Calamity at the Carnival

by London Lovett

  "Right, I'll do that now. Maybe we can meet later."

  "Sounds good." I hung up and headed back into the carnival.

  I decided I deserved a sweet reward for finding the sweatshirt, even if it didn't turn out to be evidence. A syrup drenched funnel cake was calling my name.

  I weaved through the crowd and made my way toward the long line at the funnel cake stand when Queen Melinda's trio of friends caught my eye. I realized, then, that I hadn't seen the queen and her entourage once this afternoon. Maybe her royal duties were finished. The chattier friend, with the stylish bob haircut, noticed me heading toward the funnel cakes and waved. Since we were obviously on friendly terms, I took it as my cue to ask some questions.

  I reached the girls and noticed that they were all stretching up tall to look past me. "Are you here with Detective Jackson?" one of them asked.

  "No, he's working." Apparently, I was being used to catch a glimpse of Detective Jackson. That certainly didn't help my self-esteem. "Where is the queen?" I asked, forging ahead right past their disappointed frowns.

  The second friend, who I had pinned as the more talkative one, chimed in. "She wasn't feeling well this morning. I think she's still upset about—"

  Her friend elbowed her discretely to stop her midsentence.

  "She's just upset about what happened to that poor woman in the fortune telling tent," the girl continued. "She'll be here later to hand out free balloons."

  "That's nice. Well, I'm off to buy a funnel cake. Have fun."

  "You too," the first girl said. "And you should bring Detective Jackson to the carnival later. I hear the Lovers' Lane ride is lots of fun." She winked at me as if were best buddies.

  "Thanks for the suggestion." I waved lightly and returned to my funnel cake mission.

  Chapter 28

  The funnel cake had spoiled any thoughts of a reasonable dinner. Ursula and Henry had packed up and cleared out for the night. Ever since the incident at Christmas, when Edward lost his ghostly temper and yanked the hammer out of Ursula's hand, she had rushed to get out of the house before dark. I was all right with that. I almost always saw them before work, particularly when they were helping themselves to my coffee and whatever leftovers I had in the fridge, so it was nice to come home to an empty house. Well, technically empty, if I didn't count dogs and ghosts.

  I parked the jeep and walked out to the road, to the mailbox. I sorted through the bills and advertisements and found an envelope that had been addressed personally, by a rather shaky hand. Cider Ridge Inn was written on the line below my name. According to the return address, it was from Henrietta Suffolk, the elderly woman who was a descendant of Cleveland Ross's cousins. After the tragic duel and the discovery that Bonnie Ross was carrying Edward's child, Cleveland sent her away in disgrace. He was kind enough to make sure she was taken care of by distant relatives. I had been determined to uncover the details about Edward's child because I was sure that was why Edward had been stuck in limbo, destined to spend eternity floating through the walls of the inn. But now I wasn't so sure. His mood seemed to darken and his ghostly emotions seemed to intensify with each revelation.

  I pulled the thick envelope out from the pile of mostly junk mail. I'd discovered that Bonnie had taken back her maiden name, Milton, and her son, Edward's son, had been named James Henry Milton. He was born in 1817 but that was all I knew about him. It seemed I was about to learn more. I'd take the letter to my room, a place that Edward's gentlemanly sensibilities would not allow him to enter. That way I could read it without him peering over my shoulder. Then I'd decide whether or not to relay the news to Edward.

  My impatient dogs had not waited for me to reach the front door. They'd dashed through the dog door in the kitchen and raced around to the front yard to greet me. Newman immediately dropped a tennis ball at my feet.

  "It's getting too dark," I told the insistent dog. He crouched down on his haunches, swung his tail like a helicopter blade and stared at the ball with laser focus. I picked it up and threw it across the front yard. He plowed through the grass and weeds and retrieved it before it hit the ground. He came prancing back ready for more, until I said the magic word.

  "Cookie?"

  Now I had Redford's attention too. The three of us walked inside, then they trotted ahead to the kitchen, in case I'd forgotten where the cookies were kept. I placed the pile of mail on the desk I used to write lists and notes and carried the letter from Henrietta Suffolk to my bedroom. I was anxious to see what she had written, but I knew the dogs were even more anxious for the promised treat.

