Sincerely,
Janine Ruthbert
"Woo hoo," I cheered to myself.
Edward pulled his gaze from the window. "Did you just say woo hoo?"
"I did."
"Your exemplary vocabulary knows no bounds." It seemed he had shed his melancholy mood.
"Woo hoo is an expression of glee," I said, deciding there was no need to defend my exemplary vocabulary. "I think I might have some more information soon about James Henry Milton."
His image wavered and he appeared confused.
"Your son," I added.
"Yes, yes, I know the name. Do you think I've forgotten it already?"
"You are very changeable today. Even more so than usual. Has something happened?"
He crossed his arms and drifted back up to his perch on the hearth. "I have no idea what you mean, and no, nothing has happened other than me spending another day with that insufferable pair of nitwits."
"They are at the far end of the house, and don't forget your promise to stay out of their way." My news about James had sent him back into a darker mood. I walked closer to him. Sometimes when I neared him, I could feel the cool swirl of his aura floating around his image. It seemed especially cold today, which meant he was upset.
"Edward, it never occurred to me, but maybe you don't want me to find out more about your heir. Are you worried that I'll find bad news?"
His face shot my direction. "You mean that he was a dissolute character like his father?"
I was stunned by his statement. "Actually, I meant that he died young in some tragic accident or from illness. And you weren't dissolute."
"I was no saint, that is for certain."
"No one is . . . except maybe for a few people they call saints." Usually my humor helped lighten his mood but not this time. "If you don't want me to find out anything more, I'll stop. I just thought knowing might help you—you know—move on."
His image faded and disappeared. He reappeared at the kitchen window. "The chickadees are back at their familial nesting site," he said quietly. "That hickory tree in your front yard has been home for their nest since I walked these grounds as a real man, a human with boots that touched the ground and hands that grasped the reins of a horse bridle."
I walked to the window and scanned the tree for the tiny black-capped birds. "I never noticed them. Thank you for pointing them out." I hated to leave him in such a sad state, but I needed to get back to the carnival. "I'll see you later, Edward. Then we can talk about this again."
I turned and walked toward the doorway.
"I don't know what's waiting for me outside of this house," he said quietly.
I looked back at him. He was still watching the chickadees.
"Maybe I don't want to find out." His deep voice drifted toward the window pane.
"I understand. See, you're still far more human than you realize because that is a perfectly human reaction to something we all worry and wonder about."
He continued to gaze out the window.
"I'll see you later, Edward."
Chapter 12
I parked the jeep but wasn't quite ready to enter the noisy throng of carnival goers. My mind was still heavily anchored in my conversation with Edward. I'd been enthusiastically searching for the reason he was left in between worlds, and I'd never given much thought to what it meant for Edward. And to me . . . for that matter. I'd grown used to my constant, albeit, somewhat irritating, companion. Was I prepared for him to just vanish into thin air? Mostly, was I prepared to help him face his eternity, whatever that might be?
My phone rang, jarring me from my musings. There was nothing like a call from Jackson to whisk me away from dreary thoughts and back to a happy place. "Hi there."
"Hey, Bluebird, what are ya up to? I've got a spare hour. I thought we could get an ice cream."
"An ice cream break with the handsome Detective Brady Jackson is just what this disgruntled reporter needs."
"Uh oh, why disgruntled?"
Obviously, I couldn't bring up the emotional moments with the Cider Ridge ghost, but I had plenty of other things to whine about. "I'm stuck doing a story on the Spring Fair Carnival, which is about as exciting and takes as much creativity as writing a grocery list. In fact, I'm at the carnival right now. However, I haven't found the courage to climb out of my jeep yet."
"I'm just a few minutes away. I'll coax you from your vehicle and lure you into the carnival with my dashing smile and a soft serve ice cream."
"Great, my disgruntled day just turned sweeter . . . in every sense of the word. Just look for the solemn journalist in the jeep."
"I'll be there soon."
