Bill Hopkins - Judge Rosswell Carew 02 - River Mourn (3 page)

Gustave left with a promise to talk to the ferryboat captain
and the passengers who’d made the second run. That is, if he could find them.
Gustave said he doubted the captain kept track of identities of passengers.

And, although Gustave hadn’t come right out and used
the word
lie
,
Rosswell’s gut whispered
that the sheriff didn’t believe his report of a body thrown in the drink. That’s
why he hadn’t told Gustave that the body resembled Tina. That would’ve
indicated paranoia.

Rosswell checked off the things that made his own story
doubtful: the early morning grogginess typical of most human beings, too many
possible witnesses on the boat to risk such a crime, sun coming up in his face,
and the thumping noise, the source of which—accounting for how the bluffs
bounced sound around—couldn’t be determined. Then he added in his physical and
emotional problems.

All those facts added up to a label that Rosswell didn’t
want stuck on himself: UNRELIABLE EYEWITNESS.

Mrs. Bolzoni, snoopy as ever, stood behind Rosswell in
front of the house, watching Gustave’s patrol car depart. She pushed Rosswell
into the kitchen.

“Frogs.” She dipped up bacon, home fries, grits,
gravy, and scrambled eggs onto a plate. Then added whole-wheat biscuits,
strawberry jam, and real butter onto another plate.

Even with his mouth full, Rosswell managed to ask, “What?”

“The frogs, they make my stomach hurt.”

Rosswell kept silent while he chewed. Mrs. Bolzoni often
made remarks that he didn’t understand. He blamed it on her poor English. Mr.
and Mrs. Bolzoni, he’d learned upon renting the place, had moved from Rome to
an Italian neighborhood in Saint Louis called The Hill about twenty-five years
ago. After Mr. Bolzoni died of a heart attack a couple of years ago, the widow
Bolzoni moved to Ste. Genevieve and opened The Four Bee.

She said nothing further. Curiosity squirmed around in
Rosswell’s brain like a hyperactive maggot in hot ashes. After he ate another
biscuit, he could stand it no longer.

“Tell me about the frogs,” thinking even as the words
left his mouth that he’d busted open the floodgates. She would doubtless tell
him that the amphibians were invading her house. And she would tell him every
bloody detail.

Mrs. Bolzoni whipped around to inspect Rosswell. “Frogs?”

Could she have forgotten already? “You said they made
your stomach hurt.”

“Oh, FROGS! Yes, that frog policeman.” She said it as
if that explained everything. “And all the frogs what live around here.” She
made circles with her forefinger over the table, evidently indicating the
neighborhood.

There it was. Mrs. Bolzoni was prejudiced against
French people. She’d used the derogatory term
frogs
to complain about the ethnic background of the people who’d settled the surrounding
territory over three hundred years ago. Rosswell wouldn’t burden Mrs. Bolzoni with
the knowledge that the sheriff’s first name sounded more German than French.
Such a revelation could wait until later. And, since living with
frogs
seemed to bother
her so much, he certainly didn’t want to know why she’d moved from The Hill to Ste.
Genevieve. That story could take days. Possibly weeks.

Deciding to slip out of the conversation before he became
further enmeshed in her ramblings, Rosswell stood. “I’m going into town to look
through the shops. I’ll be back late tonight. No need to hold supper for me.”

Mrs. Bolzoni served her guests two meals and a snack
daily, in addition to breakfast. That, plus the modest price, had led Rosswell
to her door.

“I thank the saints I don’t see the frogs with rusty
hair.”

“That’s certainly something to be thankful for, Mrs.
Bolzoni.”

As a matter of principle, Rosswell would not allow
himself to contemplate what in the hell
frogs
with rusty hair
actually meant.

Mrs. Bolzoni clumped around
the
kitchen, muttering about frogs, rust, and her bowels.

Rosswell tramped outside where he dallied, observing the
fog thin as the sun rose higher in the sky.

A big guy with square shoulders and bulging eyes strolled
up. “Judge, how about going fishing with us?”

All Roswell knew was his first name. Theodore. A
second, smaller man sporting a buzz cut and a diamond in his right earlobe—Philbert—followed
Theodore. Each wore a black braid necklace with a small golden star hanging
from it. Did the matching necklaces have some special significance for them? Were
they gay? And if they were gay, did the necklaces mean they were going steady?

The two men, guests who hailed from St. Louis, had
passed Mrs. Bolzoni in the hallway when they came out. They fell to packing
fishing gear into the back of a Ford Ranger.

