The Branson Beauty (14 page)

Yours forever,”

Sheila stopped. “It's signed with a kind of loopy squiggle. They all are. I can't figure out if it's a symbol or a letter.”

“Keep going,” Hank said.

“Mandy love,

Why are you not doing what you're supposed to? You walk around in sweats and ponytails. You are not wearing your hair like I asked you to. Your beautiful, wonderful hair that I want to run my fingers through. I am very disappointed that you have not figured everything out yet. The enormous strength of my love should make it obvious to you. You need to show me that you love me, too. Your hair, Mandy love. No more ponytails.

“That's it for that one,” Sheila said. “This last one is the one she showed her roommate. Mandy told her she'd gotten a few mailed from different places around Springfield, but this was the first one she'd gotten with a Branson postmark:

“My Mandy,

You may be in college now, but I hope that you are a good enough person to remember where you came from and to know that your true love waits for you. No matter how far away you go, I will always know everything that you do. I always know. You will always be mine. I will have you. It is fate.”

No one said anything. Sheila cleared her throat.“Well, that's all I've found so far. I'll go back over her room. There've got to be more.”

Hank leaned back in his chair and took a swig of coffee. “Download her hard drive—wait, is it a laptop?”

“Yeah,” she said.

“Just bring it back. We've got her parents' permission to take anything we need. We've got to get into her email and her Facebook and whatever else, too. And when you—”

The police radio crackled. Both Hank and the Pup jumped, Hank almost spilling coffee all over his shirt.

“Sir? Sir? Please, sir.” Frantic whispering came out of the speaker.

Hank's chair, which had been balanced on its back legs, came down with a loud smack on the hard floor. He leaned forward.

“Duane? What the—”

“He's back, sir. He's back, and he's in the room. I just went to the bathroom, and I came out and saw him going in, and—” The whispering stopped.

The Pup stared at the radio in bafflement. “Who's back?”

Hank had already grabbed his coat. He kicked open the office door and spun on his heel toward the lobby.

“Gallagher.”

 

CHAPTER

11

Hank took the stairs two at a time and burst into the quiet hallway, which still smelled like sickness overlaid with a liberal dose of antiseptic. His wet boots squeaked on the green linoleum as he sped toward Albert's room. The arrogant prick was disobeying a direct law enforcement order.
His
direct order
.
The squeaking grew louder. He got to the closed door and shoved it open. It swung wide and slammed against the wall. Gallagher, who had been leaning over the bed, jumped away and whipped around toward the noise. He saw Hank and froze. The two men stared at each other. Hank moved until Albert's bed was between them.

“Good evening,” Hank said very slowly. “I was wondering”—he made a concerted effort to unclench his fists, and his jaw—“what exactly you are doing here, violating my order?”

Gallagher straightened his spine and then took a moment to smooth the sleeves of his suit jacket. His nice wool overcoat was draped over the room's one chair.

“I had … I had just stopped by to check on his health. There was no guard anymore, so I assumed … naturally … that there would be no problem anymore. I certainly did not intend to stay.”

Hank looked pointedly at the coat on the chair and then back at Gallagher, who returned his gaze with a carefully constructed look of mild bemusement. Or maybe it was amusement. Either way, it made Hank even angrier. Which, of course, is exactly what Gallagher wants, Hank thought. He forced a smile.

“I will see you Wednesday at ten
A.M.
at my substation on the expressway,” he said. “We need to go over a few more things about your boat … and your business.”

Gallagher pasted on his own fake smile. “Of course.” He picked up his coat and moved toward the door. He paused and gave one quick—almost involuntary—glance back toward the figure in the bed before disappearing down the hallway.

Hank let out a long, slow breath. Good gravy. It was a miracle he'd kept his temper. He was in the middle of drawing in a deep breath when Duane appeared in the doorway. More patience, please.

“What happened, Duane?”

Duane looked like a kid who had just had someone run over his new puppy, or a deputy who had just seen his career similarly flattened.

“I had to pee—er, use the restroom. They'd shut off this one—” He pointed toward the door across the room half hidden by one of those curtains-on-wheels. “Something about plumbing pressure. I don't know. They said I'd have to go down the hall to the main one. I waited as long as I could. Really, I did.” The last words came out almost in a wail.