  I walked back out to the kitchen and straight into the pantry for the dog cookie jar. I tossed out two bone shaped goodies and shut the pantry door.

  "Why were you making a point of hiding that letter?" Edward's voice rarely startled me anymore, even when it rolled out long before his image, but this time I jumped. Only because he had caught me doing exactly what he'd accused me of.

  "I wasn't hiding it. I just wanted to read it in private."

  "Well, I'm certain that—your suitor," he said before something stupider came out, "has never handwritten a letter in his life, so I can only assume it's from someone else, the woman who claims to know all about Bonnie and my child."

  "She claims—actually, claimed, to know nothing of the sort."

  "Why claimed?"

  "Henrietta Suffolk died recently. She was ninety-five."

  "Good lord, who lives to ninety-five?"

  "Lots of people do these days."

  He made a full appearance instead of the wavering half image that had startled me in the first place. "It's a wonder people these days live that long when they spend so much time sitting and staring at tablets and driving those machines to and fro. And some of the foods I've seen you eat—"

  "How did this become a discussion on my eating habits?" I pulled the milk out of the refrigerator. "Which, other than the fact that I just downed a funnel cake piled high with syrup and sugar, are perfectly reasonable and healthy. Sometimes. And, medical science has become quite advanced since your time. Your gunshot wound would have been easily fixed today. You probably wouldn't have spent more than a few days in a hospital bed, then you would have been up and about annoying people."

  "Then, it seems I died in the wrong era. Perhaps that's why I'm lingering in this world."

  "I hardly see how that would help you now. It's not as if the doctors can fix you all up and send you right back into humanity." I sat at the table with my glass of milk, happy to give my feet some rest after long hours at the carnival.

  "Someone is particularly brash this evening," he drifted toward the table.

  "Sorry, guess I'm on a sugar high from the funnel cake."

  "I don't know what this is, this funnel cake, but you should probably avoid eating another one."

  "No argument here." I sipped the milk.

  Newman, now finished with his treat, realized his favorite incorporeal being was in the room. He snatched his tennis ball off his pillow and trotted over to where Edward was leaning against the counter. "You ridiculous animal, I've already thrown that ball a dozen times today." He swept the ball up in his transparent hand and tossed it out into the hallway. Newman chased after it.

  "Why are you hiding Miss Suffolk's letter? Are you afraid the information she's sent you will push me into some kind of fit?"

  I leaned back and marveled for a second at how well the man could read me. "Not a fit," I said, "but the ghostly version of depression. I guess they would have called it melancholy or low spirits in your day."

  "There's hardly a chance of that. I never get low spirits. My moods are as flat and smooth as a lake on a breezeless day."

  A laugh shot from my mouth before I could stop it. Or maybe I had no intention of stopping it. "You mean your moods are as flat and smooth as the ocean during a raging tempest."

  Newman returned with the ball and dropped it right through Edward's Hessian boot. Edward blew at it. There was just enough anger behind
his breath that the ball shot like a bullet into the hallway again.

  I peered up at him. "I believe you just made my case. Frankly, Edward, I'm not certain you're ready for any of this."

  "Any of what? Playing fetch with a silly dog?"

  "Funny. You know what I'm talking about. Maybe it's better if you don't know. At least for now."

  He drifted back toward his favorite place on the hearth. It was the place he sat when he was thinking, and I could tell by the wavering, semi-invisible image drifting across the kitchen he was deep in thought.

  I waited for him to settle and reappear. "I'll admit, I had considered not knowing anything about my son. As you've mentioned, he could have died young or lived through some other tragedy. Or worse—he could have been poor, a beggar in the streets." Quite often the snooty, shallow side of Edward Beckett made an appearance.

  "Are you saying you would prefer to learn that James died young of some malady rather than hear that he was poor?"

  "Not a malady, certainly. Beckett's don't die from something as mundane as a malady. A fall from a great steed perhaps or—" He paused to contemplate. I decided to fill in the blank.

