Calamity at the Carnival

by London Lovett

  "I'll be right with you," she said without looking up from her task. Some of the blue had floated up and caught in her dark brown eyebrow. She absently swiped at the strand, which only made more sugar stick to her face. "Argh," she grumbled to herself.

  "I suppose that is far less fun than it looks," I said cheerily. "It's the job I wanted when I was a little kid. I remember leaving a circus with my parents and emphatically stating that when I grew up I would either be the person who got to dress the little ponies in their feathers and bells or I would be in charge of whipping up the cotton candy."

  She smiled at my story as she took one last swirl around the sugar machine to pick up the last strands. She shut off the noisy machine and dropped her newly formed puff of cotton candy into a plastic bag.

  "I don't know why," I said, "but whenever I see those pillowy trees of cotton candy, I think of Dr. Seuss. It just seems that they'd fit right into one of his landscapes."

  With her hands sticky from sugar, she used her forearm to wipe away the lingering strand of cotton on her brow. That only served to make it melt into a sticky blue mess. "Ugh," she groaned. "This is, by far, the worst job on the lot. I don't know why I ever let Ivonne train me on how to twirl sugar. Guess I thought it looked like fun," she added. "Woo, boy, rant over. What can I get you?" Her nametag said Ronnie.

  I pulled out my press pass. "Actually, Ronnie, cute name by the way. I'm with the Junction Times. I'm just wandering around interviewing folks about their jobs here at the carnival."

  Her lips rolled in. She seemed to be assessing whether or not talking to a reporter was a good thing. Two days ago, before Cherise was murdered, she probably wouldn't have given it a second thought.

  She chose the diplomatic way out. "I don't know much about what happened. I was off duty that afternoon."

  "Oh, you're talking about the murder," I said, pretending as if it hadn't even crossed my mind. "I'm actually just doing interviews to write a general interest story about the spring fair and its yearly carnival." I reached across and pulled a feathery string of blue cotton off her shoulder. "I suppose this job is much harder and stickier than it looks. I was actually here on Sunday, and I had some cotton candy. Ivonne was making it, standing right where you are, with the same amount of loose candy threads clinging to her clothes and skin. She didn't look too happy about it either. When did she hand the reins over to you?" I hoped my personalized introduction would make my question seem offhand and not prying. I wanted to get an idea of what Ivonne was up to on Monday afternoon. If she was still running the cotton candy booth, then that would pretty much wipe her off the suspect list.

  "I volunteered on Sunday, hoping to get in good with the boss. But now I see why there were no other volunteers. I've been at this on my own since Monday morning. I'm getting much better at it now. My first few tries were pretty pathetic, like weepy little willow trees of spun sugar." She giggled.

  "Wow, so one day of training and then Ivonne set you free to be on your own. Did she at least check in with you on Monday? To make sure you weren't overwhelmed with stickiness?" I added my own giggle.

  "Nah, Ivonne is always so busy. She helped me fill the machine on Monday morning and that was the last I saw of her. Probably a good thing."

  It was an odd thing to say. "Oh? Why is that?" I asked, with a bit too much enthusiasm. I was hoping Ronnie had some insight into Ivonne's mood that day. I'd sure come across an angry version of her in the morning. I wondered if she had held onto that rage for the rest of the day.

  "No reason really," she said. "I just would have hated for Ivonne to see what a terrible job I did with the first batch. Even the customers looked unhappy."

  "Ah, I see." This time it was disappointment and not enthusiasm in my tone. "I'm sure the customers still enjoyed them. After all, sugar is sugar."

  "True. Well, I'm going to spin some more cotton, if you don't mind." Ronnie flicked on the switch and the noisy machine fired up. "It's going to take me a week to get all of this sticky stuff off my skin and out of my hair, but it beats trying to get the smell of barbecue beef and chicken out of it. I was working the barbecue booth at the last carnival and it was not fun."

  "Then maybe volunteering to learn the art of cotton candy making wasn't such a bad choice after all. Thanks for talking to me." I stepped back.

