The Branson Beauty (8 page)

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At six thirty he staggered out into the kitchen, where his Cheerios-chomping children greeted him with grins and Maggie shoved a mug of coffee into his hand.

“What time did you end up getting home?” she asked.

Hank shrugged. “I don't know. Four something.”

“You want some eggs or something, or do you have to go straight back in?”

“I should go. I ordered a briefing at seven thirty.”

“Hank.” Maggie put her hands on her hips. “Can't someone else get that boat off the lake? Isn't it Gallagher's problem now? What's so urgent?”

Hank took another swallow of coffee and glanced at the kids.

“Actually, I haven't technically released the boat back to Gallagher.”

Maggie had been a cop's wife for long enough to know what that meant.

“It's a crime scene? What happened? Nobody was hurt. We cleared everybody they brought into the hospital.” She stared at him, waiting for an explanation. He jerked his head toward the mudroom. Once they were inside, he closed the door.

“There was a murder. A teenage girl, dead in the private dining room. We only found her after the boat docked.”

Maggie gasped and then just stared at him. Despite the awfulness of it, Hank grinned. It wasn't often he struck her speechless. He watched her gather herself.

“Well, you're right. No breakfast for you. Get going.” She put her hand on the doorknob and then stopped. “Was she … did she go to Branson Valley High?”

“Yeah,” Hank said. “She graduated last year.”

Maggie nodded. “Mom would have known her, then.” She flung open the door and strode back into the kitchen. “Okay, who needs more cereal?”

Hank went out the opposite door, into the garage to find an ice scraper for his squad car. He almost tripped over the snowblower.

“Careful there. That thing's almost as old as you are.”

Hank turned to see Duncan leaning against the doorjamb in his bathrobe. “You own a snowblower? How did I not know that?”

Duncan shrugged. “There hasn't been a need for it since you moved down here. Pulled it out of the shed early yesterday. Haven't used it since, hmm, must have been that big one four or five years ago. Little dusty, but it still fires up just fine.”

The same could be said for you, Hank thought. Probably just as gassy, too. “Thanks for doing the driveway last night. I might need it again to get back out, though.”

Duncan smiled. “Probably. Holler and I'll show you how to start it. The switch has gotten a little balky.” He turned to go inside. “Oh, and the ice scraper is up against the back wall.”

Once again, Hank was glad he'd ceded the garage to Duncan when they all moved into the house. He kept it as spotless and organized as one of Maggie's operating rooms. He managed to fit two cars in there, along with the kids' bikes and all of their other outside toys. And, apparently, a snowblower. Hank shook his head, grabbed the ice scraper, and headed back into the house.

Half an hour later he finally extricated his car from the driveway—and he only lost control of the snowblower once, to the delight of Maribel and Benny watching from the window. Those two had a nice, snuggly Presidents' Day holiday ahead of them, playing by the fire and drinking entirely too much of Grandpop's hot cocoa.

He was not so lucky. By the time he got to the substation, he'd already pulled over two different drivers for going too fast on the icy roads. He stomped into the office and found the Pup putting on a pot of coffee.

“Hey, Chief,” he said and pointed toward the computer behind the counter. “I was just surfing around. Everybody has stories on the
Beauty
, but no one has anything on the murder. Are we going to be the ones who have to release it?”

Hank thought for a moment. Usually, somebody tipped off reporters on stuff like this, and all he'd ever had to do was confirm it. Or pass them off to the department spokesperson. But as the Branson County Sheriff's Department had no flak, he would have to be the one to do the talking. Ugh. Maybe he could convince Sheila to do it. No, the risk of her poking some reporter in the chest for asking a “fool question” was too high. He sighed, poured himself a cup of coffee, and walked back to his office.

It was cold and dark and bare. He wasn't here all that often, and so he hadn't bothered to bring in anything personal to take the edge off. Metal desk, metal lamp, metal filing cabinet. Metal miniblinds. No point opening those. He sat down and fired up the computer on the desk. Might as well get started on that press release. Sam and Sheila came in.

