Calamity at the Carnival

by London Lovett

  I briefly wondered if Raine was worried that Cherise would have more luck conjuring a ghost than her. "Not a problem. I had no intention of inviting her. How long has she been traveling with the carnival?"

  "Far as I know, since she was nineteen. She started in some of the grunt jobs, clean up, filling soda cups, that kind of stuff. Then she declared herself a psychic and talked the owners into letting her set up a fortune telling tent. Just between you and me—" she leaned in. My best friend was in a particularly catty mood this evening. "I think she's having an affair with a married man." She dropped a tube of cherry lip gloss into the bag.

  The sight of the carnival owner stumbling out of Cherise's tent with a satisfied grin popped into my head. "Oh really?" I asked. "What makes you think that?"

  "She was anxious to catch me up on her social life. Most likely because her psychic life was as flat as her talents." She suppressed an amused grin. "She told me she had a new boyfriend and that she hoped, if things worked out, they could one day be together permanently. She also wouldn't tell me a thing about him." She dropped a roll of root beer flavored candies into the bag. "What else could that mean, except she's dating a married man."

  "Unless he's some secret agent for the government," I said.

  Raine laughed off my suggestion. "Please, Cherise is far too airheaded for that."

  "Boy, you really don't think much of her, do you?" I took the bag from her and started dropping in my half of the goodies.

  "She's nice enough, I suppose." Raine sounded a bit contrite about saying so many negative things about Cherise. "It's just that she's the kind of psychic—and I'd hold up air quotes if I wasn't holding a bag of goodies—that gives those of us who take the profession seriously, a bad name."

  "Ah, I see. That makes sense. There are journalists—and excuse my lack of air quotes too—" I held up the bag I was filling. "That give journalists a bad name. In fact, I work with one. Chase has almost no interest in writing or journalism or reporting. Apparently, he just stays at the paper because he has a sweet deal being engaged to the newspaper owner's daughter.”

  "See, so you know exactly how I feel. Chase gets all the gritty stories, but you're the true writer. By the way, what are you working on right now?"

  "I find out my new assignment tomorrow. With my luck, it'll be something dull and trivial, like covering the Spring Fair Carnival." I put the finished bag at the end of the table and looked back at the piles of goodies. "Jeez, this is going to take longer than I thought. I think I'll put on a kettle for tea."

  Chapter 7

  It was only nine o'clock on Monday morning, yet it felt as if I'd already lived through an entire week. I had hurried through my usual morning at home, making sure the dogs had everything they needed, checking that Ursula and Henry were set for the day and that Edward was resolved to stay upstairs and out of the way of any of the live human action downstairs. I nibbled buttered toast as I rushed out the door, jumped into the jeep and raced to Lana's to make sure she had everything she needed. She was groggy but feeling better, well enough to accept the scrambled eggs breakfast I'd offered to cook. Then I nibbled a second piece of buttered toast, this one with a splotch of marmalade, as I raced back to the jeep and jumped inside for the short trip to Emily's farm. It took a good hour to get everyone fed and watered and the eggs collected before I once again, this time without the toast, raced to my jeep for the considerably longer drive to the newspaper office.

  Myrna, the irreplaceable office manager, motioned her head silently toward the editor's office door. She was trying out a bright pink lipstick shade that was a good deal easier on the eyes than the neon orange she wore last week. Myrna changed lipstick color as often as I changed socks. She loved makeup and experimented with bold color choices. It took a while to get used to. It was all part of her fun personality. But today, her expression wasn't saying 'fun'. Her eyes flicked the direction of Parker Seymour's door with a good dose of trepidation.

  I raised my shoulders and held out my arms to mimic a hulking, angry bear and motioned my own head toward Parker's door.

  A dark curl fell on her forehead as she nodded emphatically. It seemed my boss's mood had necessitated a silent conversation between us. Myrna was rarely wordless. This didn't bode well for my tardiness or my next assignment. I walked to my desk and noticed that Chase's chair was empty, and his usual cup of coffee was nowhere to be seen. I cleared my throat to get Myrna's attention.