  "Watch it," Ronnie jutted her arm forward and pointed with a paper cone.

  I froze in my spot and looked back over my shoulder to see that I'd nearly backed into a man pushing a large handcart that was loaded with overflowing trash cans. I stepped forward to clear the way for him. As he rolled the cans past, I inadvertently spotted what looked to be fabric, instead of the usual clutter of used paper and plastic. I couldn't tell for certain, but it looked like the sleeve end of a gray sweatshirt. Why would someone throw away a sweatshirt?

  Chapter 26

  I followed casually along behind the man and his handcart laden with trash cans. It seemed certain that he was hauling his heavy load to the back of the lot where the portable toilets were lined up in front of a long trash bin that had been brought in for the carnival. The man was younger, maybe twenty-five, and he was wearing the same green striped shirt that Calvin wore. It seemed to be the uniform for the maintenance crew.

  He hadn't noticed the silly woman tagging along behind him to the trash until he parked the handcart next to the long bin.

  "Excuse me," I said.

  I hadn't seen his earbuds until he pulled them out. He tucked them into his pocket next to his phone and pulled out a pair of latex gloves. "The porta potties are right there," he said, assuming that would be the only reason for me to be milling about the area.

  "Yes, I see them." I crinkled my nose. "They are hard to miss. Actually, I know this sounds crazy but where did these cans come from?"

  Lance, as his nametag stated, had sunglasses hanging on the top of his shirt. He put them on. "They're from the ride area." He pointed to the one where I saw the sweatshirt sleeve. "This one was behind the Lovers' Lane ride, and this one was from the Ferris wheel. Did ya lose something?"

  "Yes, that's it," I said too abruptly. "Yes. I lost something. This is silly but I was tossing my cup out in the can next to the Lovers' Lane ride, and I accidentally tossed my car keys into it. At least, I think that's what happened. I was holding them one minute, and the next, they were gone."

  Lance shrugged. "I usually just dump them into the bin. If you want to dig through the trash, go ahead. Are you sure this is the one you want to see?" He pointed to the one with the sweatshirt.

  "Yes, you said that's the one that came from outside the Lovers' Lane ride, right?" Of course, the location of the can didn't matter too much, but it gave more credibility to my story.

  "Yep."

  "Then that's the right can."

  He was nice enough to remove the can from the handcart and place it on the ground so I could rummage through it, something I didn't relish doing, but I had to make it look good.

  "Lance, right?" I asked pointing to his nametag.

  "Yeah, that's right."

  "You've been so nice, I hate to ask but you don't happen to have another pair of those latex gloves?"

  "I might." He reached into the pocket of his pants and fished out another pair of gloves. "They haven't been used." He handed me them.

  "Thanks so much. You've been a great help." I pulled the gloves on as he set to work lifting and dumping the other can. What a glamorous life I led. It seemed I would once again be digging in trash.

  I gingerly moved things around, pretending to be searching for keys, while actually just working to pull free the gray fabric. My first guess had been right. It was a gray sweatshirt that had been jammed into the trash can. I pushed away some of the debris, popcorn buckets, half eaten hot dogs and empty soda cups to free the sweatshirt. It was covered in stains, which wasn't surprising considering it had been inside a pile of trash. I yanked on the garment and pulled it halfway free. There were stains on the sleeve and front pan
el along the zipper. Some were purplish stains from a soda or snow cone. A few stains were greasy but a dark substance was splattered over the entire right sleeve and a good portion of the right panel. I was no forensic expert but it didn't look like a food substance. It looked like blood. I scraped at one of the bigger stains. The rust red color that came off on my glove sent a chill through me. Someone had thrown the sweatshirt away because it was covered in blood.

  "Any luck?" Lance asked, yanking me from my stunned thoughts.

  I looked up. "No luck. I'm starting to wonder if I left them on a ride or at a food booth."

  "You could check at the entrance. They keep a box filled with lost and found items." His eyes fell to the sweatshirt I was still holding in my hand.

