Bill Hopkins - Judge Rosswell Carew 02 - River Mourn

by Bill Hopkins

  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.”

  After the phone conversation, Rosswell wrote for forty-five minutes in his journal. He’d spent uncounted hours logging tons of information into the book. It was not a mere journal, but a casebook. The threads of the mystery grew stronger and more tangled. If Rosswell could unravel the stringy mass from the information residing in his brain and his casebook, he would find his way to Tina.

  He prayed he didn’t find her in a grave.

  Chapter 9

  Last Tuesday Morning

  Checking out Frankie Joe Acorn rose to the top of Rosswell’s to-do list when he recessed court at 10:00 AM the next day. He and Ollie headed up Interstate 55 a few miles to Bloomsdale. On the way, Rosswell detailed his near encounter with Nathaniel the night before.

  They exited the Interstate onto a state road that led to a county blacktop that led to a gravel road. Ollie had researched where Frankie Joe lived and told Rosswell which trailer in Seven Pines Mobile Home Park was his.

  “The green one over there.” Ollie leveled a finger wide as a sausage at a vinyl-sided doublewide. “The one with the black shutters and the garden gnomes—eighteen of those stupid things.”

  “Must’ve had a sale.” Rosswell jutted his chin toward a vehicle in the driveway. “There’s the white SUV. Or one like it.”

  “Someone who puts that many garden gnomes in a yard is plum goofy.”

  The Chrysler Aspen parked out front appeared freshly washed. The shine from the wax job glared to the point of giving Rosswell a headache. No other vehicles on the place. Flowers bloomed in a neat foot-wide garden skirting the outside of the entire trailer. A sprinkler watered a newly planted maple tree, giving battle against the heat and the drought.

  “Nice ride,” said Ollie, noting the tag number of the SUV. The notebook was rapidly filling with information.

  A young woman with black hair opened the door when Ollie knocked. “Is Frankie Joe around?”

  “No.” The woman, decked out in black slacks, black shoes, and a black short-sleeved shirt, offered nothing more.

  “When will he be back?”

  Rosswell admired her hair. “We really need to talk to him. Is he working somewhere?” That hairdo must’ve cost a bundle down at the local beauty salon. A big-hair girl from 1980. Her makeup appeared to have been poured on. The woman, not the man, Rosswell thought, kept the trailer, the SUV, and herself sparkling. Pride of ownership.

  She pursed her blood-red lips. “He didn’t commit a murder.”

  Rosswell quashed the look of surprise aching to decorate his face. “Ma’am, what’s your name?”

  She started to close the door.

  “Wait,” Ollie said. “Murder? What murder?”

  The woman stopped before the door shut. “Frankie Joe is a hard worker. He doesn’t smoke or drink and he sure doesn’t do dope.”

  Rosswell stepped closer to the door. “Did someone accuse Frankie Joe of murder?” She hesitated long enough for him to take a chance. “We want to help Frankie Joe, not hurt him.”

  Ollie moved up next to Rosswell. “That’s right. If someone’s accusing him of murder, we need to know about it.”

  “Who are you two?”

  Rosswell made the introductions. The woman stared at Ollie for a long time before she said anything. Maybe she was trying to decide if Ollie was a violent weirdo or only a weirdo who looked violent.

  “I’m Susannah Acorn, Frankie Joe’s wife. Come in.” She opened the door wide.

  A vanilla-scented candle burned on the kitchen island. The linoleum floor shined. The dark red carpeting smelled of scented baking soda. A huge landscape painting of a forest sunrise hung over a muted green couch covered with small pillows of various pastel shades. Two tapestries, medieval-looking, guarded each side of the painting. Small statues of deer, dogs, cats, and various other animals covered every flat surface in the trailer. The kitchen area sported a multitude of canisters, knife racks, and revolving pedestals loaded down with spoons and spices. There was no evidence of any children or pets.

  Ollie said, “I’ll bet it takes you a long time to dust.”

  “I like a clean house.”

