Bill Hopkins - Judge Rosswell Carew 02 - River Mourn
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“Contract. You want to see my best work? Go see the garden between the Catholic school and the Lutheran school down on Sainte Genevieve’s Road. They cooperate and I show the kids how to make the ground sprout beautiful things. Those kids love God. That’s why they make God’s earth beautiful.”
“Admirable. Could I show you something?”
“What do you want to show me?” Nicolas spoke in what Rosswell interpreted as a cautious tone.
“Have you seen this woman?” Rosswell displayed several pictures of Tina on his phone.
Nicolas squinted at the small screen, then shaded it with his hand. “Who is she?”
Rosswell tapped the first photo. “That woman is my fiancée.”
Nicolas deliberated on each photograph, then, when he finished, perused them again. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her. What is your fiancée’s name?”
“Tina Parkmore. We were fixing to get married, but she’s gone missing and I can’t find her.”
“Pretty. Too bad it didn’t work out.”
“I am going to marry her. I obviously need to find her first.”
“Good luck. Sorry I can’t help.”
Rosswell, seeing no one else around, plunged ahead, hoping to find even a tidbit of information. “Do you know Sheriff Gustave Fribeau from Sainte Genevieve County?”
“Many sheriffs come here. Deputies, too. And city cops. None of them is happy. They bring people who need help and the law officers know that no one can help the sick people. It’s too hard to bring the people back to the real world when their mind has left them.”
Rosswell wondered what the man was hiding. He sounded damned intelligent for a gardener. Because Nicolas hadn’t answered his question, Rosswell handed him a business card. “If you see Tina, please give me a call.”
“Judge Rosswell Carew.” Nicolas nodded at the card. “I must brag on myself. In Mexico, the gardens I created were the most beautiful in the country. When I took my oath of citizenship in Saint Louis at the Old Courthouse down by the Arch, you know what I promised myself that day?”
“Tell me what you promised yourself.”
“That I would make a garden here more beautiful than any garden I ever made in Mexico. The Catholic and Lutheran children helped me make that most beautiful garden. But the bosses who want to fix people won’t help me make a beautiful garden.”
“One more question, Mr. Rodriguez.”
“Ask it, Judge Carew.”
“If you’re from Mexico, why do you speak English with a Southern accent?”
Nicolas laughed. “I learned my English when my parents worked as migrants in Kennett, Missouri. When I grew up, I wanted to come back to Missouri, and here I am.”
Inside, Rosswell was greeted by a guard in a brown uniform who asked, “Who are you here to see?”
To Rosswell, the man resembled a priest of a New Age cult, squatted as he was behind a large lectern, a canister light in the ceiling shining down on him, soft elevator music playing from a hidden system. The air was redolent with Pine-Sol or Lysol or some other sol cleaner. Lights flashed on an elaborate system built into the lectern. Some kind of a switchboard? A video monitor had five different views around the building’s inside and a sixth flashing on various areas of the parking lot. The guard’s fingers touched the keys of a black keyboard hooked to a terminal.
“I need to talk to the director.”
The guard typed on the keyboard for a few seconds. “She’s not here.” With his right hand, he clutched a wireless mouse.
“Do you know when she’ll be back?”
The guard clicked more keys, moved the mouse, frowned, then repeated all three actions twice more. Without moving his eyes from the screen, he picked up a small cookie from a brown napkin. “Doesn’t really say.” He stuffed the cookie into his mouth. A couple more keystrokes. He wiped his mouth and a few crumbs fell on the keyboard. Eventually he swallowed enough to answer. “But it could be tomorrow.”
“Here’s my contact info.” Rosswell wrote on his business card. “My cell number’s on there also. All I need are a couple of answers for research I’m doing.”
“Research?” The guard picked up the card, holding the top and bottom between his thumb and forefinger, on alert in case the cardboard tried to bite him.
“Yes, research. I’m writing a law review article on the open records statute.”
“Thank you, Judge.”
“I need to talk to the director.”
