Bill Hopkins - Judge Rosswell Carew 01 - Courting Murder
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Purvis said, “What about DNA, Frizz? You got any tests back?”
“Neal’s taking care of that. He ran a profile on the male corpse that he matched to a sample in Eddie Joe’s car. Also matched up to the knife I found under the judge’s couch. Johnny Dan must’ve slipped in and planted it.” Frizz removed his hat and wiped his head with his handkerchief. “Obviously we don’t have the female corpse, but we have a sample from Ambrosia’s toothbrush and comb from her house. In case she ever shows up.”
Purvis shook his head. “Look on the bright side. You’ve made some progress.”
Frizz said, “Progress. Yeah, progress.” He fanned himself with his hat.
Purvis screwed up his face, or at least the part of it that Rosswell could see. “Candy?”
“A weird girl,” Frizz said. “It seems that the younger generation is getting weirder instead of smarter.”
Purvis said, “Why did Candy confess to the murders?”
Frizz cleared his throat. “There’s a lot of … activity going on around here.” He cleared his throat again. “If we can put any stock on what Candy told us, Johnny Dan was screwing Mabel.”
Purvis said, “That’s no surprise, is it?”
“None at all,” Frizz said. “According to Candy, Johnny Dan was also doing her until Ollie interfered. Then Ribs Freshwater started chasing Candy and apparently came out on top—so to speak. Ribs was well on his way to winning Candy all for himself. But Johnny Dan still lusted after Candy even though he was going with Mabel.”
Purvis said, “I missed something. How would all that make Candy want to confess?”
“My guess,” Frizz said, “is that Candy somehow suspected Johnny Dan of the murders. Truth be known, he’d probably knocked her around some. She knew he was violent. If Candy confessed, she’d take the heat off him and then Johnny Dan would take the heat off Ribs, who was her true love.”
Rosswell said, “I don’t believe a syllable that Candy has uttered. There’s not a smidgen of evidence that Johnny Dan smacked on Candy.”
That is, if Ollie’s telling me the truth about his investigation of what Candy did and didn’t do.
Purvis stroked his beard for a few minutes, apparently trying to digest the soap opera without a scorecard. “Mabel screwed Johnny Dan who screwed Candy who then screwed Mabel’s father. Perverted. That doesn’t make sense.”
Frizz said, “A lot of this doesn’t make sense. But Candy’s a couple of beads short of a rosary. She’s liable to think or do anything.”
Rosswell recalled a slightly different version of the Candy story, one supplied by her shortly before the memorial service. She’d called Rosswell over to her golf cart.
“Johnny Dan made me confess,” she said in a voice so low that Rosswell had to strain to hear it.
“How did he do that?”
Candy began crying. “He caught me talking to Elbert.”
“Elbert? Who’s that?”
Candy sniffled. “You remember when I got first place in the pie baking contest at the county fair last year? And the year before that?”
“Uh … no. I don’t really keep up—”
“Elbert gave me those prizes. ’Cause I talked to him. Some. Not much. Just some.”
Rosswell completed the thought for her. “Johnny Dan said if you didn’t confess to the murders, he was going to kill Ribs and probably Ollie, too, then tell everyone you … I guess the term is … uh … cheated … to get the prizes for both years. Am I right?”
“Yes. If that got out, I’d never be able to show my face in Bollinger County again. Judge Carew, please don’t tell anyone.”
“Never in a million years.”
Now, with Frizz and Purvis standing before him, he didn’t burden them with Candy’s scandalous yet unverifiable story. He’d promised. Instead, Rosswell said, “I killed the murderer.”
Rosswell needed to have another chat with Father Mike about that.
That night at Picnic Area 3 of Foggy Top State Park, Rosswell leaned against his black pickup truck under a full moon in a cloudless sky. The temperature had gone down to around 80 degrees but the humidity stayed high.
He pulled the envelope from his back pocket, opened it, withdrew Tina’s letter, and re-read for—what?—the thousandth time?
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 folded the letter, replaced it in the envelope, and slid it into his breast pocket.
He drove for town, regretting that he’d killed the best mechanic for miles around. Vicky needed repairs. Lots of them and soon. She was fixing to carry him on a journey. He was going to find Tina. Wherever she was. Where was he going to go? He didn’t know.
When he parked at his house, his phone beeped. MISSED CALL. It was from a payphone in Ste. Genevieve, Missouri. How cruel, thought Rosswell, to get a call from the town where their special place was. Tina and Rosswell had spent a weekend in the old French town at the Southern Hotel. His phone beeped again. VOICEMAIL. He clicked on it.
Tina spoke to him.
“Rosswell, come get me. I’m—”
The message stopped.
Rosswell didn’t take time to pack.
The End
Acknowledgments
My first readers Sara leNeve McDaniel Snipes (RIP), Candy Harvey, Jill Mabli, and Ruthie Deck Burkman; Guppies (Sisters in Crime group); fellow writers who patiently gave me incredible amounts of their time (especially Hank Phillippi Ryan, Alan Orloff, Leslie Budewitz, Serena Stier, Grace Topping, Jess Lourey, Deborah Sharp, and Allan E. Ansorge); Charles and Marian Hutchings; Lois Jackson of the USDA for permission to use the cover photograph, Patricia B. Smith (editor extraordinaire), Susan Swartwout, and the thousands of people who’ve told me stories since I was a child.
None of this would’ve been possible without my wife, Sharon Woods Hopkins, who is my toughest editor, most honest critic, and who’s one super-excellent writer.
About the Author
Bill Hopkins is retired after beginning his legal career in 1971 and serving as a private attorney, prosecuting attorney, an administrative law judge, and a trial court judge, all in Missouri.
His poems, short stories, and non-fiction have appeared in many different publications. He’s had several short plays produced.
Bill is a member of Mystery Writers of America, Dramatists Guild, Horror Writers Association, Missouri Writers Guild, SEMO Writers Guild, Heartland Writers Guild, Romance Writers of America, and Sisters In Crime.
Bill is also a photographer who has sold work in the United States, Canada, and Europe.
He and his wife, Sharon (a mortgage banker who is also a published writer), live in Marble Hill, Missouri, with their dog and cat. Besides writing, Bill and Sharon are involved in collecting and restoring Camaros.
Courting Murder was the first novel of the Judge Rosswell Carew Mystery series. The second novel of the series, River Mourn (2013), won first place in the Missouri Writers’ Guild Show-Me Best Book Awards in 2014.
Sharon and Bill have started a publishing company, Deadly Writes Publishing, LLC, and they welcome submissions. Visit their website for more information.
www.deadlywritespublishing.com
Visit Bill at
Judge Bill Hopkins
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Acknowledgments
About the Author