Philbert elaborated on the invitation. “What more
could you want than to fish and drink beer with two charming assholes like us?”

“Where are you going?” Rosswell walked over to the
pickup and assumed the rural conversation stance—hanging his arms over the bed
of the truck, leaning forward at a slight angle. It was a pose familiar to him
since childhood. Men who talked outside gravitated to pickup trucks.

“The Mighty Mississippi.” Theodore directed his eyes
toward the river. “I can smell it from here.” A big sniff and a deep intake of
breath proved to Rosswell that the guy did indeed smell the river. A this-side-of-rancid
odor, reminiscent of meat about to spoil.

“We’ve got hundred pound test line.” Philbert rattled
around in the bed of the truck until he found a spool of the bright yellow
line, which he handed to Rosswell. It felt slick and glowed. “Best stuff on the
market.”

“Holy crap. Plan on catching a whale?”

Theodore shook his head. “Catfish.”

“What do you use for bait?”

“Take a peek.” Theodore opened a Styrofoam cooler.
Inside was a mass of dark red guts. “Take a smell.”

The odor was the same as the meat processing plant
Rosswell had once toured. “Beef liver. Stinks.”

Philbert dug around in a tackle box for a few seconds
until he drew out a huge treble hook. “That’s why they call it stink bait.” He
motioned Rosswell to take a gander. “And here’s what we stick it on. Once they
bite on this baby, they can’t get off till we drag them to shore.” The
three-pronged fishhook gleamed in the sunlight.

Rosswell’s curiosity grew. “What do you do with a
hundred pound catfish?”

Philbert nodded when Theodore said, “We take a picture
of it. And then throw it back.”

“You don’t have a fish fry?”

Philbert pinched his nose closed. “You’d never want to
eat a fish that’s lived in the Mississippi River. Too nasty.”

Rosswell winced, thinking of the woman who’d gone into
the water.

Theodore said, “We saw the sheriff out here earlier
and tried to get him to go with us. I wonder about that guy.”

Philbert punched his thumb against his chest. “Me, too.”

“The sheriff? Why?”

Philbert fingered the treble hook. “I think he gets a
little rough sometimes.”

Theodore said, “Don’t start with that shit.”

Philbert said, “You said you wondered about him.”

Rosswell pushed it. “How’s the sheriff a little rough
sometimes?”

Theodore coughed. “We spotted him wrestling a woman
into the back of his patrol car. Looked like he might’ve slapped her on the
arm.”

“Slapped her? On the arm?” Philbert sounded disgusted.
“Hell, he punched her in the face is what he did.”

Rosswell said, “What was she doing?”

Both men shrugged.

Rosswell persisted. “Was she hitting him? Was she
armed?”

“I couldn’t tell,” Theodore said.

“Could’ve been resisting arrest,” Philbert said. “She
looked pregnant to me. That’s sure bad if he’s tuning up on a woman who’s
pregnant.”

Theodore said, “She didn’t look pregnant. Maybe a
little chubby but not pregnant.”

“There wasn’t fat anywhere except her belly. I could
tell because she had on some kind of night gown.”

Theodore blew a raspberry. “How about that little
barista at Starbucks you’re always hitting on? She’s skinny except for her
belly hanging out. And she’s not pregnant. Unless she’s been pregnant for two
years.”

“I’m not hitting on her,” Philbert said. “She’s the
only woman who knows how I like my Mochaccino.”

Rosswell asked, “When exactly did you see the sheriff
doing this?”

Philbert rubbed the unshaved stubble on his chin. “About
two months ago.”

Theodore said, “It was more like three months ago. It
was right after that audit we did for Harrison, the shoe guy.” He switched his
attention to Rosswell. “We like to come down here as often as we can to relax.”

Philbert said, “It’s
Harriman
and he sells sporting equipment.”

Theodore snapped his fingers, the pop loud enough to
scare birds. “Yeah, that was the guy.”

Rosswell said, “You’re auditors?”

“CPAs,” Theodore said. “We do private audits. Or
government audits. We don’t care where the money comes from.”

Rosswell steered the conversation back to his main
concern. “Was the woman blonde?”

“Could be,” said Philbert.

“No,” Theodore said. “More of a redhead.”

Rosswell asked, “Strawberry blonde?”

Theodore said, “Yeah, could’ve been strawberry blonde.”

“Tall?”

Philbert appeared to be measuring Rosswell’s height. “A
little taller than you maybe. We weren’t that close.”

Rosswell said, “Do you know exactly where this was?”

Theodore pointed north. “There’s a big house up there.
It’s on the river.”