  She looked up from her computer. I pointed to Chase's desk and then to the editor's door, trying to ascertain if the lead reporter was inside with the boss. Myrna's response was a head shake that sent her dangling bead earrings into a shimmery dance.

  I lifted my hands at my shoulders to let her know I didn't understand what was going on. "O.K. this is silly, Myrna. I've already had an epically long morning, what's up?" I said it in a hushed tone, still not wanting to alert the bear and lure him from his cave.

  Myrna got up from her desk, which was much closer to Parker's office than my lone island at the far end of the room. She floated across the floor on her dancer's feet and leaned down. "He's in an absolutely terrible mood. He's taking grumpy to a whole new level this morning."

  I winced as if she'd just inflicted pain. "Is it because I'm late?"

  "No," she paused, "although that is probably not going to help you this morning. Why are you so late?"

  I sighed and shook my head. "Because I'm taking care of the entire family, animals included, for the next few days." We both spoke in hushed tones as if we were inside a library with a particularly volatile librarian. "What has him in such a lather? Another possible case of the flu?" My perfectly robust boss was so afraid of germs, he washed his hands hourly and worried that every sneeze meant impending doom. I was sure it was a difficult way to live, and there were times when I felt bad for him. But at the same time, it made working for him much harder.

  We were talking so softly we had to lean closer to each other. "Now that Chase and Rebecca are engaged, Parker thinks his days as editor are numbered," Myrna whispered. "He's certain that Newsom will move his son-in-law up to the editor position to keep the paper in the family—so to speak."

  I glanced back at Chase's empty chair. "Where is our star reporter? Already hard at work on a riveting story?" It was hard to speak in hushed tones when the words were dripping in sarcasm.

  "No, he and Rebecca are out looking at new houses. Daddy Newsom is going to put a large down payment on a house for a wedding gift," Myrna said with an eye roll.

  "Well, I don't think I could ever work under Chase Evans, so let's hope nepotism doesn't rear its ugly head in this newspaper office."

  "I better head back to my desk before he bursts out of his office." Mryna did a beautiful little pirouette halfway back to her desk. She'd taken up dancing as a hobby at my suggestion, and she was enjoying it immensely.

  She was just settling behind her desk when Parker's door flew open. Myrna and I shot each other a wide-eyed look.

  "Taylor," Parker barked, "why are you late?" He was carrying one of his famous manila folders. I could only assume it held the details (which were usually few and far between) for my next assignment.

  I straightened my posture to let him know his gruffness was not going to intimidate me, even though there was a slight tremor in my hands. "My sister injured herself yesterday. She broke her wrist, and I stopped at her house to check on her and make her breakfast. She's still in a great deal of pain." I felt a tad guilty using my sister's bad luck as a way out of trouble, but the whole excuse was true. It wasn't as if I was giving some outlandish tall tale about the dog eating my homework or having to lecture my house ghost about not disturbing the construction crew. Although, occasionally I'd been tempted to throw the latter out there just to see how people reacted.

  Parker pulled his lips in, seemingly not expecting my perfectly decent excuse for being tardy. "Oh well, that's a shame," he said with a low grumble. "Give her my best."

  Once again,
I was feeling a touch sorry for the man. He probably had every right to be worried about his position. Chase's relationship with the newspaper owner's daughter had kept him in the entirely undeserved position of lead reporter. It seemed quite possible that he could move right up into another unearned and undeserved position like editor.

  "Thank you, Parker, I will. Would you like to meet right now about my next assignment?" I asked.

  "No need for a meeting." He dropped the folder on my desk. "There's a carnival in town. I'd like you to write up an article about it. The entire enterprise is a shabby, outdated mess, but the owner, Carson Stockton, is a friend of the mayor's so make it glowing." With that he turned on his loafers and headed straight back to his office. His door snapped smartly shut.

  Myrna gave me the 'told you so' head nod. I picked up the folder and opened it. There were just three words typed across an otherwise blank sheet of paper, Stockton Traveling Carnival. Ugh.

