Mississippi Roll Read online

“It’s not pathetic, it’s sweet,” Wanda cooed. “Oh my, that’s why you came to work here, isn’t it? You used to come here together.”

  Miserably, he nodded. “We came here on our first date.”

  “First date?” Leo asked dubiously.

  “Only date,” he said, even more sadly. “I miss her so much, that’s all. I swear, I’m not some kind of weirdo.”

  “Keep telling yourself that. Let me see this sweater.”

  Benny recoiled. “I don’t have it here! It’s at home, at my new apartment.”

  “Have you washed it?” Leo demanded.

  “I washed it twice, and then I had it dry-cleaned, too. I wasn’t trying to cover my tracks, or get rid of any evidence, I swear! But it had this weird orange fur on it, and it made my hands itchy.”

  Leo’s eyes narrowed. He snapped the notebook shut. “Okay. I’ve heard enough.”

  Wanda gave him the side-eye. “What? You have?”

  “Yup. Get out your phone, and get us a car. Let’s go back to the boat.”

  7.

  Wanda walked back up the ramp, onto the Natchez. “We could’ve gotten some lunch first. Lamar’s looked like a fun place to eat.”

  “The food on board is fine.” Leo joined her on the deck, and looked toward the Grand Saloon. Lunchtime stragglers were still wandering toward the buffet or picking out tables. “Let’s get something here. I bet we can find everybody we need around the buffet, anyway.”

  “Everyone we need?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got a theory. Let’s round up the usual suspects.” When she gave him a puzzled frown, he added, “It’s just an expression.”

  “I know, but we left creeper Benny in Vicksburg. Isn’t he at the top of the list?”

  “No, he’s not a suspect anymore. Come on, let’s see who we else we can find.”

  His wife shook her head. “But he stole her sweater and kept it. That’s awfully suspicious, if you ask me.”

  “No, he didn’t. Take her sweater, I mean.” He strolled toward the seating area and stared around, pinpointing persons of interest.

  Caitlyn Beaumont came up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. “Mr. Storgman?”

  “Oh! Hi there, Miss Beaumont. Hey, would you do me a favor?”

  “Anything you need, just ask.”

  “Is anyone using the backstage area of the Bayou Lounge?”

  “Not right now.”

  “Good. I want to call a meeting there. Could you scare up the following people, and have them meet us there in fifteen minutes?” He took a napkin and wrote a couple of names. “And don’t let any of them leave the boat.”

  “Sir … is there something I should know?” She looked down at the napkin. “I think these people are on shift right now…”

  “That’s why I’m giving you some time to bring them around. Besides, I need to make a phone call before we have this chat. Please, see if you can round them up—and bring your own sweet self, too.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” She walked away, pausing to give Leo a worried look over her shoulder, and kept going.

  “Phone call?”

  “Vicksburg PD.”

  Wanda gave every appearance of trying very, very hard not to jump up and down and squeal. “Misty was murdered!”

  “Quieter, dear. Let’s just say she was killed. Maybe manslaughtered, I don’t know yet.” He pulled out his phone, and as he made for the backstage area, he pulled up a number for the local police.

  By the time Leo ducked around the curtain and stage, he had received assurances that a unit was on the way. And by the time he realized they weren’t alone backstage, it was too late for him to chase down Caitlyn and suggest a different spot for a meetup.

  “Storgmans!” announced Ryan Forge. The other two members of Dead Report took up the cheer. “Good to see you again, dude. Seriously.”

  “Nobody’s supposed to be back here right now,” Leo grumped.

  “Oh, we didn’t reserve the space or anything. We just heard rumor of a magician’s assistant who drowned on that very stage, back in the 1970s. He was doing the Houdini trick with the water tank. Super dangerous. He died and everything.”

  “Have you got any good EVPs?” Wanda asked, suddenly all hip to the lingo.

  “Usually we wait until nightfall to shoot for voice recordings,” said Sean, who was snacking on a small plate of deli meat and cheese he’d swiped from the buffet. “But our fearless leader thought he saw a spirit back here.”

  “I did see a spirit. I’ve seen him several times. I think he’s fucking with me,” Ryan complained conspiratorially. “He’s an old-fashioned-looking guy, like from the forties or something.” Then he added, to the room at large: “And I want him to know that he doesn’t scare me!”

