Huckleberry Finished (13 page)

“Let me worry about that,” Travis said. Then she turned toward me, and I knew she was going to want to question me first. Not only was the murdered man one of my clients, but I had mentioned the other murder that had taken place on the
Southern Belle
. That probably had Detective Travis pretty curious.

So naturally, just as Travis started toward me, my phone picked that exact moment to ring.

Travis paused and frowned. I slipped the phone from my pocket and saw that Melissa was calling from the office again. I opened it and said, “Sorry, honey, this still isn't a very good time for me to copy down that serial number from my computer—”

“I'm not calling about that, Mom,” Melissa said. “I decided to do some more digging on the computer here about Ben Webster. And I found out something interesting.”

I held up one finger toward Detective Travis, asking for a minute of time. I didn't like it much when folks did that to me, and judging by the frown on Travis's face, neither did she. But I wanted to hear what Melissa had to say.

“Go ahead,” I told her. “What did you find out?” I avoided saying Webster's name where Travis could overhear what we were talking about.

On the other end of the phone, Melissa didn't have to worry about that. She said, “The only thing I've really found out about Ben Webster, Mom,…is that apparently he doesn't exist.”

F
or a second I thought I hadn't heard her correctly. Of course Ben Webster existed. I had talked to him. I had seen him when he was alive, and I had seen him when he was dead. Maybe Melissa was speaking metaphorically. Webster was dead, so he no longer existed….

Nah. I love my daughter and she's smart as a whip, but she isn't the type to sit around the office making philosophical comments. If she said Webster didn't exist, she meant it literally.

“I don't see how that's possible,” I said carefully as Detective Travis started to look impatient.

“I checked out the address on the credit card he gave us. It would be in the middle of a lake, if there were such an address. There isn't.”

“How's that possible?” I was so bumfuzzled I was starting to sound like a broken record.

“It's a new card. Webster must not have used it for anything else, so he hasn't gotten a bill yet. He must've had some sort of fake ID in order to get the credit card, but those aren't hard to put your hands on these days.”

That was certainly true. Identity theft and credit card fraud were booming businesses.

Melissa went on, “Once I found out the address was a phony, I did some more checking. According to the Social Security database, there are dozens of Benjamin Websters around the country who are close to the right age…but none in the St. Louis area, which is where our Webster claimed to be from. I did a public records search and didn't find anybody who matches his info, Mom. I think he must have had a phony driver's license and Social Security number. He's somebody else. He's not Ben Webster.”

As Melissa had said, that was mighty interesting. I wondered if Detective Travis knew about it yet. I figured the crime scene techs had taken Webster's fingerprints, and Travis had probably submitted them to the national databases available to law enforcement agencies. But from what I'd heard, it sometimes took several days to get a match from those databases, even if one existed. The dead man's real identity might still be a mystery.

Along with who killed him.

Travis was starting to look really annoyed now, so I said into the phone, “I'm glad you let me know about that, but I've got to go right now. I'll call you later.”

“Yeah, I still need to give you those numbers for the insurance claim.”

“Thanks, sweetheart.” I closed the phone and put it away, saying as I did so, “My daughter. She runs the office for me, back in Atlanta.”

“I'm sorry to interfere with your business, Ms. Dickinson,” Travis said, but she didn't really sound all that sorry. “Now, if you'll come with me to the salon…”

I nodded. I didn't like it much, but ready or not, I was about to be interrogated.

Travis led the way into the salon. She went to the bar, showed her badge to the bartender, and told him, “The salon is going to be closed for a while. You can check with Captain Williams about that if you want to.”

“Yes, ma'am, I'll do that,” the bartender said, then picked up a phone that probably connected him to the pilothouse. He turned away, spoke in a quiet tone for a couple of minutes, then said, “Yes, sir, I understand.”

He hung up, turned back to us, and tossed the bar rag he was holding onto the hardwood. “The place is all yours, Detective.”

It was still early enough in the morning that not many people were in the salon, only half a dozen or so. I was sure the casino was busier. The bartender went around the room and told everyone that the salon was closing for the time being. That drew some puzzled looks, but nobody argued with him. The passengers just got up and left.