  Rosswell made a mental note to ask Ollie to brush up on his manners. “Ollie sometimes has trouble appreciating the finer things in life. Please excuse him.”

  Susannah motioned them to sit and they did. She remained standing.

  “What do you need to ask Frankie Joe?”

  Rosswell explained what he’d seen on the ferry Sunday morning. When he finished, he asked her, “Did someone accuse Frankie Joe of murder?”

  Susannah sniffed. “Turk came by late last night. Woke us up.”

  Ollie said, “Turk Malone?”

  She nodded. “He said someone had come by his place and accused him and Frankie Joe of murder while they were riding the ferry.”

  Rosswell said, “Day before yesterday?”

  She nodded again. “Sunday morning.”

  Ollie said, “Did Turk say who accused them?”

  Her eyes widened. “It wasn’t you all?”

  Rosswell said, “No. We talked to Turk, but we never accused him or anyone else of murder. We don’t even know if someone actually got killed. We’re asking questions because we’re searching for someone. It’s important.”

  “I didn’t let Turk in the house.” Susannah glanced at the front door. “He was stoned. Turk thinks he and Frankie Joe are friends because they happen to ride the ferry together sometimes. Frankie Joe can’t stand Turk. He says Turk is nasty.”

  It was Rosswell’s turn to nod. “I don’t disagree with that.”

  Ollie said, “Turk must’ve been a bit confused. No one accused him of murder that we know about.”

  “Confused is right,” Susannah said. “Turk smokes dope and cooks meth.”

  Rosswell said, “I believe you.”

  Ollie picked up a ceramic skunk and examined it. “How long have you and Frankie Joe been married?” He set the skunk between a rabbit and a bear.

  “Since we graduated from high school, four years ago.”

  Rosswell said, “Are you both from around here?”

  “Yes.”

  Rosswell said, “Do you mind if I ask your maiden name?”

  “Fribeau.”

  “As in Sheriff Gustave Fribeau?”

  Susannah’s mouth curved upward. “As in Sheriff Gustave Fribeau’s daughter.”

  During lunch at Mabel’s, after they discussed striking out with Susannah Acorn, Ollie gave Rosswell the Charlie Heckle report.

  “It’s like the guy doesn’t exist.” Ollie leafed through his notebook. “I spelled the name every way I could think of and didn’t get hit one. I also asked around town. No one remembers seeing a white guy with a scar on his face much less someone named Charlie Heckle.”

  “If he’s hooked up with Ribs and Nathaniel, that’s not even his real name.”

  “Thought of that, too. If he’s using an alias, he’s going to be harder to find.”

  After they finished eating, Rosswell and Ollie trooped around the courthouse square. Every time they ran across someone who wasn’t dressed in shorts and a loud shirt and wasn’t carrying
a camera as a fashion accessory, they’d ask for Lazar Fribeau, as Captain LaFaire had instructed them. Every response was polite but disinterested. A few of the locals claimed they’d never heard of the man, insisting that Rosswell and Ollie must be thinking of Sheriff Gustave Fribeau.

  Rosswell checked his watch. “Three o’clock. I think Captain LaFaire sent us on a snipe hunt.”

  “We’ve been taken like a blind man at a silent auction.”

  They gave up the hunt and headed for the restaurant. When they got close, Rosswell breathed deeply, sucking in the aroma of the prime rib special. His mouth watered and his nose delighted in the scent.

  After they passed the French-Canadian museum, a gravelly voice vibrated behind them. “You boys trying to find Lazar Fribeau, him?”

  When they whipped around, an old man crooked a skeletal finger, motioning them to follow. Without a sound, he meandered into an alley built with irregular red bricks. The man’s deep blue eyes reminded Rosswell of dark crystals. Rosswell and Ollie followed him into the space between two ancient structures where the sun disappeared in the shadows of the buildings. The stench of urine assaulted Rosswell’s nose, making him grateful that he hadn’t fallen face down when he tripped over one of the lopsided bricks.