While I waited for Jackson, I took a few minutes to write a thank you and offer my sympathy to Henrietta Suffolk's great niece. I was anxious to see what she sent me but less anxious to share the information with Edward. I'd have to weigh whether or not it was in his or my best interest for him to know more about his son. Especially if Henrietta had sent bad news about little James Milton.
I took a few minutes to close my eyes and rest. It wasn't easy taking care of the farm, Lana and my own odd collection of people and ghosts central to my life. As my head cleared, the nagging notion that I had to come up with a glowing article about a less-than-glowing carnival moved to the forefront of my thoughts. I hoped to finally get an interview with Carson or his wife. Hopefully, whatever had sent them into a rage this morning had been cleared up.
A tap on my driver's side window startled me out of my rest. Jackson opened the door and I climbed out.
"Almost didn't want to bother you." He pulled me close for a kiss.
I reached up and rubbed my thumb along his jaw. "Glad you did. Otherwise, I might just have slept through the rest of the work day."
We headed toward the ticket gate. Jackson flashed his badge and that seemed to suffice for a free pass inside.
I pulled out my press pass. "Your badge works a heck of a lot better than mine. My badge usually earns me suspicious scowls."
"Trust me, so does mine." He glanced up to the sky. The earlier clouds had parted just enough to allow spots of blue, but thunder rumbled in the distance, above the mountain peaks, which meant we'd probably get rain later. "It's colder out than I thought. Do you still want ice cream?"
"Yes, it's never too cold for ice cream or too hot for cocoa. That's my motto."
We headed toward the main food aisle. "So Parker has you writing an article about the carnival, eh?"
"Yes, I have no idea what I'm supposed to say about it except that it's a carnival and a shabby, run-down one at that. Only I'm supposed to make it a glowing review because Carson Stockton is friends with the mayor."
"That's going to take some journalistic magic. Do you want vanilla or chocolate or a swirl of both?" he asked.
"Give me both. I'm feeling adventurous."
Jackson and I strolled along with our ice creams. It seemed the teenagers had woken from their alarm clock free morning, and they'd descended upon the place in droves.
"I've been grumbling on about my job, but what are you up to?" I asked. "Working on anything more interesting than a run-down carnival?"
"Nothing too riveting, just a series of unsolved bank robberies."
I nearly spurted ice cream from my nose. "Nothing too riveting? Oh my, Detective Jackson, your life is infinitely more exciting than mine. Are you getting close to catching the guys?"
"I think so. Two young guys. They've hit a few banks within a hundred mile radius. The last hit was in Smithville. They've figured out a way to block signals to the surveillance cameras, so we're going by eyewitness descriptions. We just haven't been able to match them to anyone in the police system."
"Maybe they are new to the world of crime. I have no doubt you'll catch—"
"Help! Somebody help!' The distressed yell came from behind us.
Jackson and I spun around. Carson Stockton was, once again, stumbling out of Madame Cherise's tent. Only this time there was no satisfied
grin. His face was a ghostly shade of gray, and he looked close to throwing up. People began to circle the area to find out what was happening. Carson spotted Jackson and half ran toward us, trying to catch his breath as he moved clumsily through the onlookers.
"Detective," he said between gulps of air, "come quick." Jackson braced his hand under Carson's elbow to keep him from falling over. "You need to come quick, Detective Jackson. I think she's dead. I think Cherise is dead."
Chapter 13
We had barely tasted the ice creams before we were tossing them in the trash. We left a befuddled and stunned carnival owner standing amidst a crowd of concerned visitors. I followed close at Jackson's heels as he raced to the fortune teller's tent.
He stopped just before entering. "Stay here, Sunni. Let me make sure it's safe." He disappeared inside, but curiosity got the best of me. I peeked through the slim opening between the two flaps on the tent.
There was a terrible scene inside, but it looked perfectly safe to enter. I slipped through the flaps.