Travis motioned for me to have a seat at one of the tables. She sat down across from me and took out her notebook. She said, “Tell me everything you can about your contacts with Ben Webster, Ms. Dickinson.”

“We went over all that yesterday, didn't we?”

“Humor me,” she said. “Tell me again.”

I knew she was trying to trip me up, to catch me in a lie. But since I had told her the truth the day before, I didn't have to worry about that. I just told the whole thing to her again, up to and including the fact that I'd fainted when Logan Rafferty and Captain Williams showed me Webster's body.

I was hoping she had forgotten about what I'd blurted out earlier, but no such luck. When I was finished going over my story, she said, “A while ago you mentioned another unsolved murder that took place here on the
Southern Belle
. What do you know about that?”

“Not much, just that a young woman was killed here last year.”

“A year ago today, to be precise,” Travis said. “Doesn't that strike you as odd, Ms. Dickinson?”

“Well, sure. But coincidences happen, even gruesome ones like this one.”

“You're certain it's a coincidence?”

“I don't know of any connection between the woman who was killed last year and Ben Webster.”

But I didn't know who Ben Webster really was, I reminded myself. I suddenly realized that he could have known Hannah Kramer. It was even possible that he was the person who had
killed
Hannah Kramer.

That thought made a chill go through me. Louise had mentioned that Hannah met a man in St. Louis. That man could have been Webster. They could have broken up, and he could have followed her onto the boat and…

But why take the same cruise a year later? Maybe he was a serial killer, I thought. Maybe it was some sort of ritual for him. Take a riverboat cruise, kill another passenger.

Webster was the one who was dead, though. He was the victim. I was letting my brain run away with itself and fill itself with crazy theories.

Theories that I couldn't actually disprove, crazy or not.

Detective Travis was saying, “What
do
you know about the woman who was killed last year?”

I could plead ignorance and claim that I'd just heard some vague rumors. But then if Travis questioned Louise Kramer, and Louise testified that she had told me all about the facts of the case, then I might look pretty bad in Travis's eyes. Plus, by nature I'm just not the sort to lie to the police unless there's a mighty good reason for doing so.

“I know her name was Hannah Kramer,” I said. “Her parents are on this cruise.”

That ruffled Detective Travis's previously unflappable demeanor. She said, “They are?”

I nodded. “Yes. They came on it as a sort of…farewell to their daughter, I guess you'd say.”

“That's just morbid.”

Travis's display of distaste was one of the first signs of true emotion I'd seen from her. I said, “Oh, I don't know. Folks grieve in different ways, I guess.”

“Did you know about this before the cruise started?”

I shook my head. “No, not at all. Eddie and Louise Kramer were just names to me, and I'd never even heard of Hannah.”

“I had,” Travis said. “I remember when it happened. I was still working patrol. I hadn't been promoted to detective yet.”

“I know it happened while the boat was moving, which meant it was during the day. I'm surprised nobody saw anything.”

It was Travis's turn to shake her head. “No, the
Southern Belle
had a dinner cruise then. The boat still docked at Hannibal during the afternoon, but that evening it cruised up and down the river so the passengers could dine outside on the deck. It never went very far, just a mile or two upriver and then back down.”

“Sounds romantic.”

Travis shrugged. “Not for Hannah Kramer. But that's why it was dark when she was killed.” She frowned at me. “I'm supposed to be the one asking questions here.”

I shrugged. “Just talkin', Detective. But that ought to prove to you that I didn't know anything about that other case.”

“Unless that's what you wanted me to think.”

I held up my hands. “Hey, I'd never been on this boat before yesterday. And a year ago I was in Atlanta.”

“I suppose you can prove that.”

I thought back for a second, then said, “As a matter of fact, I can. I was in court a year ago on this date.”

“Court?” Travis asked as she raised her eyebrows.

“Getting divorced. I reckon you can get all kinds of documentation about that.”

“I don't think I need it,” she said with another shake of her head. “But it's nice to know it exists if I do.” She looked at her notebook, but I wasn't convinced she was actually checking anything. I think it was just a habit, or to make me think she was looking at something. “Tell me more about the Kramers. Have you gotten to know them during the cruise?”