  The old man’s coveralls were brand new Carhartts. Those don’t come cheap. Over the prevailing body waste odors, Rosswell detected a scent of pine soap on the man. His khaki chambray shirt had creases ironed into it. A John Deere ball cap covered with fishing lures completed his ensemble. Country chic.

  “What you boys want with Lazar Fribeau, him?”

  Rosswell said, “Him what?”

  Ollie whispered to Rosswell, “Shut up and let me handle this.” Ollie moved close to the man. “We need to see Maman.”

  “You smell like the law.”

  Rosswell said, “How can you smell anything but piss back here?” He pinched his nose, then coughed. Ollie shot Rosswell a glare that could’ve melted the polar ice cap. Rosswell remained silent.

  “He is the law.” Ollie stepped in the general direction of Rosswell. “He’s a judge. And he saw something on the river Sunday morning. Maman knows everything that goes on out there on the water.”

  “What’s he see, him?”

  Ollie remained firm. “We need to talk to Maman. But we need your help, Lazar.”

  “Who you calling Lazar?”

  Ollie didn’t answer the question, but instead repeated, “We need to talk to Maman.”

  “Don’t know no one named no Maman, her.”

  Ollie peered up, then down the alley. No one else was within sight. He leaned in close to the geezer. “What’s it take to see Maman?”

  “Don’t know nobody named Maman.”

  Rosswell started to speak, but before any words came out, Ollie clamped his hand over Rosswell’s open mouth. He nodded, kept shut, and Ollie removed his hand.

  Ollie said, “Silver or gold?”

  The old man pulled off his cap and evaluated a couple of the lures. He finger combed his thin white hair, presumably allowing Ollie’s question to float around in his brain. Rosswell knew they were dancing, but only Ollie and the other guy heard the tune and stepped the steps.

  After a leisurely examination of the lures, which included caressing every one of them, the old guy answered, “In that case, I hear she likes silver today.” Settling the cap back on his head, he assumed the air of a French patriarch. “Silver.” His blue-eyed stare riveted Ollie.

  Ollie didn’t hesitate. “She might like silver, but I need you to tell me your name.”

  “You said you looking for Lazar Fribeau? You found him.” Two thumbs touched his heart. “Proud for it, me.”

  “Where should we meet you?”

  Rosswell wanted to ask, What do you mean meet him? He’s standing right here. But he kept quiet. He really didn’t want Ollie’s hand touching his mouth again.

  “Here be okay. Tomorrow same time.”

  Lazar gravitated out of the alley into the crowd where he blended the same way a deer assumes invisibility when it bounds into the forest. Rosswell started after him but Ollie grabbed his arm.

  “Stay here,” Ollie said.

  “What in the hell did I witness?”

  “Not many of those old Cajuns around anymore, but if you want to get along with them, you have to play their game.”

  “Cajuns? I thought Cajuns were in Louisiana.”

  “Don’t you know your history? There were hundreds of Acadians—that’s where the term Cajuns comes from—who came down here from Canada before this area was bought by the United States. This territory was Louisiana.”

  “Ah…well…of course, I remember hearing about that Louisiana Purchase deal. I didn’t know there were actual Cajuns still living here.”

  “You forget Audubon? One of Sainte Gen’s most famous residents was the greatest bird watcher of all times. And he didn’t have Nikon binoculars. He painted all kinds of birds. Without, I might add, the aid of a camera.”

  Rosswell cursed himself for letting Ollie slip in that bit of trivia. “You got me bad.” Paybacks, as they say, are indeed hell. “Now where do we go?”

  “We go find silver.”

  Rosswell chewed on a couple of Lone Ranger jokes but discarded them.

  They wound down a side street to one of the ubiquitous antique shops, a vertical wooden post structure. The hand-painted sign above the wide porch, which ran along the front of the shop, read Discovered Treasures. Numerous rocking chairs beckoned the tourists to sit a spell and enjoy the ambience. An old-fashioned bell on a spring rang when Ollie opened the screen door. Inside, a woman said, “Ollie, good to see you. How’s it going?”

  “Better than I deserve.”