“Yeah. Got it.” The guard slipped the card under the steel clip of a clipboard. “I’ll be sure she gets this.”
When the exit door wheezed shut behind him, Rosswell decided he could’ve gotten more help and fewer cookie crumbs from a Walmart greeter.
Outside, a small man wearing a buzz cut and a diamond in his right earlobe consulted with Nicolas over the rose bushes.
“Philbert?” Rosswell strode up to the CPA. “You mean they let auditors out in the sunlight?” They shook hands. Philbert wore the same kind of necklace as Nicolas. No wonder it looked familiar. Were the necklaces some kind of new fad? Most of popular culture was lost on Rosswell. He vowed to watch MTV and pick up the latest issue of Rolling Stone to find out what the jewelry denoted.
Philbert said, “I’ve got to check everything. I’m supposed to talk to every single employee.”
“Why doesn’t the state send its own auditors?”
“We’re auditing for the feds. They don’t trust the state and the state doesn’t trust them. Real cozy. As long as my paycheck clears, I don’t ask questions.”
“Our tax dollars at work.” Rosswell indicated the gardener. “I chatted with Nicolas a few minutes ago. Nicolas says he’s not getting enough supplies to keep up the landscaping.”
Nicolas said, “That’s right, Judge, you tell him.”
“Hey, I surrender.” Philbert held both palms up. “But you’re talking to the wrong guy. All I do is audit, not give out the money.”
Philbert and Nicolas kept silent then, staring at each other. Rosswell hurried to fill the silence. “Sorry. Did I interrupt something? I was heading for my car.” All that auditing stuff had to be private and he was intruding.
Rosswell had started down the sidewalk toward the parking lot when Nicolas grabbed him by his sleeve.
“Let’s go to the tool shed,” Nicolas said to Philbert and Rosswell.
Inside the shed, Philbert pointed to the gardener. “Nicolas and I have been doing a lot of talking since I’ve been here.”
Nicolas nodded. “Somebody needs to hear about this. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s something. But I have a conscience.” He moved behind his tool bench where every item stood at attention, like a soldier in formation.
Rosswell said, “And?”
Nicolas rearranged a few tools. “I’m sorry, Judge. I didn’t know you when you first talked to me. Philbert says you’re a good guy and he kind of—”
Philbert interrupted. “I checked you out after we went fishing last Sunday.”
“Checked me out? Why would you investigate me? Isn’t that strange for an auditor to be checking out people? And how did you do it?”
Philbert grinned. “I know lots of people. Some of them asked me to check you out. Leave it at that.”
“I don’t like that answer.”
“It’s the only answer I’ve got.”
“Any arrest warrants for me?” Rosswell asked only half-facetiously. Maybe someone was after him for practicing private investigation without a license. But who would be so interested in him that they’d want a CPA to check him out? Maybe his tax return was screwed up. Again.
Nicolas said, “Philbert says I need to tell you what I told him.”
“Which is what?”
“I didn’t see your Tina. But I’ve seen Gustave bring girls here. And they all look like your friend.”
“How many?” Rosswell prevented himself from gasping or otherwise making some kind of stupid amateur sleuth noise. “Lots of girls?”
“And you’re sure it was Sheriff Gustave Fribeau from Sainte Genevieve County you saw?”
“He’s the only cop who chews black cigars. He spits bits and pieces out on my garden.” Nicolas eyeballed the hoe’s blade, then commenced sharpening again. “I have to clean them up.”
“That’s him. Philbert, have you seen him here? Or anyone else who looks like Tina?”
“No.” Philbert twisted the earlobe diamond. “To both questions.”
Rosswell handed each of them a card. “Call me if you see something else I’d be interested in.”
Nicolas said, “I hope your memory improves. You already gave me a card.”
Chapter 11
Last Wednesday Morning
Rosswell, lugging the tote bag he’d bought at Discovered Treasures, met Ollie in front of the restaurant. They traipsed toward the alley off the courthouse square.