“Just us,” Sheila said. “Everyone else is out digging fool drivers out of snowdrifts. And there's an accident out on Seventy-six.” She walked over to the window and yanked up the blinds. Hank sighed.

“Okay,” he started. “Mandy's parents did not know she was coming down this weekend. We need to find out if any of her friends at the University of Oklahoma knew. And what they knew about her relationship with Ryan Nelson.”

They both nodded at him.

“So, who wants to go to Norman?”

No nods this time.

“Someone needs to go to Norman,” he said.

“There's, um, a blizzard going on, Chief,” Sam said. This time Sheila did nod. Hank scowled and turned to jab at the computer.

“Ah, yes. But the forecast says it's expected to blow out of here by noon. And the next couple of days are supposed to be clear.”

“Clear all the way to Norman?” Sheila asked. Hank nodded. She primly adjusted the glasses on the end of her nose.

“It's five hours just to get down there,” she said. “Then all the interviews. I'd have to stay over. Pack a suitcase.”

Hank nodded again. Sam watched her out of the corner of his eye and held his breath. She took her glasses off, looked at them carefully, and then placed them back exactly where they had been on her nose. The two men waited. She sniffed.

“Tyrone will not be expecting this,” she said.

Hank nodded with what he hoped looked like solemn agreement, even though he knew Sheila's husband was perfectly capable of handling an unexpected absence.

“He's going to have to take care of the dogs all on his own,” she said, talking more to herself now than to the men in the office with her. “He'll have to remember to put out the recycling, and…” She trailed off, although she was obviously still making a mental list of everything poor Tyrone would be responsible for if she left.

“He'll be fine, Sheila,” Sam said in an attempt to be helpful and reassuring at the same time. “He was fine when you went to Comic-Con two years ago, remember?”

Hank sat bolt upright in his chair.

“
You
went to Comic-Con?”

Sheila gave Sam a look that should have turned him to stone right then and there. “How. Did. You. Know. That's. Where. I. Went?”

“Ah … um. Yeah. Well.” He wouldn't look directly at her. “You wouldn't tell me, and I was practicing my investigative skills—like you told me I should be doing—so I tracked your itinerary, and…” He ended in an unintelligible mumble and stared at his shoes.

Hank was dying to press it. What comic was she such a devotee of that she would travel sixteen hundred miles to go to a fan convention? But the look on her face did not invite questioning. And that was putting it mildly.

“Okay,” Hank said. “We were talking about Oklahoma. And the weather clearing up. And the interviews that need to be done.”

He smiled brightly at Sheila. She let out a sigh that sounded more like a growl. Sam scooted his chair away from her.

“All right. I'll go. I think I'd be the best one to talk to her friends. Should be a woman doing it. They might open up to me more.”

Hank nodded. He thought the same thing. Sheila knew exactly how to approach an interview. She could pull out the maternal caretaker or the girlfriend conspirator, whichever suited the situation.

“I'll call you with more information as I get it, but you'd better get going,” he said.

She left the room and only then did Sam exhale. Hank grinned. “Think we'll survive without her?”

“You won't,” she yelled from the lobby. The outside door slammed shut.

Hank got the Pup started on setting up appointments for the workers on the boat to come in and be interviewed. “Make them think it's just about running aground—don't tell them about the murder,” he said. But there were other interviews that were too important to be scheduled. He needed to get the lay of the land, figure out the dynamics surrounding the luncheon and its guests. And the best place to start was the birthday girl. It was barely seven thirty in the morning, but Hank had a feeling that Frances Honneffer would be up.

 

CHAPTER

7

Hank sipped his tea and looked across the coffee table at Frances Honneffer. She sat on the edge of a lumpy easy chair, her back perfectly straight and her hands folded in her lap. She had probably had her hair done just before yesterday's party, and the white curls still looked immaculate. She was already dressed—complete with earrings and a flower brooch pinned to her blouse—and had tried to hide the tearstains on her face with makeup. Her daughter had called her at four in the morning with the news. Hank suspected she'd been ready and waiting for him ever since.

