brought in before our next stop.”
“How cheaply can you do that?” Jackson asked.
Montaigne just glared at the man stonily. “On my boat,” she answered, “I don’t worry about cheap, I worry about good.”
Jackson gave her an aggrieved sigh, then waved his hand. “Fine. Whatever. Just don’t offer any kind of long-term contract. The new pilot’s job is temporary. It ends once the Tall Stacks festival’s over in Cincinnati. You understand?”
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