  "Or from a duel after he scandalously sullied another man's wife, the man who was kind enough to put a roof over the head of the man who would have otherwise been penniless and poor?"

  "Well, you've certainly put me in my place, haven't you?" Instead of his facial features sharpening, something that happened when he was angry, they faded and became distorted, his usual reaction when he was upset. I bit my lip, something I did when I wanted to take back my words.

  "I'm sorry, Edward, that was uncalled for. Maybe we should just drop the subject. It always gets unpleasant when we start talking about this. I'll understand completely if you don't want to know anything else about James Henry Milton."

  He swept past me to the window, a cool rush of air followed him. "Must you keep saying his name? And it's not Milton. If I had—If I had been alive when he was born, I would have insisted his name be Beckett." He gazed out the window into the darkness.

  I watched him for a moment as he stared out with a faraway look that I'd caught more than once. I walked over to him. "Then you do care about what happened to your baby?"

  "Of course, I do. I might occasionally sound pompous and callous, a result of my upbringing, I'm afraid, but there is—or was, a genuine heart once beating in this chest."

  We were in the midst of one of those moments when I wished he were flesh and blood so I could put a kind hand on his shoulder or even hug him. But Edward would never experience either again, and that saddened me. But certainly, since I'd managed to hurt his feelings with my words, I could give comfort as well.

  "I'd like to think that if we were both born in the same era, that you and I would have been good friends. I think we would have gotten along."

  My words seemed to help. He nodded faintly. "Perhaps even lovers."

  "Well, I gave it my best shot," I said. "As usual, you blew up our moment." I headed toward my bedroom

  "I'd like to know." His voice followed me down the short hallway to my room.

  I stopped and turned back. He was still at the window, but he was looking toward me. "I know when you hide yourself in your bedroom, your little sanctuary away from your irritating house spirit, you'll be reading about my son. I'd like to hear about him." He paused. "No matter what you find."

  "All right." I spun back around but ended up making a full circle to face toward him again. "My little sanctuary," I repeated his words. "Cherise must have had a little sanctuary, a place away from the bustle of the carnival. Why didn't I think of this before? Thank you, for that, Edward."

  "I have no idea what your are blathering on about, but you're welcome."

  Chapter 29

  I rushed back out of the house, leaving the letter from Henrietta Suffolk unopened for now. I had a case to solve. Only my brilliant plan and the enthusiasm for my next endeavor was dampened by the prospect that I would face obstacles trying to get into Cherise's personal things. I knew there were at least half a dozen motorhomes and fifth wheels parked in the RV area of the park near the carnival. I knew the first one belonged to the Stocktons, but which one, if any, did Cherise bunk in? In my first conversation with Carson Stockton, over the telephone, before all of the critical events, he'd given me a quick summary of the ins and outs of owning a traveling carnival. Employee turnover for his carnival was particularly low, he had boasted, mostly because they provided free living quarters for the workers during their travels. He'd mentioned that some of his competitors made their employees 'fend for themselves' when it came to room and board. He also mentioned that a few of his employees opted to rent nearby motel rooms instead of sharing a motorhome with workmates but that most of them took advantage of the free bed. I hoped Cherise was one of those people.

  I was still chiding myself for not thinking of the plan sooner but then I came to the conclusion that I'd sort of considered Madame Cherise's tent as her home away from home. It might have been because Raine lived in the same house where she ran her psychic business but that was, of course, silly because Raine lived in a little house in town, not in pop-up tent.

  As I'd predicted, after the late afternoon lull, the crowds had returned for the evening festivities. The weather had improved with a navy blue night sky and just a nip of chill in the air. People were clad in light jackets and the occasional beanie or hat to cover ears, but the jovial conversations and laughter made it clear spring break was in the air.

  My plan was to head to the kiddie rides where Brianna worked. It felt as if we'd formed a bit of a bond. I considered her my best source for information only the employees would know.

  My phone rang as I climbed out of the jeep. It was Jackson.

