Bill Hopkins - Judge Rosswell Carew 02 - River Mourn

by Bill Hopkins

  Jasmine laid her hand on Captain LaFaire’s shoulder. “Pops, don’t go spreading nonsense.”

  Jasmine and Captain LaFaire stared at each other for a minute or two. They must’ve been silently rehashing a conversation they’d had many times before. Rosswell knew enough to keep his mouth shut, and Ollie followed his lead.

  Eventually, Captain LaFaire said, “Won’t hurt nothing.”

  Jasmine said, “I don’t want you getting Ross’s hopes up.”

  Ollie elbowed Rosswell in the ribs. “Don’t say it.”

  This was the second time this had happened within the last few minutes. What Rosswell wanted to say was, It’s Rosswell, a family name, from way back. It’s not a first name. There’s no abbreviation. Ollie stopped him in time. Still, Rosswell knew his Scottish ancestors would be horrified to hear Jasmine kicking around the sacred surname.

  Instead of putting his foot in his mouth, Rosswell asked, “Jasmine, what is Pops not supposed to tell us?”

  Captain LaFaire answered the question. “Maman Fribeau.”

  Ollie said, “Fribeau? As in Sheriff Gustave Fribeau?”

  Captain LaFaire said, “It’s the sheriff’s auntie. Maybe great-auntie. No one knows her real age.”

  Jasmine groaned. “She’s an old woman who’s more than half crazy.”

  “Pay no never mind to my daughter,” Captain LaFaire said. “Maman sees everything on the river. She sees things no one else can. She lives in The Trackless Waste.” He unfolded a forefinger, more bone than flesh, aiming it and his gaze south.

  Jasmine said, “Trackless Waste, my little left foot. It’s a bunch of trees.”

  Ollie said, “How do we find her?”

  “You don’t,” Captain LaFaire said. “Unless you go see Lazar Fribeau. That’s Maman’s brother.”

  Rosswell had fallen into a game of twenty questions. “And how do we find Lazar Fribeau?” Finding someone in this place involved playing with a system similar to those Russian nesting dolls Rosswell had seen. Take the lid off a big doll and inside nestled a smaller doll. Take the lid off the smaller doll and there was another doll even smaller. And so on. The last doll, most times a newborn baby doll, was the prize.

  Captain LaFaire scratched at a scab on his hand, mulling over the question for a few moments. “Stand on the courthouse square. Stop someone and ask for Lazar. If the person you stop is a native, after you do that three or four times, Lazar will find you. Guaranteed.”

  “No one knows where he lives?”

  Captain LaFaire said, “We sure don’t know where he lives. And don’t want to.”

  Ollie’s eyes widened and he held up a finger in an aha! gesture. “The old six degrees of separation trick.”

  Captain LaFaire said, “Never heard of it.”

  “Everyone on Earth is about six introductions from getting to know any other person.”

  Captain LaFaire squinted and curled his lip. “Sounds like a bunch of bullshit to me. I’d like to meet the King of Siberia but I don’t reckon that’ll happen no matter how many people I ask.”

  Jasmine said to Ollie, “Come back and let me know what you find out. We can talk about your tattoo. I love it.”

  Rosswell kept his peace, but couldn’t help noticing that Jasmine was hitting on Ollie. He ran their names through his mind, the beginning of an old childhood taunt forming.

  Ollie and Jasmine, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.

  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.

  Chapter 8

  Last Monday Afternoon, continued

  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 on
e 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, Rosswel
l 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.