“Well, sure, a little,” I said with a shrug. “Louise more so than her husband.”

“He seems a little loud.”

I didn't know what she was trying to get me to say. Maybe she knew about the cell phone incident the day before, early in the cruise, or the confrontation in the dining room. So I said, “Mr. Kramer's got a lot on his mind, especially right now, I imagine.”

“Do you know of any connection between them and Ben Webster? Did you see either of them talking to him yesterday?”

I was able to answer that with an honest, “No, I sure didn't. As far as I know, they weren't acquainted with Mr. Webster at all.”

“As far as you know.”

“That's all I can tell you,” I said. “I can't tell you what I don't know.”

“No, of course not,” Travis agreed. “What about Mark Lansing?”

That quick change of subject was an interrogation technique. I knew that from TV—and from being mixed up in a murder investigation the year before. I didn't let it throw me. I said, “You probably already know that Mr. Lansing and I have spent some time together since yesterday. I'd say we're friends, even though we haven't known each other very long.”

“Do you know him well enough to be aware that he's a private detective?”

If she was trying to surprise something out of me, it didn't work this time, either. I nodded and said, “Yes, I did.” I didn't go into detail about how I'd found out that fact. I wasn't surprised that Travis knew about Mark's real job. She had probably run the names of everyone on the boat through the computer, and it would have spit out the fact that Mark was a licensed private detective.

Like a bulldog, Travis didn't let go. “Did he tell you, or did you find out some other way?”

I didn't want to get tangled up in lies, so I figured it would be best to continue telling the truth. “He didn't tell me. Someone else did.”

“And who was that?”

I hesitated. “Isn't there some sort of right to confidentiality between private eyes and their clients?”

“A private investigator working for an attorney is sometimes protected by attorney-client privilege.” Travis smiled and shook her head. “But I'm afraid there's not any sort of travel agent–client privilege.”

She had me boxed in. I sighed and said, “Mark was hired by Louise Kramer. She told me about it. She thinks that someone who worked on the riverboat last year was responsible for Hannah's murder, and that whomever it was might still be working here. She's known Mark since they were both kids. She thought maybe he could find out something.”

“Something that the police haven't been able to find, you mean.”

I shrugged. “The case is still open.”

“Which means that a private detective shouldn't be involved with it.”

“That's between him and the police.”

“Did Mrs. Kramer tell you if he'd found out anything yet?”

“No, she didn't.” I was getting tired of this.

Maybe Detective Travis sensed that, because she said, “I think that's all for now, Ms. Dickinson. Thank you for your cooperation.”

I just nodded. I wasn't going to say that it wasn't a problem, or anything like that, because it was. I would answer her questions, but I didn't have to like it.

As I stood up, I asked, “We're all still confined to the boat?”

“For the time being,” Travis answered without looking up.

I left the salon. I didn't know whom she was going to question next, but that was her business, not mine. I headed up to the third deck, instead. The chain that closed off the deck along the crew quarters was down at the moment, so I didn't have to unhook it. I was able to march right down the deck to Mark's cabin and knock on the door.

Lo and behold, he was actually there this time. He looked surprised to see me when he opened the door. But he smiled like he was glad I was there.

“Hi, Delilah. I was hoping you'd stop by. Have you heard anything about whether or not we'll be able to get off the boat anytime soon?”

“The detective in charge of the case is bein' hard-nosed about keeping us on board while she questions everybody,” I told him.

“That's going to take a while,” he said with a frown. “Between the passengers and the crew, there are quite a few people on this boat.”

“Yeah, that's right,” I said. “Even if you eliminate the passengers, that's still a lot of murder suspects.”

Mark's frown deepened. “Why would you eliminate the passengers? I'm not sure anybody who works on the
Southern Belle
would have had a reason to kill Ben Webster.”

I still had my suspicions about Logan Rafferty, not to mention the fella Webster had accused of cheating in the casino. But I didn't bring that up now. Instead, I said, “I'm not talkin' about Ben Webster. I'm talkin' about whoever killed Hannah Kramer.”