“Tell me what I can do to help, Sheriff,” she said. “I cannot believe this … Mandy … Do you have a suspect? Do you know what happened? I cannot believe…”

Hank chose not to bring up her grandson quite yet. He set down his teacup.

“Did you know she was on the boat?” he asked.

She stared at him in puzzlement. “Well, of course I did. I invited her.”

Hallelujah. Somebody was finally admitting to knowing something. He nodded encouragingly.

“I mailed her an invitation to my party several weeks ago. I got a very nice note back—I don't use the email—saying she would try to be there. She had some obligation at school the night before, so she said she would try to drive in early Sunday morning and come straight to the
Beauty
for the luncheon. I was so pleased she might come.”

“Did you tell Ryan that she was coming?”

She thought for a moment. “No, I don't suppose I did, now that I think about it. I guess I just assumed that he knew she would be coming—that she would have told him. I thought they were still a couple.” There was no small amount of temper in the last sentence.

“When did you find out they weren't?”

Her voice crackled. “When he brought that blond coed on board. I was astounded. First, he had not asked to bring her. Second, no one knew he was seeing someone else. Mandy certainly didn't know. She was devastated.”

“What happened?” Hank was literally on the edge of his seat. Please.

Mrs. Honneffer straightened the crease in her trouser leg.

“Jeffrey and I—that's my son—we got to the
Beauty
dock early, so we could make sure all of the arrangements were in place. We were there when Mandy arrived. She was the first guest. She popped out of her little car and gave me a big hug. Talking a mile a minute. Telling me all about her track training, and her roommate failing a class, and all sorts of things. She said she had just gotten into town. Had left school at something like six in the morning. I told her that made me feel very special, that she would make such an effort to come see me. She teased me—she was always teasing me, but in such a kind way—and said that I wasn't her only stop. She was going to surprise her parents after we were done with the boat cruise.

“We went up onto the boat together and took a look at the dining room. It was beautifully set. Crystal and linens and those wondrous windows looking out onto everything. Mandy—you could tell she was delighted with it, but she put on airs that she wasn't impressed. ‘Where are the birthday balloons, then? You call this decorated? Where's the clown?' Oh, she could make me laugh.”

Mrs. Honneffer's voice caught on the last word and refused to go any further. Her hands turned white as they gripped each other in her lap. She stared at Hank. He stared back. She managed to swallow and start again.

“We were in there a few minutes, and then Jeffrey poked his head in and said that guests were starting to arrive. We went out into the hallway and looked down at the dock. We saw Ryan walk up with his arm around that blond coed. He was making quite a show of it, stroking her hair, kissing her cheek, that sort of thing.

“Mandy had been holding my arm—I can be a little unsteady on my feet—but she slowly detached herself and placed my hand on the railing instead. She turned so pale, as if she were about to be ill. I … I didn't know what to say. It was absolutely horrible, watching someone's heart break right before your eyes.

“She looked around and said she had to get out of there. By then, they had opened that door to the stairway and everyone was either climbing the stairs or heading for the elevator. She couldn't get down without everyone seeing her. And I could tell she was just mortified and still in shock. She couldn't face him then. She backed away from the windows and almost ran into a waiter who was coming out of a door that was right there, next to the one that went into the dining room. She looked at me and whispered ‘Happy birthday,' and then she bolted through that door. That … that was the last time I saw her.”

Hank sipped his tea and waited for Mrs. Honneffer to battle back the tears filling her eyes. He set down his teacup.

“Who attended your luncheon?” he asked. He had the list of descriptions provided by Tony Sampson on the boat, but he needed names—and personalities—to go with it.

“Well,” she said with renewed strength, obviously glad to stop talking about Mandy, “my son, Jeffrey, who arrived with me. His wife, Patricia, and their daughter, Ashley. She's twelve, looks like her mother. They arrived separately, after Jeffrey and I did.”