  "People throw away the craziest stuff, don't they?" he said. "Looks like it was a perfectly good sweatshirt and now it's ruined."

  I pushed it back into the debris, not wanting him to take a closer look. "Yes, someone must have decided it was too hot, and they didn't want the burden of carrying around a sweatshirt."

  I pulled the gloves off and dropped them into the can. "I really appreciate your help, and I'll stop at the lost and found. I'm sure that's where I'll find my keys." I looked at the massive bin. I'd seen similar ones at construction sites where something was being torn down or dismantled. "I guess you'll need to throw this can into the bin too."

  "Yeah, if you're through with it," he said. As he spoke, he pulled what appeared to be a crinkled to-do list out of his pocket.

  "It's just that I'd kind of like to make sure I find the keys first. Is there any way you could leave this one can right here and toss it out later tonight?" I planned on letting the police know about the trash can. It would be much easier for them if they didn't have to rummage through an entire bin.

  He unfolded the paper and mumbled the phrase 'sanitize water faucets'. He shoved the paper back into his pocket. "Yeah, I've got an extra can to replace it."

  "That would be great, Lance. By the way, how often do these cans get emptied?"

  "Depends on where they sit in the carnival. If a can is sitting right next to the barbecue stand, a popular food place where everyone uses a mountain of napkins, the can has to be dumped twice a day. But since this can sits far back from the main pathway between the rides, it only gets dumped every three or four days."

  "So I was just digging through three days of trash," I said with a laugh. "Yuck. I hope I won't have to come back to it and dig farther."

  Lance put the emptied can back on his handcart and left the filled one next to the bin. I walked along with him, hoping to get a few more nuggets of information.

  "I noticed you're wearing the same green striped shirt as Calvin. Is that what all the maintenance people wear?"

  "Yeah. Calvin is my boss. How do you know him?"

  "We met on Monday. I work for the Junction Times, and Carson had me shadow Calvin for the safety check so I could write about it in the paper." We picked up our pace as we passed the portable bathrooms. "Calvin wasn't too happy to have me tagging along but I learned a lot."

  "Can't imagine why anyone would want to read about that boring stuff in the paper," Lance said.

  "I see your boss writes you a to-do list," I said airily. "Mine does too. It's kind of annoying, and my boss has such sloppy writing that I can barely read it."

  "Yeah, Cal never won any penmanship award, that's for sure."

  I had to walk faster to keep up with his long stride. "Do you mind if I look at your to-do list? I just want to see if it's as sloppy and hard to read as the one I get." It was a lame excuse, but it was the best I could do on short notice. Finding the sweatshirt was quite possibly game changing, but I hardly expected the chance to check out Calvin's writing too. It seemed I'd hit the jackpot twice. Lance stopped the cart and pulled out the list. He unfolded it.

  "It's a little worse because he's been kind of out of it," he said.

  I took hold of the crumpled list and smoothed it between my fingers just to make sure. The word faucets was written with a plain, old grammar school f. I smiled. "Yep, looks like you have to deal with the same handwriting mess as me." I handed the paper back to him.

  Lance pushed the paper into his pocket and paused to take his earbuds out. I had to work quick before I lost him to his own world of music.

  "How is Calvin doing?" I asked. "I heard he was close with Cherise, the poor woman who died yesterday."

  I sensed he wasn't expecting me to bring up Calvin's feelings or the murder. "He's all right, I guess. Besides, they weren't close anymore. Cherise was always treating him like dirt, like he didn't have feelings or something. He's been much easier to work for since they broke up. She was always putting him in a bad mood, then he'd take it out on the rest of us."

  "Oh, that's too bad. Well, I'll let you get back to your music. Thanks for leaving the can there for now."

  "Hope you find your keys."

  Chapter 27

  I hurried back through the most crowded areas of the carnival to a peripheral place with benches where an elderly woman sat with a baby stroller and a young dad sat with a sleeping toddler on his lap. It was a sort of out of the way rest place for people waiting for other family members to finish their rides or games. I found my own space alone at the end of a bench and pulled out my phone. With any luck, I'd catch Jackson with a free second to answer his phone.

