Cold Memory

by Leslie A. Kelly

  Oh, how the old man had hated seeing that carnival take up residence just a few miles away, where anyone coming off I-95 would have to see it. And oh how Mick had enjoyed making that happen.

  Murder, though? Would the old man really have gone that far? It sounded impossible.

  Then he glanced at his gloved hands, and thought about what they had looked like when he’d been a child, after he’d been in his grandfather’s loving care for just a few months. His mind filling with dark memories of experiences he had hoped he’d long forgotten, he had to concede the truth.

  Montgomery Tanner was capable of just about anything.

  Although everyone was talking about the death of Barry Spencer, business hadn’t really been affected by last weekend’s murder. D’Onofrio Brothers had been closed for thirty-six hours after the crime, but when it had reopened, tons of people began pouring in. The tourists still came off the highway, of course. But now, the more adventurous townies, wanting to give themselves a scare, were showing up by the carload, too. Jacksonville newspapers had covered the crime, so there were city types here as well. If Halloween were coming up, instead of having fallen a couple of weeks ago, they’d probably have had to turn people away.

  “Ghouls,” Penny Travers whispered as she peeked through a slit in the tent used as a dressing room for performers.

  The people between here and the closest ticket booth stood fifteen deep. Although the funnel cake wagon in which the murder had been committed was no longer parked in its regular spot, enough locals knew where it had been to direct onlookers to it. The other morning, the early crew had found incense, candles and a Planchette from a Ouija board on the ground where the trailer had been. Nobody in the carnival would ever be that disrespectful to someone so loved; obviously outsiders were sneaking in after hours. Since then, security had been beefed up overnight, with workers taking turns on patrol when the small-staffed local police department could not.

  “Are you ready?”

  Penny let the curtain fall closed and turned to nod to her brother, Val, who had just entered, looking dashing in his matador’ish costume. Excitement shone on his face, his dark eyes sparkling. That was undoubtedly because a big audience had already filled the performance tent to see, “The Death-Defying Travers Twins.”

  They might be defying death—at least she might—but they were not twins. Val had just turned twenty-four, and she’d be twenty-five in a few weeks. It was Franklin Bell who had come up with the twin angle, liking the alliteration. Since they did look a lot alike, and since both she and Val had been happy to get this kind of work during the off-season, that would let them stay close to Jacksonville, where they were raised, they hadn’t argued.

  “It’s a full house—totally packed in the middle of the day. Can you believe it?”

  “They probably associate knife-throwing with murder and are coming to see if you and I are the fiends,” she said, knowing she sounded dour but unable to help it.

  “Can we just call it buzz, Miss Downer?”

  That could be, she supposed. They’d recently been interviewed on a Jacksonville news stations—one reason for their surge in popularity, she supposed. Even before that, though, their audiences had been increasing performance after performance. She and Val were now drawing-in people of their own, rather than just reaping the benefits of general carnival visitors. Their tips had also increased exponentially as word spread, and they’d been approached by somebody who wanted to be their agent.

  Of course, that would mean leaving the area. And that was one thing neither of them would do.

  “Whatever the reason for it, Pen, you know we need the money,” he added. “As long as they pay for their tickets, and we get our share and our gratuities, we can keep doing what we have to do.”

  Right. And what they had to do was take care of somebody they both loved more than the world. Their mom’s rapidly advancing muscular dystrophy had made her a near-invalid. Since their father had died seven years ago in an accident caused by his arrogance and his drinking, she and Val were the only ones left to take care of Mom. Although their father had purchased a small life insurance policy, it wasn’t enough to cover all the costs to keep his widow in the assisted living facility that could provide the care she needed. Nor was public assistance. So Penny and Val had to pick up the slack. Aside from the carnival, they both had part-time jobs in Ocean Whispers.

  But it never seemed like enough.

  Certainly it had never been enough for either of them to do normal things like attend college. They both tried, going to night classes whenever possible, but the bills just kept coming. It would take forever for either of them to finish. And while it seemed a little silly, their show was bringing them a lot of money.

  “It’s either this, head for Vegas—” Val’s brows wagged. “—or win the lottery.”

