Bill Hopkins - Judge Rosswell Carew 02 - River Mourn (10 page)

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?”

“He asked her if it was okay if we came in. You don’t
know how to handle this. Either keep your mouth shut or I’m leaving.”

“You speak French?”

“I know a few words. Now you behave.”

Rosswell nodded. He and Ollie moved back to the door in
time to see Lazar slipping inside. They followed.

Lazar took up his post by the open door, letting the
afternoon sunlight tumble in. Maman rocked back and forth in a handmade bentwood
rocking chair, posed in front of a huge fireplace. A tan mutt, his gray muzzle
speckled with dirt, lay at her feet, sleeping, occasionally farting and
snoring. Rosswell said a silent prayer of thanksgiving that there was no fire.
The temperature inside the house had to be eighty or eighty-five degrees. Maman’s
shriveled body surely couldn’t be cool, yet Rosswell found no traces of sweat
on her pale, translucent skin, the color of a corpse.
Maybe she’s dehydrated.
Maman
wore a pale blue kerchief on her head tied behind her neck, holding back her
silver hair. Her dress was a simple brown shift. An earthen smell worked its
way into Rosswell’s nose. It wasn’t the odor of spoiled dirt, but a smell of
clean ground.

“
Bienvenue,
chasseurs. Vous cherchez le trésoir
.
” The voice coming from the
crone rose up high and squeaky.

Ollie said, “Anglais, s’il vous plait. Je ne parle pas
bien le français et mon copain ne
comprend
rien.”

“I speak your language for you but she’s a barbaric
tongue. English sounds like walnuts in a meat grinder, all clanking and
clinking, them.”

She wore no shoes, her feet likely callused from years
of treading barefoot. A rough-hewn table dominated the middle of the room, a
glass pitcher filled with water and an empty coffee mug at one end. A bench on
one side of the table furnished the only other place to sit. No one asked
Rosswell and Ollie to take a load off. Rosswell stood quietly as possible,
watching the transaction.

Ollie caught Rosswell’s attention before he said, “Yes,
Maman, we are hunters and yes, we seek treasure.” Rosswell silently thanked
Ollie for weaseling in a translation of the French conversation. “My French is
bad and my friend here doesn’t speak it at all.”

“So you said. Your French is bad and his nowhere. You
miss much when you don’t have the tools to see.” She leaned down and scratched
the dog’s ears. The mutt’s breath flapped his jowls every time he exhaled.

Ollie said, “What have you seen?”

The dog stood and snuffled behind Maman’s chair until
he found a dry bone. He clamped onto his treasure, then trotted to a corner
where he dropped it. Exhausted from the excursion, he reclaimed his nap spot
and fell asleep.

Maman scratched her palm. “I see nothing.”

Ollie kicked Rosswell’s foot.

“Oh. Right.” Rosswell handed the bag of silver coins
to Ollie, who passed it to Maman.

Ollie said, “I’m sorry for the poor gift.”

Poor gift? Rosswell was floored. Five hundred dollars was
a freaking great gift. What was he going to get for his money? Was Maman going
to peer into the future? Shouldn’t she have a crystal ball or tea leaves or
Tarot cards? Surely, she must be a psychic or something.

Maman hefted the bag. “Good thing I not see much, me.”
The coins vanished. Rosswell gaped, amazed that the old woman could hide the
silver on her person so quickly. “Dina, I see.”

“Tina,” Rosswell corrected.

Maman growled. “Many stand by Dina. You heard what I
say. I say what I mean. You listen and keep your words behind your teeth. Don’t
hear. Listen, you, and watch for them.”

Rosswell nodded his agreement, although he wasn’t clear
what he’d agreed to.

Ollie knelt at Maman’s side. “What did you see?”

“Cave of one eye have much treasure. Cave of blind eye,
she holds a treasure but not what you seek.” Maman let out a soft sigh, then
closed her eyes halfway. In a low voice, she sang words that Rosswell couldn’t
decipher.

When she finished her song—or, simply quit—Maman
rummaged through a pocket on her dress and pulled out a small gold,
five-pointed star, hanging on a black braid. “You.” She tossed the necklace to
Rosswell. “Much pain you have. Wear this always.”

Rosswell ran his fingers over the flat and narrow
braid. Black silk. He obeyed Maman and slipped on the necklace, thinking that
even Maman was in on the new local jewelry fad. Or maybe she was the source of
it.

After several minutes of silence, he concluded that the
conversation was over. He further inventoried the room. No crystal balls, no
cards, no incense, no Ouija board. Rosswell could contain himself no longer. “Maman,
are you a psychic?”

Maman laughed down deep in her throat, recalling a
scene from
The Exorcist
.
“No such thing. I got
eyes and I see. I got ears and I hear. I got nose and I smell. I got hands and
I feel. I got brain and I think. That’s all you need.” A fleck of spittle
settled on her chin, which she wiped away with a gnarled hand. “No psychic, me.
No God up above and no Devil down below. Using senses, me. You pay attention,
you.”

Rosswell prayed that Maman and Mrs. Bolzoni would
never meet, certain that Mrs. Bolzoni wouldn’t appreciate Maman’s Frenchness.

Maman rocked for many more minutes, the chair
creaking, Ollie kneeling beside her, Rosswell silent, waiting for anything
else.

The dog woke up, retrieved the bone from the corner,
and dropped it behind Maman’s chair. Again, he regained his spot to finish his
nap.

Eventually, Maman said, “You boys best be getting, you. Lazar,
you got
tabac
for my pipe?”