  Discovered Treasures smelled of dusty stuff. The store was more of a second-hand emporium than an antique shop. Chairs of all sizes and shapes were stacked against one wall. Three sofas surrounded end tables of every description. Stacks of dinner plates, cups, saucers, and drinking glasses covered two tables. Books and magazines had been stuffed in every available place. Puddles of darkness lay in places where the sun couldn’t penetrate.

  “Excellent, in fact.” Ollie surveyed the inside of the shop. “Things are going excellent.” Rosswell couldn’t see anyone else. Ollie said to the woman, “We need to go in back.”

  She nodded, glanced around. “Nobody’s here but me.” She gestured toward the rear of the shop. “Let’s go on back.”

  With Rosswell and the woman following, Ollie walked to the back of the shop where he moved a chair and several boxes from in front of a door, opened it, and went through.

  Rosswell said, “Is this another Cajun thing we have to do?”

  The woman laughed. “No. IRS thing.”

  Ollie said, “They really don’t like all those taxes—”

  “Stop.” Rosswell threw up his palm. “If I don’t know something, I’m not responsible for it.”

  “He’s real picky about staying on the right side of the law,” Ollie said to the woman. “But sometimes he dances on the line.”

  Chapter 10

  Last Tuesday Afternoon

  With the business at Discovered Treasures concluded, Rosswell begged off any further investigation in Ste. Genevieve, telling Ollie, “I’ve got to run over to Farmington.”

  Ollie hoofed a heel-and-toe tap dance step on the sidewalk. “Let’s hit it.”

  The sun had scared away any clouds. The heat and humidity rankled Rosswell.

  “There’s no us involved here. I’m going over to Number Four. Stay here and help Mabel or something.” Rosswell didn’t want Ollie around. It would be hard enough for a judge to scrape up information, much less an ex-con. “Tomorrow will be the day for us stuff.”

  Ollie pointed to the huge canvas tote bag Rosswell had bought at the antique shop. “Don’t leave the loot behind tomorrow.”

  “Don’t forget to help Mabel today.”

  Rosswell parked in front of the visitors’ reception area at E
astern Ozarks Mental Health Center, a one-story red brick building with a flat roof. “I’ll bet that sucker leaks,” he said to himself. Whoever decided to put flat roofs on mental health buildings in a place that averaged forty inches of rain a year needed their head examined. Although with the dry weather turning to drought, Mother Nature would be in a pinch to squeeze out forty inches of rain this year.

  A large sign on the street commanded: ALL VISITORS MUST REPORT. Close to the front door, a gardener attacked the soil around drooping rose bushes that appeared on the verge of death. The dark worker was a short man, wearing a straw hat beaten nearly beyond recognition. Disturbing the soil lifted a peculiar odor into the air—sour, like the dirt had turned bad. Rosswell’s grandmother would’ve said the soil had gone blinky.

  The man’s face hardened when he stooped to inspect the flowers. The problem was plain. Not enough water and too much heat. Around the man’s neck, Rosswell noted a familiar-looking black braid necklace with a small golden star. The gardener’s nametag—Nicolas Rodriguez—was pinned to his shirt.

  “Mr. Rodriguez, I think you’re fighting a losing battle.”

  Nicolas groaned. “I tried telling the big bosses that I can’t make this stuff live if they short me on mulch, fertilizer, and water.” The cadence, rhythm, and pronunciation in his speech bewildered Rosswell. He’d assumed the gardener was Mexican, but the man was speaking with a perfect Southern accent. “Water rationing sucks big time when you’re trying to keep roses alive.”

  “There is a drought.” Rosswell sniffed the flowers. The roses smelled brown. “And what did the bosses say when you explained the laws of nature to them?”

  “They said they’re working on people, not plants. They say they’re trying to fix people so they can live in the real world. I said to them that if you can’t treasure beauty, then you can’t love people. How can you live in the real world without beauty?”

  Rosswell inspected the plants more closely. “That’s a question I’ve asked myself a lot the last few months.” He straightened, abandoning the roses, knowing they were beyond help. “Do you work here full time?”