Hank frowned. “How long ago did they tell you about this plumbing problem?”

Duane thought for a minute. “It musta been right after lunch. I remember thinking I should not have just had that big ol' cup of coffee with my sandwich.”

Well, Hank could certainly relate to that. He sighed. So Gallagher had either gotten extremely lucky and walked in during the two-minute window when Duane was gone, or he had known the plumbing would be shut off and deliberately waited until nature called Duane away. He had a feeling Gallagher was a man who made his own luck.

He looked at Duane. If he were just the guy's colleague, he'd slap him on the back and crack a joke about bad bladder timing. But he was the boss. This was really the first instance since he'd taken the job when discipline was necessary. The guy had left his post, and hadn't asked the nurse to monitor things while he was gone. Enough said. But … he had admitted his mistake and called Hank in as soon as he discovered it. And what kind of matchup was it—a twenty-one-year-old kid on his second day of boring, solitary guard duty against the county's leading businessman and his mom's employer? Hank sighed again. Duane cringed.

“You're the only one I've got right now, Duane,” Hank said. “Everyone else is working the storm or investigating the homicide. I need you to step up, okay? Can you do that?”

Duane nodded almost frantically. “Yes, sir.”

Hank sighed again and walked over to the bed. Albert the Moron appeared to still be asleep. He was still hooked up to an IV and several monitors. Hank squinted at them, but he only knew enough to tell that, yep, the guy's heart was beating. Helpful. He stared down at the thin figure, perfectly still under the grayish hospital sheet. All sorts of priceless information was lying there, locked up in that sedated brain.

Hank gave himself a shake. He could stand there all day staring at the equivalent of a locked safe, or he could get moving and try to find a key. He turned, gave Duane a rundown of exactly what was expected of him, and left. He turned toward the stairwell but stopped and looked the other way, toward the nurses' station. One nurse sat behind the counter.

As he got closer, he realized it was Nurse Grumpy from the night before. He put on his best church smile.

“Ma'am. Hello there.”

She looked up and glowered at him. “Are you planning on making noise again?”

“No, ma'am,” he said cheerfully. “I was just wondering…” He casually leaned against the counter and put his hand in his jeans pocket, pulling his coat back in the process and revealing his badge. He smiled again. “I was just wondering if you had any problems today. You know, any people bothering you up here that I might be able to help you with.”

She raised a very thin eyebrow and pursed her lips. After what seemed like five minutes of studying him, she nodded slightly. He must have passed inspection.

“There was a man lurking around earlier. Refused to tell me what he wanted. I told him he needed to be downstairs if he was waiting for someone. He told me he knew what he needed and I should just go about my duties.” The sour look on her face showed exactly what she'd thought of that directive. “Just because you're wearing an expensive suit doesn't mean you're better than anybody else. No, sir. I'm just as good in the eyes of the Lord as he is.”

“How long exactly was he up here … bothering you?”

“Oh, at least half an hour, if not longer. I went to check on Mrs. Trask in room four—she'd pushed her call button—and when I came back, he was gone.” She sniffed. “Good riddance.”

Hank wished he could be as easily dismissive of the loiterer, but that would not be a wise idea at this point.

“Ma'am, I can't thank you enough for your time. And if there's ever anything you need help with, you just let me know. My name's Hank.”

“Oh.” Her eyes widened. “You're the new sheriff, then. Aren't you?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“And your wife, she's Dr. McCleary. Down in the ER?”

Hank nodded.

“Well, good. She's a fine thing, you know. Good doctor. Good to everyone, even the nurses.”

“Yes, she is,” he agreed and turned toward the elevator. Nurse Not-So-Grumpy stood and stuck out her hand.

“Good to have met you, Mr. McCleary,” she said, shaking his hand briskly.

Hank headed for the elevator chuckling. Maybe “Mr. McCleary” would take a detour and stop in downstairs. Say hello to his fine thing.