  “Who doesn’t scare you?” JoHanna Potts put her head around the curtain.

  Leo welcomed her inside the somewhat darkened space, where the buzz of the lunchtime crowd was muffled by the curtains, the boxes, and the equipment. “Come on in, Ms. Potts. You too, Mickey. I see you.”

  Mickey Lee Payne came in behind her, and then Kitty Strobe, wearing her big round sunglasses. “What are we doing here?” she asked, as if she wasn’t sure whether or not to expect a response.

  “Good question.” Caitlyn brought up the rear. She pulled the curtain back into place behind herself, offering the group a small measure of privacy. “Mr. Storgman? What’s going on?”

  “We’re talking about Misty Sighs,” he declared.

  “The ghost?” asked Kevin.

  “She’s not a…” Leo didn’t swear, but he grumbled with a lot of asterisks. “Never mind. She’s dead, that’s the thing.”

  “From an accident!” Caitlyn exclaimed.

  “Maybe it was an accident and maybe it wasn’t. That’s what we’re here to talk about. I want you all to help me piece together what happened the night she died.”

  All three of the Natchez employees began to protest, but Wanda held up her hands. “Everybody, please. Hear him out. We’re just trying to finish our report for the insurance company.”

  Leo nodded approvingly. She’d made a good call, to frame it that way. It’d keep the perp from bolting. He wished he’d thought of it, but slipping back into cop mode had been too easy. He’d forgotten the absence of his trusty badge.

  He tried not to watch as Wanda went over to Sean and whispered something in his ear. He nodded and winked at Leo. Leo didn’t return the wink. He pulled out his notebook, flipped through a couple of pages, and flipped back again.

  He took a deep breath and began. “On the last cruise of the Natchez, Amanda Simpson—better known as Misty Sighs—died on the texas deck, right here outside of Vicksburg. We can all agree on that, can’t we?”

  Everyone nodded, even Ryan Forge—who couldn’t have confirmed anything more complex than his birthday.

  “On the night she died, Misty left work in the Grand Saloon, and went up to the texas deck, where there was at least one light out. But she didn’t go alone. Ms. Potts, you were also on the texas deck that night. Do you want to tell me why?”

  Her face went not just blank—but stony. “Not particularly.”

  “I’ll settle for that,” Leo said. “What I really want to know is whether or not you heard an argument.”

  She shifted her weight back and forth, very slightly.

  “You’ve already admitted you were there.”

  The clerk caved. “Fine, I heard Misty. She was talking real drunk, real loud.”

  “To whom?” Leo asked.

  “I don’t know. Somebody who was hushing her, trying to calm her down. I didn’t stay to listen. I had my own business to attend to.”

  Kitty wanted to know, “What business was that?”

  She gave in and sighed heavily, and unhappily. “Well, it was Teddy’s business. My nephew, on the cleaning crew. I’m not saying he left the mop bucket out there, that night—but I’m not saying he didn’t either. Lord, and I went to so much trouble to bring him
on board … for all the good it did. He got fired for sleeping on the job a couple of weeks later.”

  Satisfied, Leo let it go. “So here’s the big question: Who was Misty arguing with? Anyone could’ve said it was anybody else. It could’ve been lovesick Benny, who believed they were truly meant to be—and was totally wrong. It could’ve been Mickey—who was halfway stalking her. But I don’t think it was either one of you.”

  “No?” Ryan Forge hung on Leo’s every word.

  When Leo glanced back, he saw Sean sitting beside him—his hand discreetly holding the record button on one of their audio devices. “No,” he said, returning his attention to the assembled crewmembers.

  “Why not?” asked Sean.

  Leo grunted impatiently. “You guys stay out of this.” Then he answered the question, regardless. “Because the texas deck was a busy place that night. Ms. Strobe, you were also there.”

  “What?” she said, too fast for it to sound casual. “No I wasn’t.”

  “Yeah, I think you were. Earlier that evening, you two had been down on the boiler deck, doing your drinking and drawing thing.”

  “So?”

  “You never mentioned it, not when I asked about the night she died.”

