by Bill Hopkins
Gustave said to Rosswell, “You know the deceased?”
Rosswell eyed Gustave, thinking that the sheriff already knew the victim’s name. Answering the question straight sounded like a good idea. “He’s a Native American from Bollinger County named Ribs Freshwater. The last time I knew of his whereabouts, I believe, but can’t prove, that he was running dope for Johnny Dan Dumey.”
“Johnny Dan Dumey.” Gustave stared at the ceiling of the cave. “Oh, yeah. The guy you smoked.”
Rosswell cringed at the callousness of Fribeau’s remark, but continued photographing the scene. “Ribs and Johnny Dan were hooked up with a fellow named Nathaniel Dahlbert who’s now living north of Sainte Gen at River Heights Villa.”
Gustave groped in his shirt pocket for a fresh cigar. “Tall guy? Red hair? Albino?”
Rosswell lowered his camera. “Herman Melville asked why an albino repelled and shocked us. ‘The Albino is as well made as other men and yet this mere aspect of all-pervading whiteness makes him more strangely hideous than the ugliest abortion.’ It’s because the pale color reminds us of death.”
Gustave bit on his cigar, narrowing his eyes. “Herman who?”
“Herman Melville wrote Moby-Dick.”
Gustave laughed. “Yeah, lousy movie. I saw it on the Alzheimer Channel. Jimmy Stewart made a lousy Captain Ayrab.”
“Gregory Peck played Captain Ahab.”
Ollie stepped closer to Gustave. “Nathaniel’s not an albino. If he were, his hair would be white. It’s not really red. More like orange. And it’s his natural color. He doesn’t use dye. Nathaniel looks like a rodeo clown.”
Gustave rolled the cigar between his thumb and forefinger. “No such thing as natural orange hair.”
Ollie rubbed his head, clearly trying to decide if he should speak. After a brief time, talking won out over silence. “Beg to differ with you, Sheriff. Red hair in certain ethnic groups runs from deep burgundy to burnt orange to bright copper. That’s because there’s a lot of the red pigment pheomelanin and not much eumelanin, which is a dark pigment.”
Gustave chewed on the cigar for a long moment, no doubt trying to digest what Ollie had told him. “You research him?”
“Six ways from Sunday and straight up on Monday.”
“Nathaniel Dahlbert’s probably of Scottish stock.” Rosswell hated to admit that part. “Ollie will be glad to show you his report. I don’t have solid evidence on any of the three. Since they’re dead, it doesn’t matter about Johnny Dan and Ribs. Nathaniel’s alive and dirty as a skunk dragged through pig crap.”
Gustave jabbed the cigar in his mouth. “What’s Nathaniel got to do with Tina?”
“I don’t know of anything connecting them. However, I find it more than passing strange that Tina called me from here and when I show up, I find Ribs and Nathaniel. That doesn’t make sense. They’re dopers. Why didn’t they head out for some big city far away from here?”
“And you and Ollie decided to search here after Maman pointed in the right direction?”
“I guess you heard about that.”
“Before it happened.” Gustave shook his head. “I can’t understand why anyone believes anything that crazy old woman says. How much did she take you for?”
“Five hundred dollars.” There was little use lying to Gustave. Rosswell theorized that the sheriff knew every detail of their visit. “In silver.”
“Exactly what did she say to you?”
“ ‘Cave of one eye have much treasure. Cave of blind eye, she holds a treasure but not what you seek,’ ” Rosswell quoted Maman again. “Obviously, we didn’t find what we sought, which was the body of a woman. Instead, we found the corpse of Ribs Freshwater, which we didn’t seek, even though it’s treasure of a sort.”
Ollie made sure Gustave saw the plastic bag containing the note. “Sheriff, if I might ask, what are you going to do about the threat against Judge Carew?”
Gustave pointed to Rosswell. “I’m advising you to stick to judging and let the cops do the detective work.”
Chapter 13
Last Wednesday Night
After Gustave dismissed them, Ollie and Rosswell drove to town. They stopped in front of Mabel’s Eatery to sit in the truck under a street lamp, which buzzed and crackled, awakening from its daylong sleep.
