Courting Murder



   

  Courting Murder by Bill Hopkins

  Copyright © 2012 by Bill Hopkins

  Second Edition Print Version

  ISBN-13: 978-0989345651

  ISBN-10: 0989345653

  Cover art: Photograph, “Kentucky Floods 2010,” courtesy of National Resources Conservation Service—Kentucky, May 2010

  Edited by p. b. smith

  Cover design and interior layout by Ellie Searl, Publishista®

  Disclaimer: Courting Murder is a work of fiction. The characters, events, and dialogue herein are fictional and are not intended to represent, re- fer to, or disparage any known person or entity, living or dead. Certain physical characteristics and other descriptive details in this book may have been embellished for the sake of storytelling.

  First published in 2012 by Southeast Missouri State University Press One University Plaza, MS 2650 Cape Girardeau, MO 63701 https://www6.semo.edu/universitypress

  First Edition Print Version ISBN: 9780983050438

  Deadly Writes and the Deadly Writes image and colophon are trademarks of Deadly Writes Publishing, LLC

   

  Deadly Writes Publishing, LLC

  Marble Hill, MO

   

   Chapter One

  Monday morning

  Grumpy was too happy a word to describe how Rosswell Carew felt. Despite the early hour, summer heat was already leaching into his pores. He missed his booze. All he wanted was some quiet time alone to feel sorry for himself for being so damned sober, but now he had to pretend to be nice to the nosy, dimwitted park ranger blocking the entrance to his refuge of choice, Foggy Top State Park.

  “Hey, Judge Carew.”

  Rosswell stopped and eased out of his Volkswagen. He’d parked next to the rock gazebo that served as the guard hut to chat with the ranger. Rosswell’s mother bought the car brand-new, right after he was born, and named it Vicky, after her college roommate. He didn’t quite know why he still drove the old car; it just felt comfortable and familiar. Next to the park’s entrance, a farmer harvested a first cutting of hay. The tractor’s chugging and the smell of the freshly cut timothy grass created a bucolic scene. Norman Rockwell could have painted what Rosswell beheld. What a glorious morning it would be if only I didn’t have to talk to this guy.

  The ranger scratched his mustache, as scrawny as Rosswell’s. “You’re up with the chickens.” The round-faced man, stuffed into a tan and green uniform, pointed to the early morning sun. In spite of the heat and humidity, the air hugging the ground lay clear, not hazy. Yet things at a distance appeared wavy, as if stuck in a mirage.

  Pushing his trifocal glasses up onto his sweaty nose, Rosswell shoved his brain into gear. He couldn’t remember the ranger’s name, although he’d met and talked with him before. The ranger was related to someone Rosswell knew, but he couldn’t remember who it was. The judge’s memory was slipping.

  “If the sun’s shining, then it’s time to get up,” Rosswell said. “I don’t waste daylight. I’ve got deadlines for the things I want to do.”

  Earlier in the year, a diagnosis of leukemia had finally convinced Rosswell to cherish his time. The possible death sentence transformed hours into precious coins he planned to spend wisely. If he was going to die, the last part of his life would be the best part. Although he didn’t advertise it, he felt the chemo treatments had affected his brain and sometimes left him weak. Needless to say, his brain was essential, like the hands of an artisan. A judge’s brain could turn to evil or good, the same as a technician’s hands could commit sin or virtue. Rosswell had pledged himself to do good. Among other things, there was little chance he’d spend his last days in jail.

  Although Rosswell had nothing resembling a picnic basket in his car, the ranger asked, “Are you having a breakfast picnic?”

  If only his Ranger Rick uniform had a nametag. Wait. I’ve got it. Harry. That was the guy’s name. Rosswell had remembered it. Sometimes he forgot names, but when a name came back to him, he was always right.

  “Harry, I had breakfast at four o’clock this morning.” The ranger’s last name surfaced in Rosswell’s brain: Hillyard. Harry Hillyard. He’d captured the name from all those brain waves scrabbling around inside his head.

  “Hermie, Judge. My name’s Hermie Hillsman.”

  “Sorry.” Damn. My perfect record of recalling names ruined in an instant.

  “No big deal. You meet a lot of people.” Hermie picked up a clipboard. “It’s hard to remember everyone’s name.”

