The Branson Beauty (5 page)

The only sound in the car was the hum of the engine and the whir of the heater. But that was not as hot as the hostility now radiating from the man next to him, Hank thought. He sniffed—his nostril hairs were finally defrosting, and now his nose was starting to run. He waited for Gallagher to answer, fighting a surge of annoyance. Gallagher would have been a key source of information about the workings of the
Beauty
. Now everything he said was suspect.

“I was checking in on my guests, and my employees,” he said haughtily.

“Where'd you go?”

Gallagher paused. “The showroom, the main kitchen, the staff break room, the dressing rooms backstage, the observation lounge on the upper deck. I was not allowed into the pilothouse.”

“Did you go into the captain's dining room?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It was locked. I did not have a key. Plus, everyone was accounted for—they were all in the lounge. Oh, and the cook, the waiter, and the show captain were in the private kitchen.”

“Did anyone accompany you to all of these places?”

Gallagher's nostrils flared. “It's my boat. I don't need an escort.”

No, he certainly did not. But it sure would have been better if he'd had one. Even if his story was true, there was still part of his time that could not be accounted for.

“When can you get me that list of staff crew members?” Hank said calmly.

“By morning,” he said. “I'll have it emailed to your office. Am I otherwise free to leave?”

Hank briefly thought about trying for his best thanks-for-your-help smile, but decided it wouldn't fool anybody. He opened the car door and stepped out. Gallagher reached forward to close the door and gave him a hard stare.

“You're no Darrell Gibbons,” he said evenly.

“No. I'm not.”

The door slammed shut. Gallagher's driver—who had been jogging in place to stay warm—jumped in the front seat, and the car glided away through the snow. Hank headed for his own car, which was still where he had parked it on the shoulder more than ten hours ago. He used his arm to swipe most of the snow off the windshield before he climbed inside and cranked up the heat. Not all of his suspects had vanished into the night. One of them should be in a hospital bed by now. It was time for a chat with Albert.

 

CHAPTER

4

The elevator doors slid open and Hank walked onto the floor, illuminated by the pulsing fluorescent glow that only happens in hospitals in the dead of night. Hank started down the hallway. As he neared the corner, he heard one of his deputies. Duane's voice was shaking, and getting gradually louder. “I can't, sir. As I said, no one is allowed in this room. I have orders. I can't let you in, even though you're…”

He trailed off as someone else started talking. The voice was much quieter, but had the kind of ingrained authority that eluded poor Duane.

It was the same tone he'd used with Hank only an hour before.

“Young man, you know exactly who I am. And you will let me in there to talk to my employee, or I will have you writing parking tickets for the rest of your career.”

That did it. He didn't have the howling wind as an excuse for raising his voice with Gallagher this time, but he was past caring.

“Mr. Gallagher,” he intoned loudly as he stepped into the doorway. “I believe I made it quite clear that my investigatory needs take full precedence. You are not to speak with anyone—not your employees and not your guests—at all. For any reason. Until I tell you otherwise. Got it?”

Duane sagged against the wall with relief. Gallagher got that pinched look that was becoming all too familiar to Hank. He looked Hank right in the eyes. “I will not let this harm my company,” he said.

Hank leaned forward. “Then perhaps you should consider the consequences of your company's president getting thrown in jail for hindering an investigation and evidence tampering.”

“You wouldn't dare,” Gallagher spat.

“Oh, yeah?” Hank drawled as he leaned against the doorjamb.

“If you want to keep this new job of yours, you'd be wise not to threaten your constituents.”

“Oh, no,” Hank said, as he straightened and stepped forward until he was inches away from Gallagher. “That wasn't a threat. It was a … a diplomatically delivered advisement. A … preliminary notification. Or maybe just some friendly advice for one of the
many
constituents I serve.” He stepped to the side and swept his arm toward the doorway. “Good night.”

Gallagher opened his mouth, then quickly snapped it closed. He slowly walked out and around the corner toward the elevators.

“Wow,” Duane exhaled.

