The Branson Beauty (18 page)

“What did Ryan think about it?” Hank asked.

“He was totally surprised,” she said.

The short one chimed in. “I think he was mad, too. His girlfriend starts acting like a spazz on the most important night of the year. And he was mad that it made Chad mad. That wasn't cool, either. You don't want to tick off the guy who's put on this awesome party. It was just a bad deal.”

“What did Mandy do after that?”

“Oh, she made Ryan leave pretty soon after that. I think they even left before midnight.”

“And how did Chad take all of this?” Hank continued.

All three girls sighed. Apparently Chad was all that and more. Alyssa cleared her throat. “He was great. You could tell he was upset, but he totally brushed it off and was a lot of fun.”

“Yeah,” Jennifer said. “And with Mandy gone, he paid more attention to the rest of us.”

Hank kept his face impassive. “He didn't before that incident?”

“No,” she said with a bit of an edge to her voice. “He followed Mandy around. Sure, she's in college and everything, but I can run faster than she can…” She trailed off and blushed slightly.

“It wasn't very smart,” said the short one whose name Hank still didn't know, “because she made Ryan so mad that he started dating someone else.”

Hank was unaware that was common knowledge. “Really?” he said casually.

Shorty nodded. “Yep. We saw him in January up in St. Louis. Jenny and me went up with our moms to use our Christmas gift cards—St. Louis is a lot more fun than Springfield—and we saw him at the Galleria. He had some hot blonde that he was hanging all over. Making out with her in the food court. We told Alyssa as soon as we got back.”

All three of them grimaced in disapproval. They clearly expected better from someone now in college.

“Did you say anything to him?”

Shorty shook her head. “He didn't even see us. We had to go, and besides…”

There was an exasperated huff from the doorway. The Battle-Ax had returned. “We do not gossip about other people, Melissa Garvey. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Good Christians never—”

Hank cut her off, although he was tempted to let her have at them. “Ma'am, they are answering my questions. And I'm pretty sure the Lord approves of people who help—with all seriousness—the police and their investigations. Don't you agree, ladies?”

All three nodded quickly. His other questions produced nothing important, so he nodded to the Battle-Ax and the three rose to leave. “Oh, Alyssa,” he said. “You said Sampson, right? Are you related to the Tony Sampson who works on the
Beauty
?”

“Yeah, he's my older brother,” she said.

“Has he talked to you about all this?” Hank asked.

She shrugged. “Nah. Not really.”

“How long has he worked out at the
Beauty
?”

She thought for a moment. “About two years, I guess. He started after he graduated. Now he thinks he could be the captain.” She rolled her eyes.

Hank smiled. “Older brothers, huh?”

She grinned. “Yeah. Exactly.”

The Battle-Ax marched them from the room. Hank followed a moment later and found no one in the office. He felt odd standing on that side of the counter, so he walked around it to the front. The Battle-Ax came in from the hallway.

“I do hope that helped, Sheriff.”

More than you know, ma'am. More than you know. He stuck out his hand. “I hadn't expected that, but it was very valuable, ma'am, and I thank you.”

She smiled, which softened her face considerably, turning her into more of a Battle-Spade. She pressed his hand with both of hers. “And please, tell Mr. McCleary for all of us that we pray for him every day. And we miss Marian so much…” Her eyes filled. “She was such a good principal. Such a good person. To go like that. At sixty-four, from a heart attack! That shouldn't happen. God forgive me, but it shouldn't. She should have had many more years left in her.”

Hank felt his eyes prick. “Yes, ma'am. She should have.” He retrieved his hand and moved for the door before his eyes could do more than that. Going the other direction now in the hallway, he noticed the trophy case against the opposite wall. In the middle place of honor was the track team trophy from last season, and next to it, a photo of the long-distance runners. He moved closer. It was a different picture from the one used in the yearbook. Seventeen girls in track uniforms and two men, one of whom had mussed '70s hair and aviator sunglasses. Albert Eberhardt. Coach E. Standing right next to Mandy Bryson.