  “Tried that, remember?” she said with a heavy sigh, thinking of how her always-angling-to-score father had hoped to get rich off of Penny when she’d been a small child. Lotteries, betting on horses, sports books…it hadn’t worked then, and it wouldn’t now. Which was fine with her—she wasn’t a cheat. She had also refused to be exploited, even though she might have made him rich in a Vegas casino. Luckily, five-year-olds weren’t allowed in them.

  But twenty-four year olds are.

  That insidious little voice had whispered in her head ever since she and Val realized they would have to sell the family home to keep their mom in care. Penny had been ignoring it. Although it was tempting, she wasn’t wired that way. Plus, the future didn’t like to be changed, and her gift couldn’t always be relied upon to help her change it. Her dad’s lottery efforts had proved that. Besides, with her luck, a casino thug would figure her out and fit her for cement shoes.

  As for her brother…well, he wasn’t entirely sure if what he could do was all about charm and intuition, or some real psychic ability. Neither was she. Frankly, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know, since he’d managed to talk her into doing some crazy things over the years.

  Their carnival act chief among them.

  Throwing himself into a chair, Val eyed her closely. “What’s on your mind? It’s more than the act, and the money.”

  He knew her so well. “I just can’t stop thinking about Barry.”

  “He was a nice old guy.”

  “It’s not just that.” She bit her lip. “I might have been able to do something.”

  Her brother got right back up, came over, and put a consoling hand on her shoulder. “You know it doesn’t work that way. There’s nothing you could have done.”

  “Maybe…”

  “No. No maybes. How many times have you told me that when it comes to life and death, fate always fights back, no matter what you try to do? Besides, even if you’d been in the area—which you weren’t, considering we weren’t even on site—how could you have known something was about to go down soon enough to actually look into the future and see what it was?”

  He was right, she knew that. She couldn’t see the future unless she actually peered into it. Ninety seconds into it, to be precise. No more. Not ever.

  Damn, what good was having a special talent if she couldn’t use it for more than a carnival act? For about the millionth time in her life, she cursed her ability—which was nearly useless. She wished she’d been born completely without it. At least that way, she might have been left with some pleasant memories of her father, instead of always having felt like a commodity to him. Or, if she had to be the recipient of some extra ability nobody would ever understand, why couldn’t she have gotten a little more of it, so she could actually help people, rather than just entertain them?

  As her dad used to say: She had enough to be a freak, but not enough to be useful. That was among his kinder expressions. Val could usually get him to back off—using that strange mix of charm or magnetism—but it usually wasn’t until after her father had criticized or humiliated her into tears.

  “You have to stop torturing yourself abo
ut Barry’s murder.”

  She nodded slowly. “I know.” Her brother might be a typical, female-obsessed dude half the time, but he also knew her better than anyone ever had, including their parents.

  He gave her a quick, awkward hug. She hugged him in return, glad they at least still had each other and had formed their own little family. Stepping back, he eyed her from head to toe. She stood straight, knowing he was looking for any obstructions or problems.

  “Can you tie the sash a little tighter? It’s longer than usual—I don’t want you tripping.”

  She glanced into the mirror, saw he was right, and adjusted her costume—a feminine variation of his, which showed a little more skin. Or a lot more—the girl getting sharp objects thrown at her face also had to be sexy. But whatever she wore, their act required absolute precision. No changes from the routine, absolutely nothing that could interfere with his throws and her movements.

  Her life depended on it.

  “Are you totally sure about the backflip?” he asked, his brow furrowing.

  “No, not really.”

  “Well then let’s cut it.”

  “We’re about to have our biggest-ever audience. We’ve practiced it again and again.”

  “I know. But that doesn’t make it any less dangerous.”

  True. She still wanted to do it, though. It was a wow moment in their performance, something nobody in their field had ever attempted.

  Knife-throwing acts were usually exciting for the audience. People always loved to see a pretty woman in danger, and to cheer on the skilled man throwing deadly blades through the air. She and Val, though, had taken the standard-carnival-and-circus fare and upped the ante to the point where people were coming to the carnival just to see them perform.

  The word that she did things like jump, twirl, and move as he threw the knives in unbelievably quick succession—while other assistants always remained perfectly still—was spreading. When she did a back flip right over the path of the brutally sharp instrument, those in the audience would lose their minds.