  "Hey, Bluebird, what's up?" his deep voice always sent a little thrill through me.

  "Well, as you can probably guess by the background noise, I'm at the carnival."

  "Are you?" he said with a touch of suspicion. "And, of course you're staying clear of killers and murder investigations."

  "Now, you know me better than that, Detective Jackson." A woman sat down on the same bench, so I got up and moved out of hearing range of the others. I lowered my voice just in case. "Has Officer Reed found anything of significance?" I asked, hoping to squeeze any details out of him that I could.

  "I haven't talked to her. Since I'm not on the case, it's not really my place to ask. And since you're not on the case—" he started.

  "Well, her team might have missed the proverbial smoking gun," I blurted quickly to halt the forthcoming admonishment.

  Music strummed through the phone. "Where are you at?" I asked.

  "I'm chasing bad guys. Or at least hoping to chase them. I'm at a mall tracking down the seller of those flashing light shoes. Back to your little bombshell. What smoking gun?"

  "I realize I'm not a professional investigator—" I said with enough sarcasm that it practically dripped off my phone, "however, I think the evidence team might have missed a big clue. The maintenance man was pushing several trash cans to the big bin at the rear of the carnival grounds. I happened to notice the sleeve of a gray sweatshirt sticking up through the pile of expected carnival rubbish. Thinking it was strange, I followed the man and made up an excuse that I was looking for lost keys. It took some doing but I pulled a good portion of the sweatshirt free. Guess what was splattered all over it?"

  "I'm guessing it wasn't blue cherry snow cone," he said.

  "Nope, it was blood. Or at least that is my unprofessional opinion."

  I sensed that he had stopped walking. "Were you wearing gloves?"

  "Of course. I borrowed some from the maintenance guy."

  "Where is the sweatshirt now?" he asked.

  "I left it in the can. Far be it from me to intrude on a police investigation."

  He had a good laugh over my last remark. "Could be someone had a bloody nose or some other mishap, but I'll call Reed so she can get over there to take it in for analysis."

  "Lucky for Officer Reed I had the wherewithal to find out what location the can had come from. It was the trash can next to the Lovers' Lane ride, and because that particular can isn't in a busy traffic area, the maintenance guy said it only gets dumped every three or four days. So the sweatshirt could easily have been in the can since Monday."

  "Good work on that, Sunni.
I mean it. I'll call Officer Reed right now. What are you up to next? Or should I ask?"

  "I'll probably mill about the carnival a little bit longer. I have an article to write, and it's got to be a zinger because I really stuck my neck out this morning."

  "Gee, that's so not like you," his sarcasm was equally drippy.

  "Yes, well, at the newspaper office I decided I'd surrendered a good story to Chase just once too often. Because of the murder, Parker switched him to the carnival story, but I stood my ground and there might have even been a little foot stomping while I stood it. Much to my delight and to Chase's chagrin, Parker landed on my side for once. I think he's tired of constantly having to acquiesce and grovel to the owner's future son-in-law."

  Jackson paused. I thought the call had dropped until his rich, deep voice floated through the phone again. "You know what I love about you, Bluebird?" he asked.

  My face warmed as I held the phone against my ear. "My sparkling smile?"

  "Well, that, of course."

  "My can do attitude?" I tried again.

  "Yes, that too. Except sometimes I wish you had a little less of that when it came to tracking down killers. I love that you can use chagrin, acquiesce and grovel in the same thought and make it sound perfectly normal. I'll have to pull out my old SAT study guide to look two of those up, but I love the way you talk and think. There's more on that list but I'm standing in the middle of a crowded mall and someone might hear. Good for you, Sunni. I'm glad Parker wised up and handed you the assignment. Now, speaking of assignments, I need to track down the source for those shoes before those two bozos knock over another bank . . . or worse, hurt or kill someone in the process."

  "Go get 'em," I cheered. "And don't forget to tell Officer Reed."