  Chapter 8

  Parker usually gave me a few phone numbers and contacts to give me a start on a story, but since he was too steeped in his own miserable mood to provide me anything except the obvious name of the carnival along with the reminder to make it glowing, I made a few calls and finally connected with Carson Stockton. He was jovial enough on the phone, and when I told him my name, he knew right away that Detective Jackson had introduced us the day before. He was more than happy to sit for an interview.

  I'd given myself a pep talk all the way to the carnival parking lot. There would be better stories in my future, and when the Cider Ridge Inn was finished, I'd be able to leave the newspaper and start my new career as innkeeper. Then I would be my own boss, and I would no longer have to deal with grumpy editors.

  A gloomy clump of clouds, ripe with spring showers, hung low over the faded tents and awnings as I walked up to the carnival gates. A man wearing a puffy green parka and teal and pink striped cap was sitting at the gate with a clipboard and a self-important posture.

  "We're not open to the public for another hour," he said, long before I reached the gate.

  I pulled my press pass out of my coat pocket. "I'm here from the Junction Times. I have an appointment with Carson Stockton. The name is Sunni Taylor."

  His dark brow furrowed with more skepticism. It was obvious he took his job quite seriously. He ran his finger down the paper on the clipboard. "Oh yeah, Carson just added you to the list." He reached into his puffy coat pocket and pulled out a heavy ring of keys. He unlocked the padlock and slid open the chain link gate just enough for me to slip through.

  I thanked the man with a smile. "If it's not too much trouble, could you point me in Mr. Stockton's direction?"

  "Sure thing." He was much friendlier now that I was a listed guest. "If you walk past the hamburger and shake stand and make a quick left you'll see a line of RVs. Carson's is the first one on the row."

  "Thanks again." Carnival employees, or carnies as they were historically called, were getting their game and food booths ready for the crowds. The young man who had been stunned by the old woman's pitching arm at the baseball throw game was stuck with the monotonous task of filling pink and teal balloons with helium. Each balloon had the name Stockton Carnival printed across its girth. The long row of helium tanks leaned up against the pizza stand indicated a lengthy morning of balloon filling for the guy. Considering his comment about my age, I silently reveled in that notion.

  The Ferris wheel chortled to life and began to spin. A tall, well built man wearing a green striped shirt, tool belt and enough grease in his hair to take the squeak out of the Ferris wheel was standing at the control panel for the ride, apparently checking all its 'bells and whistles' or whatever it was a ride mechanic might check on a Ferris wheel.

  I continued on toward the hamburger stand where the smoky char of coals was already filling the air with the promise of grilled burgers. Six long motorhomes were parked a good distance back from the carnival in the RV park.

  I wasn't completely sure what I would ask the carnival owner, but I hoped something would come to me. I was just a few feet from the portable metal steps leading up to the motorhome when the door swung violently open. Carson's wife, Ivonne, pounded angrily down the steps on heavy feet. Her face was red with rage. She was so caught up in emotion, she swept right past me without a word.

  I paused, wondering if I was just about to catch Carson at the wrong time. But then my reporter's feet moved quickly toward the steps. Maybe this wouldn't be such a dull assignment after all. Parker told me to write a glowing review of the carnival itself, but he never mentioned I had to gloss over details about the people running it. After Carson's blissful stumble out of Madame Cherise's tent, the day before, I wondered if there was an entire soap opera going on behind the scenes. It made sense, considering that during carnival season, the people working for the Stocktons traveled from town to town with their own little nomadic family. Members of a traveling carnival had to spend a lot of time with their coworkers.

  I walked lightly up the steps and peered through the small window in the top of the door. Two large desks sat on each side of the space in front a small kitchenette, complete with built in table and bench. At the rear of the interior, a small ladder led up to a loft with beds.

  Carson was bent over, his elbows resting on the desk and his head in his hands. I knocked lightly on the door that Ivonne Stockton had left unlatched. It fell open. It took Carson a second to lift his head. His face was nearly as red as his wife's, but he looked far more distraught than angry.