  Ryan Forge made the kind of “ooooooh” noise that a roomful of third graders makes when the teacher gets a kiss from her husband.

  “Shut up!” Kitty Strobe said to him, before Leo had the opportunity. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Not by itself, no. But I have a theory.”

  “You’re crazy if you think I had anything to do with Misty’s death. I told you, she was my only friend on board this boat. Why would I hurt her?”

  Leo sat down on the edge of the stage and faced the dim-lit room. “I don’t think you did it on purpose, necessarily. Here’s partly what I know happened, and partly what I bet happened: You and Misty sat on the deck and drew pictures while you drank. Ravenstone was putting on a little show for some kids out there. That’s why she was late getting to work,” he said to Caitlyn. “Not because she was watching the show, but because she was drawing it.” Back to Kitty, he continued, “At some point, while you two were talking … your secret came out. Maybe you confessed after a few bacon Bloody Marys. Maybe Misty guessed.”

  “Secret?” Her voice was tight and high.

  “You wanted her to keep quiet about it, and you knew she was a drinker and a blabber. You begged her. Pleaded with her. But she had to get to work while she still had a job so she left you there. After the show, she went up to the texas deck—probably trying to get away from the two dumbass boys who wouldn’t leave her alone. You were there, too. You followed her, maybe. Or maybe it was just a coincidence.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You’d both been drinking. It was dark and wet, and you had an unfair advantage. Do me a favor, would you? Take off those sunglasses.”

  “No.”

  He swung his feet back and forth against the stage. “I won’t make you, but the police will. You’re getting a mug shot.”

  At this, she panicked and came forward—rushing him. He almost reached for his gun, but he didn’t have it on him and he wouldn’t have needed it. It was just a reflex. Christ, she was fast. Way faster than she looked.

  She stopped, barely a foot from his face. She whipped the glasses off, revealing a pair of vivid green eyes. “See? They’re perfectly normal.”

  “Or very good theatrical contacts.”

  She didn’t deny the possibility. Shrilly, she protested: “I have a sensitivity to light!”

  Leo believed her, sort of. “That might be true, but that’s not why you wear the long sleeves and long pants outside when it’s hot enough to bake cookies on the lounge chairs. That’s not the real reason you wear the sunglasses indoors and everywhere else—though it makes for a neat cover story.”

  Wanda snuffled. Her nose twitched. She ran her finger back and forth beneath it, trying to defuse a sneeze.

  “I think you do it because of the fur. I think Kitty’s not just a nickname.”

  “No,” she protested, backing away. “That isn’t true at all.”

  “I bet you’re a meat eater, like any other cat. I found the receipts from the bar; Misty wasn’t the one ordering the barbecue nachos or the bacon Bloody Marys. That was you.”

  “I like nachos. I like bacon. None of this means anything.”

  “I bet when you take those contacts out, you can see very, very well in the dark. Even when you’ve been drinking. Even when you’re only trying to convince your friend to keep her trap shut. I know you fought with her, so don’t pretend you didn’t.”

  “There’s no proof. Not a bit of it.”

  “You sure? What about the sweater you were wearing that night?”

  Her face froze. She did not ask, “What sweater?” but she looked like she wanted to.

  “Benny has it. He pried it out of her hand, thinking it was hers. But I saw what that kid had in her wardrobe—tiny shorts and tiny shirts and tiny dresses, everything showing skin. Nobody on board covers up in this heat, except for you.”

  Kitty Strobe retreated a little farther.

  Wanda sneezed. Ryan Forge ceremoniously blessed her.

  “My wife, over here—” Leo gestured with one hand. “She’s got allergies. Benny has them, too. He kept trying to wash the cat hair out of his souvenir.”

  Kitty looked at the edge of the curtain, which was now functioning as an exit. “You don’t understand … I can’t be a joker. I can’t.” It was hardly more than a whisper. She tugged at her collar, and the pull of her finger revealed a thin seam of light orange hair.

  “But you are,” Leo said calmly.

  “She was going to tell everyone.”

  “So what?” Wanda demanded. “What’s wrong with being a joker?”

  “It’s awkward, it’s embarrassing, and I am trying to be taken seriously as a professional! Even when nobody knew,” she said, a touch more calmly. “Even then, the stupid nickname stuck and I couldn’t get out from under it—no matter how hard I tried.”