“Let me tell you what happened in Farmington yesterday afternoon.” Rosswell blessed Ollie with the events of Tuesday at the mental hospital.
“You’re thinking that Gustave has a number of females he commits to the mental hospital. And they all look like Tina. Strange. Were there a lot of them?”
“Nicolas was a tad vague on the exact number of women Gustave has committed. One or two is a lot as far as I’m concerned.” Rosswell inventoried the contents of the tote bag. “The law says that everyone who gets thrown in a mental health hospital for observation gets a lawyer within three hours. And if they stay more than ninety-six hours, they get a hearing before a judge.”
“You think these commitments are legitimate?”
“I don’t know. Gustave or somebody makes sure the women are out of there before three hours are up. What’s your theory?”
“Not sure I have a theory, only thoughts.” Ollie pulled a white handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his face. “Gustave carries these women to Farmington to get them out of somebody’s way in Sainte Gen, but makes sure they’re released before three hours. Not much of a paper trail that way. He’s a pipeline for someone who needs help shutting up women who could cause trouble for someone.”
Rosswell paused in the shadow of a building. “But where do these women go when they’re released?”
“I haven’t worked that out yet.” Ollie folded his handkerchief and stuck it back in his pocket. “Maybe one of them got thrown in the river.”
Rosswell pulled on his mustache for a few seconds before his rejoinder. “Or it’s one-hundred percent innocent and legitimate.”
Ollie’s face showed clear disappointment that Rosswell might consider someone innocent and legitimate. “It’s within the realm of possibility, but that realm is tiny.”
“We’ll look into it.” Rosswell consulted his watch while he coddled a wrinkled paper bag containing the silver he’d bought yesterday. “Let’s go. Lazar better be on time. Five hundred dollars doesn’t buy much in the way of used silver coins these days.”
“Old coins can’t be traced. Why do you think Maman wants them? She’s no fool. I’ve got a ton of respect for the old biddy and I haven’t even met her. There’s a trillion dollar underground economy in this country, totally free from government interference.”
“I’m sworn to uphold the law. Do you want me to call the IRS and report something?” Rosswell dropped the paper bag into the tote, emblazoned with several hearts and the words KISS ME! I’M FRENCH! in red letters on the front.
“Let me think about that.” Then Ollie spoke after a brief silence. “Nope. Reporting anything to the IRS is out.”
“What if the lady at Discovered Treasures becomes suspicious? What if she tries to find out why we want the money?”
“Her soul is free from suspicion. Trust me on that.” Ollie reached into the tote and tapped a book. “You need to start learning about this county.”
Rosswell drew out the book and clutched the thick volume. “I’ve been carrying this around since I bought it yesterday. The Complete History of Sainte Genevieve County, Missouri by Marie Vienneau. I’ll start boning up on my local history tonight. Read myself to sleep.” He slipped the book back into the tote.
“Now that you have new reading material, I want my Sherlock Holmes stories back.”
“Why? You’ve got them all memorized.”
“I fear for the book’s safety. A couple of years ago, it was you who decided to take up stage magic and damned near burned your house down testing flash powder to make your exits more dramatic.”
Rosswell blushed at the recollection. Researching stage illusions at home was okay. Practicing dangerous ones at home, not okay.
Ollie peeked into the tote. “Good to see you researching.”
“Is this whole county run by the Fribeau family?”
“Maybe that book will tell you.”
“Is that where you found out about how things run around here?”
“That and a lot of digging. But details are secret. The research assistant pledge of secrecy, you know.”
“Maybe Jasmine LaFaire will make a good source for you.”
“Maybe.”
“Friendliest deck hand I’ve ever met.”
Ollie puckered up, perhaps thinking of kissing Jasmine.
When they arrived at the appointed rendezvous, Lazar appeared at the head of the alley. “You boys follow.” His voice sounded as if it had been filtered through dry rocks. A claw-like hand beckoned Rosswell and Ollie from the shadows of the alley into the sunlight of the real world.