  His forehead bunched in deep lines. "Yes, can I help you?" His mood had certainly darkened since our phone call.

  I walked with tender footsteps farther into the trailer. The forehead lines smoothed.

  "Oh, yes, Miss Taylor. I'm sorry. I forgot you were coming." He fiddled with a few papers on his desk, and as his big hands moved, he accidentally knocked over a cup of coffee. Brown liquid ran in thin rivers toward his paperwork. He grabbed up the papers and muttered a string of curse words under his breath.

  "Can I get you some paper towels from one of the food stands?" I offered.

  He didn't answer but grabbed several sheets of clean paper from his printer and tossed them over the spill to soak up the coffee. "I'm sorry but it seems you've caught me at a bad time. Maybe you could interview a few of the workers. Calvin Hooper, our maintenance man, is on the grounds right now checking all the rides. You could shadow him and find out how we keep the rides working safely. People like to hear about that kind of stuff."

  "Yes, I suppose ride safety is always of interest. If you're sure you don't have time right now for an interview."

  He stood up. "No, I don't. I need to make a few calls, so if you don't mind—" He walked toward the door to assure me that we were through. "I'm sure Calvin won't mind showing you around. Just let him know I sent you and that he should make sure you get the safety checklist." We were at the door by the time he finished. He forced a smile. "Calvin is wearing a green striped shirt and a tool belt. I see the Ferris wheel is moving. That's where you'll find him." The man was so anxious to be rid of me, I half expected him to give me a nudge out the door.

  "Right. I'll head over to the Ferris wheel then. Thank you and I'm sorry I caught you at such a bad time." I waited, hoping he'd fill in a few details about his morning, but he responded by shutting the door.

  I headed toward the Ferris wheel. It stopped spinning before I passed the hamburger stand, so I picked up my pace. I was just reaching the corner that, once turned, would take me to the Ferris wheel control station when angry words stopped my progress. I backed up to hide behind a large cutout of an ice cream cone and peered around the vanilla swirl to eavesdrop.

  Cherise, the fortune teller, was standing with her hands on the hips of her blue leather pants as she chewed out Calvin, the maintenance man. I couldn't see her face, but it was obvious from the rigid posture that she was mad. Calvin looked fairly cool and collected, considering she was waving a long blue fingernail in h
is face as she finished her scolding.

  "And I told you to stay out of my business," Cherise snapped. "You keep to your side of the carnival and I'll keep to mine."

  Calvin reached into his tool belt and pulled out a rather menacing looking screwdriver. I gasped, worried that he might have more nefarious reasons for pulling out the tool than a minor adjustment on the control panel. Cherise, however, wasn't worried or deterred in the slightest. She pushed her face close to his. "Don't let me find you snooping around my tent anymore."

  Calvin gripped the screwdriver in his hand. I was just about to jump into action, to make myself visible, when Calvin turned around and faced the control panel. He turned his back on Cherise and jammed the tip of the screwdriver into the corner screw of the panel. I released the breath I'd been holding.

  Voices from behind startled me. I grabbed the cardboard display to keep it from falling over. Two young women, both with pink and teal t-shirts, walked past. They stared at the strange woman behind the ice cream and rightly so. I smiled weakly and waved.

  "I just love soft serve ice cream, don't you?" I said.

  They kept walking without offering their opinion on the matter. I stayed tucked behind the ice cream as Cherise swept past in a cloud of perfume. She was in her own angry muddle and didn't notice me.

  Once she was around the corner, I stepped out from behind the cardboard cutout. Calvin was busy leaned over the control panel, working with the lethal looking screwdriver to get the metal cover off. I cleared my throat.

  "I'm through listening to you, Cherise. Go find someone else to screech at," he said.

  I cleared my throat again, and he peeled his focus away from his task. "Actually, I'm from the Junction Times." I lifted my press pass from my pocket. "I'm doing a write up about the carnival for the local paper. Carson suggested I shadow you for the morning to watch you perform the safety check on the rides."