Read Online Huckleberry Finished by Livia J. Washburn - Free Book Online Page A

pretty good policy to me.
    Finally the radio attached to one cop’s belt squawked. He answered the call, and I heard Travis order, “Bring Mr. Rafferty down here.”
    The cop actually said, “Ten-four,” and hung his radio back on its belt clip. He nodded to Rafferty and jerked a thumb toward the door. “Let’s go.”
    That left the other cop watching me and the two stewards. It was a good thing we weren’t desperate criminals, I thought.
    Rafferty was gone for a long time. I was getting bored, and worse, I was hungry. Those appetizers I’d grabbed in the dining room hadn’t lasted long. I guess seeing a dead body and fainting had burned off all the champagne, too. If I felt light-headed now, it was from being famished. I’ve always had a healthy appetite. Most petite Southern ladies do, once you get to know them.
    I didn’t expect to get anything to eat anytime soon, though. The murder investigation was more important than a growling stomach. I worried that Detective Travis would want to question the two stewards before she got around to me, and that it would be the middle of the night or later before she was done with me.
    But when the cop brought Rafferty back to the office, he pointed at me and said, “You’re next, ma’am. If you’ll come with me…?”
    I didn’t even try to ask him any questions on our way below decks. I knew he wouldn’t answer them.
    I was sort of hoping that Ben Webster’s body had been taken away by now, but when we reached the corridor I saw that it was still stuffed into the storage closet. Crime scene technicians in Missouri State Police uniforms were photographing it and scouring the area around the door for evidence. Travis had moved back well away from the scene. Captain Williams was gone. I supposed that Travis had finished questioning him and told him to go back to running the boat. Not that there was probably much that needed to be done while we were docked, I thought.
    â€œMs. Dickinson,” Travis began, “you’re the owner and operator of Dickinson Literary Tours?” She had an open notebook in her hand, but she didn’t consult it before asking me the question.
    â€œThat’s right. I have a couple of employees, but it’s my agency.”
    â€œAre either of those employees here on the Southern Belle ?”
    I shook my head. “No, they’re back at the office in Atlanta. Well, they’re not there right now, you understand, since it’s, what, nearly midnight?”
    She didn’t directly respond to that, just said, “So you’re handling this tour by yourself?”
    â€œThat’s right. It’s a relatively small tour, only about forty clients, and the arrangements were simple. There’s really not that much that can go—”
    I stopped, and for a second I thought Detective Travis might smile. But she didn’t. She said, “You were about to say there’s not much that can go wrong, weren’t you?”
    â€œYeah.” I shook my head and tried not to look toward the little closet where Ben Webster’s body was. “Boy, I was wrong about that, wasn’t I?”
    â€œTell me about Mr. Webster. Did you know him before he signed up to come on this tour?”
    â€œNo. I never even talked to him before lunch today, back in St. Louis. He booked the trip using our Web page.”
    â€œYou have all his information, I suppose? Credit card number, address, phone, all that?”
    I nodded. “It’s on my computer. Well, his credit card info isn’t. It’s on the office computer. But I can network with it and get the info if you want.”
    â€œMaybe later. Isn’t it sort of unusual for a young man like Mr. Webster to be traveling alone, especially on a literary tour like this one?”
    â€œNot really. I get clients like that pretty often. Anyway, the Mark Twain angle isn’t the only draw