  “Thanks for understanding,” Rosswell said. “I appreciate it, Hermie.” Hermie scanned the papers on his clipboard, making Rosswell wonder if his name was on some terrorist watch list. He looked up at the judge. “You don’t have court this morning?”

  Rosswell decided Hermie was probably an undercover agent for a citizens’ watchdog group, whose goal was making sure that judges didn’t goof off.

  “I’m starting my two-week vacation today.”

  “I see.”

  Among other things, it was Hermie’s job to track the visitors to the park. Rosswell had heard that the ranger sometimes nursed a bottle more than he watched the traffic. Rosswell noted burst blood vessels tracking across Hermie’s lined face, confirming his love of America’s favorite addiction. Rosswell couldn’t fault him for being a boozehound. Pot calling the kettle black and all that.

  Hermie’s Smokey Bear hat perched askew on his head, and he’d tied his green tie in a lumpy version of a Windsor knot. Rosswell thought that if Hermie opened his bloodshot eyes any wider, he’d bleed to death. The Coke bottle he clutched was covered with Spanish writing. Rosswell recognized the real Coca-Cola, probably bought in the Hispanic food section at Walmart. The Mexican version of the popular soft drink was made with sugar, not corn syrup. Hermie obviously craved a real sugar and caffeine high. A faint odor of alcohol floated from his wide mouth. Maybe the soda was spiked. Rum goes better with sugared Coke.

  Hermie asked, “What brings you here this early?”

  “Mushrooms.” Rosswell expected Hermie to accuse him of being a hippie searching for hallucinogens.

  “Mushrooms?” Hermie repeated, his distaste for them evidenced by his scowl. “What kind of mushrooms?”

  “Non-poisonous.”

  “Yes, of course,” Hermie said, although Rosswell knew he meant, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Rosswell pulled a Missouri Department of Conservation handbook from his back pocket. “I’m fully prepared. I know what I’m searching for.” He waved Safe Mushroom Hunting in front of Hermie’s face. The ranger swayed a bit, trying to follow the book, as Rosswell made sure Hermie could see the cover. The publication illustrated every mush- room growing in the state.

  Hermie said, “You could poison yourself.”

  “I’m not going to eat them.”

  Jawing with a minor bureaucrat at the gate of a state park didn’t improve Rosswell’s mood. This was taking far too long. Being friendly was one thing. Being nosy was another.

  Another puzzled look from Hermie. Then, “Oh, right. You know it’s illegal to pick them in a state park. You wouldn’t break the law now, would you? Being a judge and all.” Hermie moved his hat around, as if screwing it onto his head. “Why are you hunting them?”

  “Let me explain. You’re absolutely right, Hermie, but I’m not going to pick them. I’m going to take photos of them.” Rosswell flourished his Nikon. “I’ve studied all kinds of plants and animals. You do that before you take pictures of them.”

  “You have to study to take pictures?”

  “Right,” Rosswell said. “If you want something done right, then you must draw up a plan before you attack.”

  “My wife’s a good photographer. She’
s teaching our boy to take pictures. He’s twelve next week.”

  “That’s great,” Rosswell said. “The world needs good photographers to record all its beauty.” Since he believed his own words, he spoke them with sincerity.

  “Uh, yeah,” Hermie said. “Don’t do nothing illegal.”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s legal to snap the little critters. That’s what I’m here for.”

  “Critters? Mushrooms ain’t critters.”

  “You’re right again, Hermie. I was using the word ‘critter’ as a generic term for the concept of ‘thing’.”

  “Yeah. I see.” Hermie, who clearly did not see, chewed on this before adjusting his hat again. “You’re not going to take pictures of poisonous mushrooms?”

  A rumble of thunder many miles to the west startled Rosswell. There was no ozone stink from a lightning bolt. The storm was not yet close enough.

  “I agree,” Rosswell said. “I shouldn’t discriminate against poison mushrooms.”

  Hermie grinned. “Be careful up there. It rained nearly three inches last night and it could rain again this morning. The river’s running bank full.” He pointed to the gray clouds now heading toward them, growing darker by the moment. Hermie didn’t miss a thing.

  Brief yet intense thunderstorms often marched through this part of the country during the summer, dumping torrents of water in a short time. The supercell storms sometimes not only produced excessive amounts of water but often whipped up tornadoes. Rosswell could feel the barometric pressure dropping, a sure sign of a storm brewing. Something nasty