  "You'll never guess where I am again," I said.

  "I don't need to guess. I can hear the horn tooting music of the carnival through the phone. I thought you spent the day there."

  "I did but I had a few things to check out."

  "Why does that sound like something I'm against," he said.

  "It's perfectly safe and no big deal at all. I promise I won't be climbing onto any horse carriages. Are you still at the mall? Did you track down the shoe seller?"

  "As a matter of fact I did, and the shoe seller had a description of the customer that fit with the ones given by the robbery witnesses, at least the bits of details they could see beneath the sweatshirt hoods, bandana scarves and dark sunglasses. Unfortunately, but not surprisingly, the customer paid with cash, so there was no financial lead to follow. I've got some news you'll be interested to hear though. It's about your smoking gun. Turned out you had something there."

  I stopped outside of the carnival and scooted away from the noise. "Did I? How exciting. Can you tell me since I was the source of the evidence? Please. Pretty please?"

  "What kind of a meanie do you take me for, Bluebird? I wouldn't have told you just to tease you. It turned out that the blood on the sweatshirt belonged to Cherise. The splatter marks indicate that the killer was wearing it when he brought the heavy bar down on Cherise's head."

  "He?" I asked anxiously. "You said he? Do they have a suspect? Did I lead them to the suspect?" It wouldn't have been as exciting as actually narrowing it down myself, but it was good to know I had a hand in it all.

  "It just so happened that they found an employee nametag in the pocket. The pin on the back was broken. He must have jammed it in the pocket and then forgotten all about it when he ditched the sweatshirt . . . allegedly, anyhow."

  "I'm going to assume you're not telling me this and teasing me with the pronoun he just because you're in an ornery mood."

  "If I tell you, you have to promise that you're not going to walk into that carnival and head straight to the Lovers' Lane ride to confront the guy."

  "Why would I do that? Jeez, one little thrill ride in a horse carriage and you treat me as if my head is filled with cotton candy."

  "A thrill ride? Is
that what we're calling it now?"

  "Enough of that. I promise I won't confront the guy. Is it Calvin, the maintenance man? I knew he had a hand in it. Cherise broke his heart—"

  "The guy's name is Cody. They might have already pulled him in for questioning."

  "Cody? Huh, seems like I've heard that name before. So this case might be solved."

  "No arrest yet," he said, "but the sweatshirt is a darn good piece of evidence. Thanks to you."

  I couldn't help but smile. "Yep, thanks to me."

  "They unlocked Cherise's phone too," he continued. "There were plenty of texts from someone who she had nicknamed Sweetie. It turned out to be Carson's number, and from the content, it was obvious they were more than boss and employee."

  "I guess that's no surprise to either of us. Anything else on the phone?"

  "Not that I know of. Enough shop talk, I'm hungry." Jackson said. "I've got a hankering for a hot dog with the works. I can meet you at the carnival."

  "Sure. Just text me when you get here, and I'll meet you at the entrance."

  "All right, should be about twenty minutes. See you soon." He hung up.

  As far as I was concerned, if there was no arrest, then the case wasn't solved yet. There had to be more evidence. Twenty minutes didn't give me a lot of time. I was sure Jackson wouldn't love the idea that I was trying to get into the employee trailers to snoop around in Cherise's belongings. I needed to finish the search before his text.

  I wasted no time heading toward the area of carnival that was roped off as the little kid section with the teeny train ride and the airplanes and cars that went round and round on a circular track. I wasn't three steps into the kid zone when I remembered where I'd heard the name Cody. Brianna's boyfriend, Cody, who did double duty as a truck driver and as the operator of the Lovers' Lane ride. What motive could he have had to kill Cherise? Was he seeing Cherise too? Brianna certainly didn't mention any connection with her boyfriend when she talked about Cherise.

  The latest revelation hit me like a bag of bricks. It also derailed my plan to talk to Brianna. Another girl was running the airplane ride. Brianna was either off for the night or so shaken that Cody had been taken in for questioning, she couldn't work. I decided it wouldn't hurt to ask the girl running the airplane ride.