“You did fine.” Hank slapped him on the shoulder. “I know that wasn't easy.”

Duane swallowed visibly. “My mom works for him. Out at the resort. God.”

Hank hadn't known that. He made a mental note to transfer Duane off his regular parking patrol duties by next week. Give the kid more to do. He'd earned it. He pulled Duane out of the room.

“Yes, sir. I'll wait out here, sir.”

“No. I want you to come in. Sit in the corner and don't say anything. Just pay attention.”

Duane beamed. “Yes, sir.”

They walked in and Hank pulled a chair up close to the head of Albert's bed. He looked frail and old now that he didn't have his bomber jacket and his big captain's chair. He had several IVs snaking out of him, and the hospital gown was bunched up where he'd been clutching it across his chest. His eyes, though, looked the same as they had on the boat.

“Mr. Eberhardt, sir. I need to ask you some questions. And I need you to listen carefully and answer me. Do you understand?”

Albert blinked at him. Not promising. Hank was dying to know what those tox screen results were going to be.

“How did your boat run aground?”

Albert looked down at his hands. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded like ice cracking under a great weight.

“Don't know what happened. Little windy. Then we were on the rocks. My
Beauty
.” He looked like he wanted to start rocking back and forth again but didn't have the strength.

“What is so upsetting to you?” Hank asked very slowly. “Why did today have this effect on you?”

Albert turned and looked him full in the face. “What I did. What I did. I'm so ashamed.” He choked on the last word. Then his hand fell from the twisted gown on his chest, and his head slumped to the side.

“Jesus,” Hank said. He looked up; Duane seemed as startled as he was. “Push the button for the nurse.” The two men looked around frantically until they found the call button up to the right of Albert's unmoving head. Duane held it until they heard footsteps pounding down the hall.

“Good heavens,” the nurse panted.

They both gestured futilely at Albert. She glowered at them. “He's not dead. The doctor sedated him. It's finally kicking in. The patient was almost hysterical. Other than that, there isn't a darn thing physically wrong with him. Doctor wants to keep him here overnight for observation, though,” she sniffed. She clearly thought that was unnecessary. “Seems to me he just needs a good talking-to,” she muttered under her breath. “And you two”—she glowered some more—“do not push that button again unless something catches fire. I got computers down at my station. I see everything about this fool. I don't need you panicking at every twitch.”

She gave them one last glare and stomped off down the hall. Hank and Duane looked at each other. Hank started laughing and couldn't stop. His sides began to hurt. Duane wasn't any help—he was wiping away tears as he tried to keep quiet. Hank swung the door closed until they both regained their composure. When they finally pulled themselves together, Hank felt better than he had all day. Sometimes a break in the cold came when you least expected it.

“I've got to go track down a lot more people,” he told Duane. “I need you to stay here. And don't piss that woman off again. I don't need another homicide today.”

He left to the sound of Duane laughing again. He knew the back stairs were in the opposite direction from the nurse's station. He headed for them.

*   *   *

What I did.
It was either a confession, or a captain mourning the loss of his command—and his career. Hank seriously doubted he was lucky enough to have it be the former. Once the sedation wore off, Albert the Moron could easily say that it was drug-induced rambling, or that he was referring to the paddlewheel. Hank drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. His squad car was now nice and toasty. He just needed to decide where to drive it next.

His phone buzzed, and he dug it out of his pocket to find a voice mail from home. He knew it wasn't Maggie—she was on duty. That left only one cantankerous possibility. He hit play, and his father-in-law did not disappoint.

“You still down at that boat thing? The kids saw you on the news. Now they won't shut up about it. Wanted to talk to you before they went to bed. All riled up now, they are, so thanks for that. They—wait, Benny, will you stop yelling? Your daddy's not on the phone. I'm leaving a message. Stop that—”

A call beeped in and Hank gratefully cut off the voice mail. It was Sam, who had tracked down last year's Branson Valley High School yearbook and confirmed Tony Sampson and CSI Kurt's ID—it was Mandy Bryson in the morgue. There was no reason to put off notifying her family any longer. He had Sam read him the address; her parents didn't live far from the hospital. By the time he got there, his gut was churning and he was glad he hadn't eaten anything since lunch.