While Rosswell considered Captain LaFaire’s characterization of the trackless waste overblown, the exaggeration didn’t miss it by much. The forest grew thick on the bluff between the railroad track and the river. The timber hadn’t been harvested for centuries. Sunshine struggled through the mess, scarcely able to cast its light to the ground. Moss, ferns, and lichens fought to grow in the deep shadows. Occasionally a clearing with fewer trees appeared. There the grape, poison ivy, kudzu, and honeysuckle vines growing around and between the trees made the hike even more difficult. A dozen or more species of low-growing bushes inhabited both the sunny and dim places. Rosswell figured the bird watching would be excellent here. That is, if he could struggle back to civilization. A fatal bird watching expedition wasn’t on his social calendar. If there was a path that they were following, Rosswell couldn’t see it.
Earlier, when Rosswell had carried Lazar and Ollie in the truck toward their destination (what Ollie called “the land side, not the river side, of the bluff”), Lazar had eventually said, “Stop here.” Rosswell braked to a stop when Lazar gave the order. Lazar hopped from the truck.
“Where did the road go?” Rosswell said. If he’d driven another five feet, he’d have been stuck in weeds. He grabbed his binoculars and camera, then jumped out of the truck.
Ollie sidled up next to Rosswell. “This is the end of the line.”
“What line? Where’s the house?”
“Là-bas,” Lazar said. His eyes lifted to the top of a high bluff.
Là-bas, French for up yonder, turned out to be over a mile cross-country. Once the trek began, heat, humidity, blisters, chiggers, and mosquitoes attacked the three men as they battled their way through the brush. The sweat running down Rosswell’s face dripped into his mouth. Its saltiness made him thirsty. Twice, he heard something rustling through the brush close to them. It could’ve been a raccoon. Or deer. Maybe something bigger? Wild pig? A bear? Something more dangerous? Perhaps a bobcat or its bigger cousin, a mountain lion. Despite the heat, Rosswell’s skin prickled when icy shivers capered up and down his body.
Rosswell stopped, squatted, clutched his aching knees, and panted. “Who carries the groceries back here?”
Lazar grunted and spit. “Maman don’t allow no pictures, her.” He pointed to Rosswell’s camera.
Rosswell straightened up to reconnoiter.
“Isn’t there a straight way up there? We keep going back and forth. It’s only a couple of blocks. We’re being force-marched ten miles.”
Lazar grunted again.
Ollie said, “Judge, save your breath.”
After slogging several more feet up the slope, Rosswell said, “My ears are popping.”
“I’m reaching my boiling point listening to your griping.” Ollie stopped to fan himself with his notebook. “You can’t climb fast enough to make your ears pop. Besides, we’ve only gone up from the road about a hundred feet.”
Lazar said, “You boys soft, you,” tromping ahead so fast that Ollie and Rosswell had to run to keep up. The old man was outpacing them.
After what seemed to Rosswell a climb long enough to get a good head start on Mount Everest, Lazar jerked to a halt.
“Now what?” Rosswell wiped his bare hands on his face, slinging as much sweat away as he could.
“Nothing the matter.” Lazar removed his cap, wiped his forehead with his shirtsleeve, then pointed. “Aquí.”
“Thank God,” said Ollie, breathing heavily.
Rosswell said, “Was that Spanish?”
“Lazar is multicultural.”
“Ah!”
At first, Rosswell couldn’t make out where Lazar had pointed. Then, after scrutinizing the direction Lazar’s finger had indicated, Rosswell spotted a small house built of rock. The entire building was covered with vines and several trees grew up the sides of the outside walls. No windows. Perfect camouflage. Rosswell knew the river side of the bluff was beyond the house. No one could spy from that side. And, obviously, it was difficult spotting the house from this side.
The old door, crafted from rough lumber, creaked when Lazar opened it. “Maman, on rentre? C’est bon?”
Rosswell said to Ollie, “What did he say?”
Ollie marched to a large oak tree, some twenty feet away from the house. “Come here, damn it.”
Rosswell followed. “What?”