“Judge, come in for supper. It’s filet mignon night.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You’re not hungry?” Ollie gawked at Rosswell. “Are you sick? I mean, besides…” Ollie examined his fingernails, then rubbed the tattoo on his bald head while he peered through the passenger window.
“It’s okay to say besides the leukemia.” Rosswell studied the Church of Sainte Genevieve, the patron saint of Paris. “I’m tired. I need to go back to The Four Bee and sleep.” Maybe he’d dream of being in the City of Light at the top of the Eiffel Tower, ready to jump.
“Go to bed?” Ollie checked his watch. “The sun won’t set for awhile.”
Rosswell watched what looked like an egg yolk sinking into a pool of blood.
There was concern in Ollie’s voice when he said, “Haven’t you been sleeping?”
“I fall asleep for an hour, maybe two. Then I have a nightmare. I wake up sweating. I don’t fall back to sleep. Happens about every night.”
“Sleep paralysis.”
Rosswell had never heard the term. “What’s that?”
“It happens as you’re falling asleep or waking up. You can’t move. Your muscles are weak. You can have hallucinations.”
“Hallucinations without booze? Or dope? Without fever?”
“Hypnagogia is what it’s called. Healthy people can be affected, especially when you’re so tired you can’t function. Doctors write about it in medical journals all the time.”
Rosswell remembered something about the episodes. “Someone’s chasing me.”
“Have you been caught yet? I mean, in your dream.”
“No.” Rosswell closed his eyes. The fatigue clutched him, drawing him closer to exhaustion. “Last night I dreamed I was hanging upside down in a tree by one foot.”
“Typical.”
Rosswell opened his eyes and tapped rapidly on the steering wheel. “Typical of what?” He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.
“It’s a Tarot card. The Hanged Man is suspended upside down by one foot between heaven and earth, between spirituality and materialism. Like Absalom, King David’s son, caught by the hair of his head in a huge oak tree. Between heaven and earth.”
“To borrow your favorite phrase, unadulterated bullshit. Hanging between heaven and earth isn’t going to help me sleep.”
Ollie rubbed his head again. “Tried sleeping pills? Chamomile tea? Hot milk?”
“I always carry three tablets each of antacid, pain killer, antihistamine, and sleeping pill.” Rosswell pulled a green bottle from his pocket. “I’ve tried everything.”
“Everything?”
“Everything but booze, if that’s what you’re asking.” The bottle disappeared into his pocket. “Anyway, the doctor told me that the effects of the chemo could last for six months or a year. Nothing drastic, but I’d feel rundown occasionally. No big deal.”
Rosswell had never told Tina, much less Ollie, about the black dog of depression licking at his heels. Such a revelation would serve no purpose, although Rosswell suspected both of them had already recognized his dilemma, growing like a thorn tree in a field of daisies. Why was he ashamed of his mental problem? Lots of people were afflicted with depression and didn’t try to keep it secret.
Winston Churchill publicly recognized the danger of the dog. Rosswell had memorized a passage from the prime minister’s writings: “I don’t like standing near the edge of a platform when an express train is passing through. I like to stand right back and if possible get a pillar between me and the train. A second’s action would end everything.”
Even though Etta James, the blues singer who suffered from heroin addiction and leukemia,
lasted until age seventy-three, Rosswell concluded that he wouldn’t be as lucky. He had every reason to be depressed. He’d killed a little girl in the war. He’d killed Johnny Dan Dumey. Tina was gone, maybe dead. Maybe his child was dead. He’d seen a body thrown into the river. The sheriff was—he had to face it—roadblocking him. And, as an extra bonus, he’d fallen on top of a corpse decorated with a note in which some unknown bad guy—Nathaniel Dahlbert?—threatened his life.
“Ollie, I’ll be through with court tomorrow morning around ten-thirty or eleven. We need to talk about this some more.”
“Talk about what?”
“The case.”
Ollie ripped out his famous squeak. “There’s no case. You heard Sheriff Fribeau.”