“Some kind of home for folks who aren’t right,”
Philbert added.

Rosswell said, “Do you know what happened to the woman?”

Theodore spoke in a stage whisper, “We don’t know. But
she does.”

He hooked a thumb toward the house. “She’s the biggest
damn gossip I’ve ever run into.”

“Mrs. Bolzoni?”

“Yeah,” said Philbert. “We came back about a month or
so after we saw that and Mrs. Bolzoni told us the sheriff had dragged a woman
out of a house and carried her off to Number Four.”

“Judge, what’s Number Four?”

“It’s what they called the psychiatric hospital before
they changed the name.”

Philbert said, “Why are you so interested in somebody
the sheriff carted off to a loony bin?”

Rosswell explained about Tina’s disappearance. He
finished with, “Sounds like it might’ve been Tina.”

A math problem
arose. Rosswell encountered several pregnant
women when he’d served as a
medic in the military. Some showed early and some didn’t. Tina could’ve been
anywhere from two to four or five months pregnant when she disappeared. In the
Middle East, Rosswell had helped care for a woman who vowed that she was five
months pregnant, yet all Rosswell noted was a thickening of her waist. The
woman was well nourished, slender, muscular, and strong. Tina’s pregnancy was
her first child, she worked out, and had great muscle tone. She could’ve been
well along when she disappeared and perhaps hadn’t started showing. How far
along was she when she told Rosswell? He didn’t know.

Theodore said, “You think Sheriff Gustave Fribeau
kidnapped your girlfriend?”

“No way. But whoever kidnapped her could’ve reported
her as being out of control or disturbing the peace or something and called
Gustave.”

“I don’t think we have sheriffs kidnapping women in
Missouri,” Philbert said. “Judge, hope you find her.”

“What’s the new name for Number Four?” Theodore asked.

Roswell said, “State Sanitarium Number Four is now
called Eastern Ozarks Mental Health Center.”

Philbert tapped Theodore on the shoulder. “That’s the
place we’re auditing.”

Rosswell canned the tour of gift shops and instead spent the
day fishing with Theodore and Philbert until it was suppertime. The three of
them cleaned up and headed for the dining room.

Mrs. Bolzoni pulled Rosswell aside. “You must reserve
the supper.”

A lapse of memory plus a good time fishing had pushed
the requirement that he make reservations for the evening meal from his mind,
thus threatening his presence at what he knew would be a fantastic repast. “Give
me this one chance and I’ll never break the rules again.” Rosswell had fallen
for that ploy a time or two. Now he hoped Mrs. Bolzoni would show him mercy. “I
promise.”

“I must make the little change,” Mrs. Bolzoni groused,
then stood aside to allow Rosswell to sit with the rest of the guests.

Caesar salad loaded down with Parmesan, cheese stuffed
shells, crusty rye bread with plenty of garlic dipping oil, and, for dessert,
tiramisu trifle, whipped up with strong coffee, chocolate, mascarpone cheese,
sponge cake fingers, almonds, and, usually, amaretto liqueur.

When Theodore and Philbert bit into the dessert, each gave
Mrs. Bolzoni a head tilt.

“Stop with the question you want to ask. I ran out of
the amaretto,” said Mrs. Bolzoni.

Rosswell took the hint and dug into the dessert, now
assured by Mrs. Bolzoni that it didn’t contain any alcohol. After the third
bite, he stopped to question himself if she had truly run out of amaretto or if
someone had told her that he was an alcoholic. The fact wasn’t secret, so he
wouldn’t have been surprised that she knew.

After completing his meal, he returned to his room to
enter a lengthy report of the day’s happenings into his journal. Tina’s eyes
were green, the same as the cover of the journal. Besides information on her
disappearance, it contained photos printed from the Internet of missing young
women who resembled Tina. Rosswell was no statistician, but he’d found that a
number of such women were concentrated in a radius about three hundred miles around
Sainte Gen. At the minimum, that would include parts of Missouri, Illinois,
Kentucky, Tennessee, and Arkansas. Such a concentration was, at best, odd. At
worst, there was an effort on the part of somebody to gather the women into the
area.

Maybe the women were outliers, oddities whose presence
in the number of women missing in the general population indicated mere
inconsistencies and nothing else.

Around ten o’clock, he set the writing aside, scrolled
down the contacts on his cell phone, and clicked on one. After three rings, his
call was answered.

“Rosswell? Is that you?”

“It is. Listen, tomorrow I’m scanning and emailing you
my entire file on Tina. Then we need to talk.”