  He nodded slowly. “I know that feeling. Back at the precinct, before I retired, you know what they called me? Ramsey, or Ramshead. I didn’t love it. Honestly, it drove me crazy at first, and then I got over myself. That’s the shame here, really. I’m not saying that all the jokers whose cards turned strange have it swell—but you can live with it, and that’s what you should’ve done. You killing Misty … that was a hate crime. But you didn’t hate her. You hated yourself.”

  The curtain slipped aside, and two uniformed officers joined the party. “Olivia Strobe?” one of them asked.

  “She’s all yours.” He didn’t need to point her out. She was already trying to run. “You can call her Kitty.”

  She got about as far as the end of the stage before the cops brought her down. They picked her up and cuffed her.

  “I’ve got her confession on tape!” Sean announced, trailing after them. “You guys! We’ve got it on tape! We totally helped!”

  Ryan put his hands on his hips and stared into space. “We did totally help,” he declared, with his great and ridiculous gravitas. “You guys, ‘Death on the Water’ is going to be our best episode ever.”

  Leo hopped down off the stage. “You know what? I bet it will be. You kids have a good time with that recording, and don’t forget to share it with the nice policemen before they leave the boat.” Then he put his arm around Wanda and drew her away from the ecstatic young men of The Dead Report. “Now come on, baby. Let’s go finish this honeymoon.”

  In the Shadow of Tall Stacks

  Part 5

  THE ARREST OF KITTY Strobe caused its own repercussions on the Natchez. Wilbur, still trying to understand what Kirby Jackson was insisting that Cottle had to do for him, managed to be in Jackson’s stateroom when he and Captain Montaigne were discussing how to replace Kitty. “I can cover her shifts for the next few days,” the captain said, “but th
at’s only a stopgap. We have to get another licensed pilot on board ASAP. Preferably have someone brought in before our next stop.”

  “How cheaply can you do that?” Jackson asked.

  Montaigne just glared at the man stonily. “On my boat,” she answered, “I don’t worry about cheap, I worry about good.”

  Jackson gave her an aggrieved sigh, then waved his hand. “Fine. Whatever. Just don’t offer any kind of long-term contract. The new pilot’s job is temporary. It ends once the Tall Stacks festival’s over in Cincinnati. You understand?”

  “Perfectly,” Montaigne told him. “I’ll get someone in.” She turned and left the stateroom with an audible “Cheap-ass bastard…” trailing after her.

  As the Natchez steamed upriver toward its next stop in Memphis (where more of the Kazakhs were scheduled to leave the boat), Wilbur continued to muse on his personal dilemma. He haunted the boiler room, still hoping to learn details about what Jackson expected Cottle to do, but Jackson never again approached Cottle or talked to him, at least as far as Wilbur knew. Cottle was as nervous and OCD about his precious machinery as ever.

  He spent time in Jackson’s stateroom to see if he could discover what the man was planning, but was ultimately disappointed. The conversations he did catch gave him no optimism. Jackson seemed to be simply enjoying the voyage, rarely talking business with anyone unless they brought up the subject.

  He lurked in Captain Montaigne’s quarters, hoping to overhear more details. The captain seemed to be as morose and unsettled as Wilbur, talking to JoHanna, to friends, and (especially) to the woman who Wilbur knew was her lover back in New Orleans about what she should do. Could they borrow more money and raise the offer to Jackson? Maybe they could get another mortgage on the house in New Orleans, or just sell it outright. Should she accept the management job that the owners were offering, move to Cincinnati, and remain “captain” of a boat that would never move? Should she just look for an opening on some other river craft, maybe even returning to barge work? But that was as far as things went.

  Wilbur didn’t talk to Montaigne or even let her know he was listening: while he might grudgingly admit that she was a decent boat’s captain, and while she had played along with him with the ICE agents, he also realized that she believed being “friendly” with her crew undermined her authority, and as for Wilbur, despite the fact that Jeremiah had told her he had conversations with Wilbur, it was as if Montaigne still wanted plausible deniability concerning his existence. She was prepared to simply ignore the signs and had no interest in communicating with him normally.