 

CHAPTER

16

Hank burst back into the school office and yanked all four girls out of class again. None of them remembered Coach E. being overly affectionate with Mandy, but they said he did pay a lot of attention to her at practices. They all figured it was because she was so good and had the best shot of placing in the state competition. He was apparently a cool, laid-back dude who knew lots about running techniques and training. He had been the assistant coach for five years and had missed the yearbook team photo shoot last year because it was scheduled at the same time as one of the
Beauty
's luncheon cruises.

Hank wanted to shake the comatose nutjob awake and demand some answers. Albert the Moron was now doubly important, and instead of cooperating with the investigation—or sitting in a cell in the county lockup—he was peacefully snoring away up on the third floor of Branson Valley General. His doctor there—who, Maggie assured Hank, was perfectly competent—said he would need to remain heavily sedated for some time. So no interview, no information, no nothing. But at least he knew where Albert was. He couldn't be sure of that when it came to Chad Sorenson. He hoped Mr. All That was at home in his parents' palatial retreat overlooking Lake Taneycomo.

He was not.

“There was a phone call yesterday, ma'am, from my deputy—asking that Chad remain in town until we spoke with him about his voyage on the
Beauty
.” All That's mother looked at him serenely from her seat on a very expensive couch and shrugged delicately.

“I never received any such phone call, Sheriff. And my son is a grown man. He is not obligated to stay here and wait for you.” She tucked a bit of her perfectly done blond hair behind her ear, making sure Hank saw the several diamond rings on her hand as she did so. She had not offered him a seat, so he stood in the middle of the large living room, literally with his hat in his hands. He wished he'd left it in the car.

“Actually, ma'am, he is. He is a material witness to a murder investigation. Where is he now?”

Another shrug. “As I said, if he was not told to stay in town, how could he follow your orders?” Her last word was weighted with sarcasm. Hank fought the urge to return it.

“Really?” he said. “According to the nice lady who let me in, ‘Mister Chad' took a call from the sheriff's department yesterday morning.”

Mrs. Sorenson frowned. Hank hoped he hadn't gotten the woman in trouble. “I will see,” she said slowly, “if I can locate him.” She stood, effectively dismissing Hank. He didn't think so.

“Good.” He smiled. “While I wait, I'll just have a chat with your help.” She froze. “Oh, don't worry,” he continued, “I'll make sure I don't keep her long.”

Hank found the woman in the kitchen, prepping that night's dinner. Her name was Lupe Gonzales, and she was both the cook and the maid. She had been with the Sorensons for five years and had moved to Branson with them a year ago. They were very good employers, she said with a scared look. Hank had to reassure her that all he cared about was finding Chad. And also a party he threw on New Year's Eve. Señora Gonzales rolled her eyes.

“I was here for that, yes. He made me cook up all kinds of food, without any warning. That morning, he says, ‘Lupe, I'm going to throw a big party. Cook this, make that.' Later I find out that he gave the invitations very much before. He could have told me in advance, too. In that way, he is not like his mother.”

Mrs. Sorenson, while very demanding (Hank's word, not Señora Gonzales's), had realistic expectations and always gave her plenty of notice before throwing a party or traveling. Actually, Señora Gonzales said, both Mrs. Sorenson and her husband had been out of town over New Year's. Chad had been the only one in the house. She doubted his parents knew he was going to have a party. They did not approve of strangers in their house, especially rowdy teenagers. Chad had told her to be quiet about it, she said, jabbing a finger in the air. And she had, but only because Mr. and Mrs. Sorenson were gone a lot and she was stuck with “Mister Chad.” He could make her life very miserable, and she knew it.

“You will not tell them that I say these things?” she asked, her eyes darkening with worry as she realized how much she had told Hank. He shook his head and smiled at her. There was no need to upset her—he had a feeling having a source inside this house could come in very handy. He wasn't quite sure where the Sorensons got their money or why they'd moved to Branson, of all places. But those questions were merely academic at this point. Right now, he needed to know everything he could about Mister Chad, and
la señora
was his best option.