“And when did you start believing Fribeau? Don’t you believe I saw a woman thrown into the river?”
“Never and yes.”
“What?”
Ollie exhaled loudly. “I don’t believe the sheriff. I do believe you.”
“Then there’s a case.”
“Not if you and I are the only ones who believe you.”
“Ollie, what are you saying?”
“I’m resigning as your research assistant. I’m trying to become a respectable businessman in Sainte Gen and riling the law is the last thing I want to do.”
Rosswell didn’t answer. Ollie’s desire not to draw the attention of the cops was sound reasoning. There was no way to argue that. Probationers should always be respectful to the law. And, when probationers break the law, they should do it in private and not tell anyone.
“Rosswell, did you hear me?”
“Yes, I heard you. Well…have a good night.”
“Forget what I said about the trust fund for my grandkid.”
“Wow!”
“Don’t act so surprised,” Ollie said. “I’m not taking your money, even if it is for my grandkid. I’m not a thief.”
“Turn around. See what beauty arrives.” Rosswell pointed to Jasmine LaFaire dallying toward them. Her gait was a lingering stroll. “Here comes the deck hand. Maybe you’ll have a better night without me.”
Ollie straightened to his full height. “She walks nice.”
“I love the silver tips on her hair. That goes good with your purple tattoo.”
Jasmine arrived at the passenger side of the truck. “Judge. Ollie. You all having a private conversation?” Instead of motor oil, now Jasmine carried a lemony scent about her. Her bulky overalls had been replaced with skintight jeans and a pink peasant blouse, accenting her curves.
Impressed with her transformation from a manual laborer to a beautiful woman, Rosswell’s tongue stilled, unable to receive signals from his brain.
Ollie said, “We were trying to decide the style of architecture for the church. Judge says it’s Late Romanesque but I’m tending toward Modified French Gothic. What do you think?”
Jasmine glimpsed at the church, then spoke to Ollie. “I’ve been thinking about something. Lots of things, in fact.”
Rosswell said, “Maybe Renaissance?”
“Both of you may think you’re fooling my dad and the sheriff and everyone else in the county, but not me. You all are playing detective because you don’t like the way the cops are handling this. Anyway, Judge, you asked me if I saw the men on the boat do anything suspicious.”
Ollie said, “Actually, it was me who asked you that.”
Rosswell elbowed Ollie in the ribs. “We’re listening.”
“I got to thinking about what happened the other morning. Something funny about Turk.”
Rosswell glared Ollie into silence when he started to comment.
She continued, “I think Turk is selling dope.”
Ollie said, “You and everyone else in a hundred mile radius think that.”
Rosswell said, “Is that what you thought was odd about Turk?”
“No. I’ve got to keep my eye on everything when we’re on the river so I don’t have much time to watch the passengers. But there was one thing that didn’t strike me odd till I thought about it later. I saw Turk give Charlie money. Then Charlie gave something to Turk.”
Rosswell said, “Maybe Charlie is one of Turk’s suppliers. Turk’s stock is getting low and he was replenishing his inventory.”
“Maybe,” Jasmine said. “But what Charlie handed Turk wasn’t dope. It was a post office envelope. One of those big ones. Legal size. Sealed up from what I could tell.”
Ollie said, “You can put lots of dope in one of those envelopes.”
Jasmine said, “Sure, but this one was flat and thick. It looked like a file was in there.”
“A file?” Rosswell said. “How can you tell what’s in a sealed envelope?”
“I mean, it looked like what I send off to the government. You wouldn’t believe the paper work I have to fill out. Charlie gave Turk a file.”
Jasmine joined Ollie for supper. Rosswell stayed in the truck under the streetlight, reading about Nathaniel Dahlbert’s house in the history book he’d bought at the antique store.
River Heights Villa had been built shortly before the Civil War. The wannabe Renaissance style called Italianate was in vogue at that time. Among other things, the architecture of that day featured towers stuck here and there. The grayish limestone building sported two of the towers, about six stories high, on the north and south ends of the house. Rumor had it that the Confederates in Missouri used the towers to spy on Federal activity in Illinois and on the Mississippi River during the War Between the States.