*   *   *

Hank steered the car toward home, a Country Mart bag with milk and marshmallows on the seat next to him. He had stopped in at the ER to see Maggie. She'd dashed out for the cocoa supplies earlier and planned to take them home in time for dinner, but now had an ice-slipping broken leg to set and a snow-shoveling heart attack on the way in. So he'd gotten nothing but a quick kiss and a bag of groceries shoved at him. That was fine. He couldn't complain—his job was just as bad. Unexpected late nights, missed dinners, preoccupied thoughts. It was just as good, though, too. Adrenaline rushes, new problems to solve every day, challenges that made him feel alive. He pulled into the driveway. At least today he would not have to add another missed dinner to the list.

The kids threw themselves at him before he even had his coat off. They'd had cocoa, watched two whole movies, played Candy Land until Grandpop said no more, eaten grilled cheese for lunch, and gotten to jump on the bed.

“What?” Hank stopped their chattering. “You got to what?”

Dunc came out of the kitchen. “It was either let 'em do that, or throw 'em out in a snowbank. Maggie specifically told me before she left this morning that I couldn't do that, so the bed was the only thing I could think of to burn off some energy.”

He grabbed the bag out of Hank's hand and disappeared back into the kitchen. Hank leaned down and whispered to Maribel, “You jumped on Grandpop's bed, right?”

She giggled. “No. Yours and Mommy's. It's way bigger.”

Hank scowled, which just sent both kids into fits of laughter. They clung to him as he walked into the kitchen, which smelled of warm bread and some kind of meat.

“I'm trying meatloaf. Marian's recipe. I'm not sure I got it right,” Duncan said as he served it up.

Hank took his slice and dug in. Dunc had most definitely not gotten it right. It wasn't inedible, but it was certainly not the meatloaf his mother-in-law used to make. He looked across the table at Dunc, who was taking his own first bite. He made a face and slowly lowered his fork back onto his plate. His eyes filled, and he swallowed hard. Hank looked down quickly and tried to concentrate on his own plate. Both men choked it down in silence until Maribel piped up.

“Benny's playing with his food.” She pointed at her brother, who had built an impressive meat mountain studded with green-bean trees. He was so delighted with himself, Hank couldn't get mad.

Duncan guffawed. “That's about what it's good for, kiddo,” he said. He turned to Hank. “If I'm going to keep trying to learn to cook, we'd better think about getting a dog. Nobody's going to finish this.”

Hank pointed to his almost empty plate. “All I've had today is a bag of stale chips … and a couple of marshmallows on the way home. At this point, dinner could be dog food, and I'd still eat it.”

Benny chose that moment to flatten his mountain. Green beans went flying, and all four of them burst out laughing.

After Hank had cleaned that up, he wrestled his still-way-too-energetic kids into their pajamas and tucked them into bed. He came out after stories to find Duncan stoking the fire.

“Guess you're heading out again?” he said.

Hank looked longingly at the easy chair by the hearth and the Dick Francis novel on the end table. His father-in-law was settling in for the night.

“Maggie told me you've got a murder. First time that's happened around here in ages. Well, first time where it wasn't some druggie meth heads killing each other outside of town.”

Hank wished it was a meth case. Nasty business, but it was always pretty easy to figure out what had gone down. No big-time businessmen, comatose key witnesses, or unidentified stalkers to muddy the waters. He stared at the fire. Dunc settled back in the chair to the left and took a slow sip from his mug. He said nothing, just let Hank stand there and think. Hank turned away. The fire was not helping. Maybe the water would. He gave Dunc a slap on the shoulder as he moved toward the door.

 

CHAPTER

12

The boat sat motionless in the frigid lake, with nothing more than the long, rickety, temporary gangplank to connect it to the dock like some kind of dubious umbilical cord. There was no creaking of rope or lapping of water. No sound at all. The heavy smell of pine and diesel fuel made the air more stagnant than it should have been, so far out in the pristine Ozarks. And the moonlight—the clouds had finally blown through and the sky was clear—slid along the smooth surface of the lake until it got to the
Beauty
. Then it seemed to not want to go any farther. Only small bits of light penetrated the darkness around the boat, casting haphazard shadows in every direction. The white paint looked dull and gray, and the black smokestacks were almost invisible as they towered over Hank.