He pulled into the long driveway of a house huddled against a stand of trees. It was on a quiet, unlit street where the lots were a couple of acres, but only because the people who'd built there had done so long before Branson became “Branson.” When the country music stars began building theaters and drawing tourists from all over the place in the mid '80s, the town boomed, and the price of land skyrocketed.

The walkway had been shoveled already—the snow was less than an inch, compared with the six or seven already on the lawn. The porch light was off for the night. They weren't expecting anyone. Hank tried to swallow and rang the bell. It took three rings before he heard scraping footsteps coming toward the door. An inside light flipped on, and he could see the person block it as he peered through the peephole. He made sure his badge was visible. The door swung open.

A disheveled man in his sixties stood there. The two stared at each other through the glass storm door for what seemed like an eternity to Hank but couldn't have been more than two or three seconds. The temporary lines of puzzlement and worry on the man's face grew deeper. Hank knew that as soon as he started talking, they would become permanent.

“Sir, my name is Hank Worth, and I am the Branson County Sheriff. Are you Mr. William Bryson?”

The lines burrowed deeper into the man's forehead.

“Oh, God. Has she been in an accident?”

“Sir—are you William Bryson?”

“Yes, yes. Is it Mandy? Where's Mandy?”

“What about Mandy?” a sharp female voice asked from the entryway behind William Bryson. “What's wrong? Bill?”

Gina Bryson's face appeared over her husband's shoulder. Hank still couldn't swallow.

“Mr. and Mrs. Bryson, I need to speak with you. May I come inside?”

Bill Bryson moved back with a start. “Of course, of course. I'm sorry—please, this way.”

No one said anything else until they were all sitting on stiff formal sofas in the living room. Hank leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees; in his experience, it was the best posture for delivering bad news. Authoritative, but not intimidating.

“Sir, ma'am. I have some bad news.”

“It was a car crash, wasn't it?” said Mrs. Bryson. “She was in a car crash. Is she hurt? Is she…”

Mr. Bryson quietly took her hand, and she stopped talking. His eyes had not left Hank's face. “If she were just hurt, the university would have called us,” he said in a cracked voice. “She's dead, isn't she?”

Hank nodded. He'd given up trying to swallow.

“Yes, sir, she is. I'm very sorry to have to tell you this. And also, I need to tell you that it was not an accident. We are investigating, but it appears that Mandy was the victim of foul play.”

The Brysons stared at him. They didn't move, they didn't blink, they didn't breathe. They just sat on the couch they saved for company and stared, holding hands.

“She was found on the
Branson Beauty
during the rescue operation today,” Hank continued. That jolted Mr. Bryson out of his silence.

“She wasn't at school? She was here? Why was she here? She should have been at school.” His voice stayed the same volume but rose in pitch. “Why?” he squeaked.

“I was hoping you could tell me that, sir. I don't know why she was here. She went to the University of Oklahoma, didn't she?”

“Yes, yes. She's a freshman. She just started her second semester. She … she has two tests next week…”

“Can you think of any reason she would have come up to Branson this weekend?”

Mr. Bryson shook his head.

“Yes.”

Both men looked at Mrs. Bryson. Her sharp edges had dissolved and everything seemed watery and smudged. Even her grip on her husband's hand had melted away. “Yes, I can,” she whispered. “Was Ryan there?”

There had been several Ryans on the passenger manifest, but Hank was pretty sure he knew which one she meant.

“Ryan who, ma'am?”

“Ryan Nelson. They're dating. They have been since the summer before their senior year.”

“But she just saw him. Over Christmas. Why would she come back so soon?” said Mr. Bryson. His voice had returned to normal. Mrs. Bryson's had not. Hers gasped and faded as if she were trying to swim through a very deep sea.