Jackson opened his mouth to lecture me but then seemed to consider it a waste of breath. "Don't touch anything," he said quietly.
"Not my first time at a possible crime scene, Detective," I said with a smirk.
Cherise was slumped over, her forehead leaned against the crystal ball sitting in the center of a tiny, round table. One arm was limp to her side and the other rested lifelessly on the table over a stack of tarot cards. Blood pooled on the silver tablecloth on each side of the crystal ball and red drops flowed down the glass sphere. Jackson squatted down to get a look at Cherise's face, which was mostly hidden by hair and blood. He pulled a latex glove from his pocket and picked up her wrist to feel for a pulse. It didn't take a medical professional to know Cherise was dead. The tips of her fingers were already light blue, and her hand looked rubbery as Jackson moved it to search for signs of life.
He rested her hand on the cards and pushed to his feet.
"Carson was right," I said. "She's dead?"
"Yes, and from the looks of it, she didn't just collapse from a heart attack or stroke." He pulled out his phone. "This is Detective Jackson. I need a medical examiner and an evidence sweep team at the Stockton Traveling Carnival off Butternut Crest."
The tent flaps moved. "This is a crime scene," Jackson said before a head popped through. It was one of the uniformed officers who'd been working security detail for the carnival.
"Officer Hanson, I need you to tell Carson Stockton that he should shut down the carnival for the night. It's up to him how he wants to handle it. For now, clear a five hundred foot radius around this tent. Who's on duty with you?"
"Officer Gray," Hanson said. "She's working on getting everyone back from the scene."
"Good. The medical examiner will be here soon. Keep an eye out for his van and lead him here when he arrives." Voices rumbled outside the tent. "You'd better get out there and help Gray. Stockton made quite a scene when he stumbled out of this tent. I'm sure the entire carnival already knows about it. Oh, and, Hanson, it goes without saying, but I'll remind you anyhow—keep an eye out for anyone acting suspiciously or wearing blood splatters on their clothing."
"Yes, sir." Officer Hanson left the tent.
Jackson took a few pictures from each side of the murder scene, while I perused the tent (without touching anything). The light was not ideal for investigating a crime scene, but the medical examiner would bring lighting equipment. It was a small space, a twelve by twelve base at the most, and Cherise had it cluttered with exotic looking lamps, vases and incense burners to create the fortune telling ambiance. Raine ran her psychic business out of her sweet, cozy house right at the end of town. Her front room was kept dark with heavy damask curtains and stained glass Victorian lampshades. But it had a certain style that worked just right for Raine's line of business. Cherise had seemed to care less about style and more about putting up props that people expected to see in a fortune teller's tent. The smell of a potent mix of incense hung in the air and seemed to permeate the canvas walls. A mahogany framed mirror hung precariously from one panel of the tent. It looked foggy from age. I walked closer and squinted at the muddled silver glass.
"Jackson, I've found something." At the bottom of the mirror, just above the wooden frame, someone had scrawled words in what appeared to be the victim's blood. "No more fortunes," I read.
Jackson walked up behind me to read the message. "I'd say that was definitely written by the killer."
I pointed at the letter f. It was a long, fancy f. The kind that almost looked like calligraphy, where the bottom of the letter curled back, making it look like the letter S with a line through it. "It's a woman." I peered up at Jackson. "The killer is a woman."
"How do you know that?"
"That fancy feminine f. It just looks like something a woman would write."
Jackson took a picture of the wording on the mirror, then looked at it closely again. "You might be right, but it's not a sure thing. Some men have nice handwriting too. Not me, mind you, but I've seen men with fancy script. But good eye, Investigator Taylor." He turned back to the table. "I'm going to lift her away from the crystal ball. Her forehead seems to be the source of the blood. Could be gory. Are you sure you want to stick around for this?"
I lifted a brow. "What do you think?"
"Right. Silly question."
