Chapter 2
Last Sunday Morning, continued
"Sheriff-"
"Call me Gustave. We're talking man to man."
"Okay, Gustave, why do you say she's not here?"
"The FBI, the Missouri State Highway Patrol, the Sainte Gen City Police, and every man and woman in the Sainte Gen County sheriff's department have searched for her in every inch of the county. Not to mention the hundred or so volunteers who combed the hills and woods. Same goes for the surrounding counties in Missouri and the ones across the river." Gustave aimed his finger at Illinois. "Nothing. If there's no ransom demand within twenty-four to forty-eight hours, usually that means there's no kidnapping."
Rosswell tamped down his rising anger. He reminded himself that he needed Gustave's help. But someone should tell the pompous ass that the holy woman, Sainte Genevi?ve, in whose honor both the town and the county were named, would be horrified to hear herself referred to as Sainte Gen, much less seeing her name misspelled all over the area as Genevieve instead of Genevi?ve. Those accent thingies were important to the French. In his current uncertain mood, Rosswell decided they were important to him as well. But it wouldn't be wise to make an issue of it.
The giant problem was that Fribeau represented The Man. The wall between justice and efficiency. As a judge, Rosswell himself was a brick in that barrier although now he found himself on the outside, pounding on the wall, begging entry to the side of justice. He needed the law's help.
"A lot of people have done tons of work on Tina's case." Rosswell sipped his espresso and again tried to center himself without success. "I appreciate them."
Gustave grunted something Rosswell couldn't interpret. The heat of the morning made sweat roll down Rosswell's face. Fields of corn and soybeans planted not a hundred feet from the water lay parched from lack of rain. The river stunk of dead fish rotting in old mud.
Gustave picked up a thick book lying on a table next to Rosswell's camera. "Is this a collection of every Sherlock Holmes story ever written?"
"No, only the ones by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle."
"Are you learning to be a detective?"
"Let's talk about why I'm here, not my reading material. I didn't come here to play detective." Rosswell plunked his cup into its saucer, resting on the balcony railing. The loud clink told him he'd not been as gentle with Mrs. Bolzoni's good china as he could've been. "Tina wouldn't take off like that without letting me know. Hormones or no hormones. I know her better than anyone does. Somebody's got her and for some unknown reason isn't interested in ransom."
Gustave studied his fingernails. Perhaps the man didn't appreciate his remarks being trivialized. Or maybe he knew something Rosswell didn't. Gustave brushed his hands, as if his fingernails had flaked off something into his palms.
"I think she took off, but that's only one of many possible theories. I want her back with you, too. But we can't explain it. She's an adult woman who can go where she wants. We have zero evidence that she's in this county."
"I got a call from her the night she disappeared that came from this county."
Gustave threw the unlit cigar off the balcony. "The FBI tracked the call to the payphone catty-corner to the courthouse at Merchant and Fribeau."
Rosswell grimaced. They were wasting time. "I know. The little street named after your family."
"It's more of an alley." Gustave smiled. "We've been here a while."
"Is the phone company planning to remove the payphone?"
Gustave's fingernails were bitten back to the quick. He'd chewed on one until it bled. "It makes sense to leave it. I asked the phone company not to remove it, in case Tina comes back to use it."
Rosswell jumped on that. "If you don't think she's in the county, why did you ask them to leave that phone?"
Gustave's demeanor seemed to soften. "There is one thing."
Rosswell braced himself for bad news. "Tell me."
"I believe you."
This was the time not for a question but a statement of fact. "But you're not going to look for her."
"I didn't say I'd stop."
You didn't say you'd keep searching. And your interest is non-existent today. You haven't taken note one.
Rosswell said, "That's what I heard you say."
"We've looked for her every place we know to look."
Rosswell held up a forefinger. "Except one place."
"And which place is that?"
"Wherever she is." Rosswell hoped that place wasn't at the bottom of the river. He'd not mention that to the sheriff. "Whether you keep searching for her or not, I'm never going to stop."
Gustave left with a promise to talk to the ferryboat captain and the passengers who'd made the second run. That is, if he could find them. Gustave said he doubted the captain kept track of identities of passengers.
And, although Gustave hadn't come right out and used the word lie, Rosswell's gut whispered that the sheriff didn't believe his report of a body thrown in the drink. That's why he hadn't told Gustave that the body resembled Tina. That would've indicated paranoia.
Rosswell checked off the things that made his own story doubtful: the early morning grogginess typical of most human beings, too many possible witnesses on the boat to risk such a crime, sun coming up in his face, and the thumping noise, the source of which-accounting for how the bluffs bounced sound around-couldn't be determined. Then he added in his physical and emotional problems.
All those facts added up to a label that Rosswell didn't want stuck on himself: UNRELIABLE EYEWITNESS.
Mrs. Bolzoni, snoopy as ever, stood behind Rosswell in front of the house, watching Gustave's patrol car depart. She pushed Rosswell into the kitchen.
"Frogs." She dipped up bacon, home fries, grits, gravy, and scrambled eggs onto a plate. Then added whole-wheat biscuits, strawberry jam, and real butter onto another plate.
Even with his mouth full, Rosswell managed to ask, "What?"
"The frogs, they make my stomach hurt."
Rosswell kept silent while he chewed. Mrs. Bolzoni often made remarks that he didn't understand. He blamed it on her poor English. Mr. and Mrs. Bolzoni, he'd learned upon renting the place, had moved from Rome to an Italian neighborhood in Saint Louis called The Hill about twenty-five years ago. After Mr. Bolzoni died of a heart attack a couple of years ago, the widow Bolzoni moved to Ste. Genevieve and opened The Four Bee.
She said nothing further. Curiosity squirmed around in Rosswell's brain like a hyperactive maggot in hot ashes. After he ate another biscuit, he could stand it no longer.
"Tell me about the frogs," thinking even as the words left his mouth that he'd busted open the floodgates. She would doubtless tell him that the amphibians were invading her house. And she would tell him every bloody detail.
Mrs. Bolzoni whipped around to inspect Rosswell. "Frogs?"
Could she have forgotten already? "You said they made your stomach hurt."
"Oh, FROGS! Yes, that frog policeman." She said it as if that explained everything. "And all the frogs what live around here." She made circles with her forefinger over the table, evidently indicating the neighborhood.
There it was. Mrs. Bolzoni was prejudiced against French people. She'd used the derogatory term frogs to complain about the ethnic background of the people who'd settled the surrounding territory over three hundred years ago. Rosswell wouldn't burden Mrs. Bolzoni with the knowledge that the sheriff's first name sounded more German than French. Such a revelation could wait until later. And, since living with frogs seemed to bother her so much, he certainly didn't want to know why she'd moved from The Hill to Ste. Genevieve. That story could take days. Possibly weeks.
Deciding to slip out of the conversation before he became further enmeshed in her ramblings, Rosswell stood. "I'm going into town to look through the shops. I'll be back late tonight. No need to hold supper for me."
Mrs. Bolzoni served her guests two meals and a snack daily, in addition to breakfast. That, plus the modest price, had led Rosswell to her do
or.
"I thank the saints I don't see the frogs with rusty hair."
"That's certainly something to be thankful for, Mrs. Bolzoni."
As a matter of principle, Rosswell would not allow himself to contemplate what in the hell frogs with rusty hair actually meant.