Chad was twenty, quite sociable, had lots of friends, and was kind of a flake (again, Hank's word, not Señora Gonzales's). He had flunked out of a fancy little college in upstate New York just before the Sorensons moved to Branson. Señora Gonzales came with them because it was the only way to keep her job. Finding a new one would be next to impossible with the way things were now. She had to leave her nieces and nephews, who were her only family since her husband had died years ago of the heart disease. And she did not like it here. She was not comfortable. There was no Latino community. Well, she admitted, there might be, but it was small. Nothing like what she was used to in New York. Everyone here seemed to be white. They were not used to seeing people like her. She got stared at in the grocery store. Thank God the Catholic church down by the lake had a Spanish Mass on Saturday nights. That was the only time she felt at home. She wanted the Sorensons to move back to New York, she said. Their older son worked for some big company on Wall Street. She had hoped that would be a strong enough pull, but so far, they had shown no desire to leave this place.

Chad had adjusted well. He had met several local young people—she didn't know how—and started socializing with them. During the summer, he would go out. He would tell her he was going to the water park or the go-karts, but whether that was true … She shrugged. He had been happy then, but over the past several months had become mopey and bored. She thought it was because several of his better friends had gone away to college. Most especially some boy named Ryan and a pretty girl named Mandy, whom he talked about all the time. They had both come to the New Year's Eve party. But Señora Gonzales had not stayed, preferring to set out the food and then retreat to her room to watch Univision's coverage of the Times Square ball drop by herself.

If all the good
señora
watched was Spanish-language TV, she probably had not seen coverage of the boat crash, or Mandy's death. Hank really wished he could stop breaking news of a murder to people.

“
Dios mio!
That sweet
niña
? That is why you want to talk with Mister Chad? Did he do it?”

Hank assured her that all he wanted to do was talk to Chad, since he had been on the boat at the time. He needed to do that with everybody.

“He could not have done it. He liked her, very much. You know, like a schoolboy.
Enamorado
.”

And that was what Hank was afraid of.

*   *   *

Chad Sorenson was not in Branson. And Hank doubted Mr. All That was hiding in the surrounding county—he didn't seem the type to have made friends with the more … authentic … residents of the Ozark area he now called home. He had not left through the small airport south of town, so Hank called an old work buddy in Kansas City and had him start the process of watching the major airlines there and in St. Louis. He took some ribbing when the guy found out Hank did not have the personnel to handle it on his end.

He hung up the phone and scowled at the whiteboard in his office. It was decorated with crossed-out names, arrows, and a few question marks. It looked more like a football playbook than the work schedule for an entire county department. He didn't know who was on overtime, who was still within the number of hours for normal pay, and who needed mandatory rest time by the end of the day.

He did know that he only had one deputy out on routine patrol at the moment. He also knew he should be praying that nothing else happened anywhere in the county, at least until Sheila got back and could fix this mess.

He was so intent on his scowling stint, he did not hear the visitor until …

“Hello? Anybody here? Helloooooo…?”

Hank lurched to his feet and quickly took the three strides necessary to go the length of the short hallway and into the waiting room. Standing there was a man of ordinary height and build, with short salt-and-pepper hair sticking out from his head at several random and unflattering angles. His nose was small and a nice shade of Rudolph red. So were his ears.

“Can I help you?” Hank growled. The man's eyes narrowed, and his ears turned a concerning shade of maroon. Hank stared at him impatiently and was about to repeat the question when he realized he was looking at a Branson County Commissioner. One of the ones who had backed him for sheriff six months ago. The guy did not look like he would make the same decision today. Hank braced himself.

“Sir,” he said. “My apologies. Please have a seat. Can I—”

“Sheriff,” the commissioner cut him off as he pressed a tissue to his nose, “I am not here for small talk. I am here to talk about the awful events that have occurred in our fair county in the last several days. Have you caught the killer yet?”