Rosswell thought the towers would make good observation posts. A guard posted up top could see the roads, the railroad tracks, and the river traffic. River Heights Villa would make a great place for a secret operation.
But what kind of operation?
Chapter 14
Last Wednesday Night into Thursday Morning
Rosswell drove to The Four Bee, chewing on Jasmine’s information about seeing a file. And thinking about Ollie abandoning him. One of the special channels this month on satellite radio was The Beatles. John Lennon’s album Imagine started. Good thinking music. Rosswell started talking to himself.
“Ollie’s quit and now it’s up to me to solve this alone. What could be in that file? If that’s what it was. A list of dealers? A list of suppliers? A list of customers? It had to be valuable if Turk paid Charlie for it. Or maybe Turk gave Charlie postage money. Who the hell knows? Maybe it means absolutely nothing.”
Rosswell’s gut lurched when I Don’t Want To Be A Soldier cued up. After the riff by Joey Molland on his acoustic guitar, Rosswell recalled that he sure as hell didn’t want to be a soldier either. Too late for that. He’d volunteered. And he’d volunteered because he believed Aristotle who wrote, “We make war that we may live in peace.”
Switching to the local AM station, Rosswell caught the news.
“…corn futures plummeted after predictions the drought affecting area farmers would last until…”
“…after a poor showing, the Cardinals lost again, making this string of defeats the longest since…”
“…funeral mass scheduled tomorrow for the beloved father of six young children, killed at the quarry when…”
“…strong winds out of the south followed by a powerful front of moist, unstable Gulf of Mexico air, then a dry front from Canada…”
“…again reminded residents of the red flag warning…”
“…County Commission issued a strict no-burn order with criminal penalties…”
Rosswell punched the OFF button, wondering why the news was nothing but downers.
When he arrived at The Four Bee, he slammed on the brakes. Something thumped. The sound came from behind the seat. He looked over his right shoulder, trying to determine the source of the noise.
Now what? He was already upset because fracking Ollie jumped ship and then all that weirdo talk from Jasmine about a file, and now his truck was thumping. He knew something was going out on it. Something was falling off his rattletrap an
d he wouldn’t have anything to drive till Vicky was repaired.
Cursing, he rummaged around behind the seat. Hand saw. Hammer. Plastic rope. Chisel. WD-40. Screwdriver. Dust bunnies. Another screwdriver. Duct tape. Gloves.
And a bottle.
A fifth of 18-year-old single malt Scotch, nectar of the gods of oblivion, still in a plain brown paper bag.
When had he stashed that behind the seat of his truck? Must’ve been during one of his drinking binges, long forgotten. He’d been sober five years. Maybe closer to six.
Setting the bottle on the seat beside him, he withdrew the letter Tina had written him before she disappeared. He kept it folded in his billfold. The creases were already tearing the page from so much handling. He unfolded it carefully.
Dear Rosswell, I love you so much. When I wake up in the morning, you’re the first thing I think of. When I go to sleep at night, you’re the last thing I think of. You’re on my mind every hour of every day. I want to know you and love you the rest of our lives. I’ve got something really important to tell you. I’m so happy to tell you. And I want you to be happy, too.
I’m pregnant.
When you finish reading this letter, come to me and hold me and never let me go.
I love you always,
Tina
Rosswell re-folded the letter, kissed it, and stuffed it back in his billfold. Tears welled, then ran down his cheeks, as they always did whenever he read her beautiful note. But this time excessive fatigue caused the emotional burst to be a big one. He hadn’t cried this much since Tina had disappeared.
For a few moments, he watched the river before he dusted off the bottle, broke the seal and opened it, breathing in the fragrance of smoky peat. Glorious. The golden liquid shined when he held the bottle up to a street lamp, casting oddly tinted rainbows from the orange glow of a sodium bulb. Even more glorious. He screwed the lid on and cradled the booze in his arms. More streetlights came on now that full dark had swallowed the day. He left his truck, crossing the road into Père Marquette Park.