He circled behind the tall chair that Cherise was sitting on. He put on gloves and pulled gently at her shoulders, not wanting to disturb any possible evidence. She fell limply back against the tall chair. Her head rested there as if she had just nodded off. My sandwich lunch tumbled in my stomach, but I managed to keep it in place. However, the tent was swirling around me a bit.
Cherise's face was covered with blood and her hair was matted with it. A large clump of it was glued to her forehead, but it was easy to spot the horrifying dent on the left side of her skull, near her temple. It had been a brutal attack, so vicious I was rethinking my earlier guess on the killer being a woman.
Jackson leaned down to get a look at the wound. "Someone struck her head with a heavy, solid object. The wound is too messy to get a clear view, but the coroner will figure out what hit her."
Jackson performed a much closer inspection of the body, and my lunch gurgled in my stomach. I turned and breathed deeply through my nostrils, taking in the stale scent of incense mixed with the metallic odor of blood.
"You all right, Bluebird?" Jackson asked, without looking up from the victim.
"Just searching for a little fresh air inside this tent. It seems to be lacking." I turned back around. "I'm fine though, just a little indigestion from the grisly scene. See anything else?" I asked.
Jackson straightened and stared down at the body. "No, it seems it just took the one blow to the head."
"Jax, remember when we saw Carson coming out of the tent yesterday with a satisfied grin?"
"Yep, and obviously he was visiting his fortune teller today too. Seems like he was quite interested in Madame Cherise."
"This is probably not too important," I said, "but this morning, I'd set up an interview with Carson for my piece. He was nice and accommodating on the phone. But when I arrived at his RV for the interview, Ivonne Stockton came flying out of it, filled with anger about something. She didn't say a word to me as she stormed past. I continued into the motorhome for the interview, but Carson was terse and preoccupied. He suddenly had no time for a pesky journalist. I think they had a fight."
Jackson's phone beeped. "Good to know." He answered it. "This is Jackson. All right, I'll be right out to brief the team." He lowered the phone. "The medical examiner is just pulling onto the carnival lot. I'm going out to meet them."
"Do you mind if I stay here a few minutes longer just to snoop around?" I held up my hands. "I won't touch a thing." I batted my eyelashes a few times.
"Bluebird, are you fluttering those eyelashes at me to make your case?"
I batted them again and added in a sweet smile. "
Yes, is it working?"
"All right but you'll have to clear out when the coroner gets here. And don't touch anything."
I pushed my arms behind my back and clasped my hands. "I'll just use my eyes and nose. I promise."
Chapter 14
Admittedly, I'd been braver in theory. It took me a good long minute, after Jackson left the crime scene, to get used to the idea of being alone with a murder victim. Rather ridiculous, considering I had breakfast with a dead man every morning and often shared the day's anecdotes with him in the evening. Of course, Edward was no longer flesh and bone, and more importantly, he wasn't covered in fresh blood.
Cherise was slumped against the tall back of the chair. Blood and mats of blonde hair obscured most of her face. I was grateful for that. It probably would have been less disconcerting if I hadn't sat at Lana's kitchen table with Cherise just the night before. It was always hard to swallow the notion that someone could be warm and lively and sparkling in a gold coat one minute and cold, lifeless and dead the next. It was a stark reminder of how fragile life was.
I calculated that I had only five to ten minutes before the teams of professionals streamed into the tent. It was a small enough space that I'd be in the way, so I needed to snoop around quickly. Since Jackson had done a fairly thorough survey of Cherise and the table in front of her, I decided to focus on the surroundings. I was more than happy to steer clear of the corpse.
I'd already discovered what I was sure would be a monumental clue—the words written in blood on the mirror. I circled the inside perimeter of the tent, at least where there was room to walk. I had to navigate my way around extra chairs and end tables set up with gaudy silk topped lamps. The heavy, vintage lampshades reminded me more of an old-fashioned bordello than a fortune teller's lair.
Calamity at the Carnival Page 6