  More word of mouth equaled more money. Which equaled more funds to help their mom, while staying close enough to be there for moral support as well as physical.

  If not for Mom, she would probably have done what Val had once suggested and auditioned for a much bigger show—Cirque de Soleil or something like that. Or followed him to Vegas while he tried to start a hypnotist’s act.

  But they had to remain right where they were. They had limited time with their mother, and neither of them was willing to lose it chasing some dream of success.

  The Winter Carnival had appeared on the horizon exactly when they needed it most. It was commutable, and it paid well. And in the spring, once it closed up for the summer touring season…well, they’d cross that bridge when they came to it.

  “Let’s go for it,” she finally replied.

  “You’re not nervous?”

  “Are you?”

  He thought about it. “No, not really. You can always signal me that we’re changing things up if you see anything bad about to happen.”

  Exactly. Which was why they could take all kinds of risks in the act. She would know if something bad was about to happen, and could work to avoid it. The future didn’t like to be changed…but she had certainly managed to bend it once or twice.

  “Remember, if you start to freak out, look me in the eye and I’ll calm you down.”

  She didn’t want to know how. She really didn’t.

  “We’ve got this. You’re almost good enough that you don’t need to see into the future.” A grin tugged at his mouth. “Be prepared for screams. People are gonna lose it.”

  Indeed they would. She only hoped she didn’t lose her nerve, or her gift of short-term sight, or that Val didn’t mess up his aim. Otherwise, she might end up like poor Barry—dead at the Winter Carnival.

  Chapter 3

  Although Mick didn’t come around D’Onofrio Brothers anymore, he was definitely remembered. Gypsy had met him at the arch—the carnival entrance gate—a little while ago, as promised, and it had taken them several minutes to even get in. Everyone wanted to say hello to him, which was fine since Gypsy wanted to check in with the guy on patrol. Officer Bill Anderson, who was keeping an eye on the oversized crowd today, was just barely respectful, one of the holdouts who still carried a grudge that she’d gotten the job he’d hoped would be his.

  “Any trouble?” she asked him.

  A brisk nod. “Guy in the parking lot was open carrying a beer.”

  Her brow went up. “Before ten in the morning?”

  “Yeah. He and some buddies were planning a murder-tailgate party.”

  She gritted her teeth. “I assume they changed their plans?”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said, finally offering a tight smile. “I sent them on their way…and called dispatch to have them pulled over for a DUI check before they got to I-95.”

  “Excellent.”

  Aside from murder-looky-loos, the last thing they needed were drunk drivers leaving the carnival grounds. That would just be more fodder for the Ocean Whispers grist mill.

  She nodded at Anderson, who barely returned the gesture before turning away, his spine stiff. Yeah, he was definitely one of the last holdouts to her role as Chief. She’d heard whispers that he was putting out feelers for jobs in other jurisdictions, and, frankly, she wouldn’t mind seeing him go. He wasn’t a bad cop, but his attitude frequently played a dirge on her very last nerve.

  “Are you ready?” she called to Mick, a note of impatience in her voice as he was chatted up by yet another gate attendant.

  “Coming,” he called, walking across the sawdust to fall into step beside her as she entered the gate.

  Of course, they didn’t get ten feet before he was hailed again, this time by a Sno Cone maker. And then a guy selling corn dogs. And one offering freshly pulled taffy.

  All the vendors offered him free goodies—everything from popcorn to fried butter. Uck.

  Every good carnival owner knew you put the food up front and the rides at the back end—the rear side of the carnival grounds. There were just a few food options back there to keep people spending while they rode. Like the funnel cake trailer in which Barry had been killed.

  There was also the Italian Sausage stand where her grandfather was currently helping out. It was way in the back of the park by the Ferris Wheel—which carny folk called the big Wheel. He pretended he needed to stay there because the sandwiches were so popular. In truth she knew it was because he loved them himself. Bet your heart doesn’t. Or your cardiologist.

  “Man, I’d forgotten how much I love carnival food,” Mick said.

  “That’s obvious. But can you please stop eating? We’re ten minutes late for our meeting with Grandpa.” Hopefully once they got past the food stands, they’d be able to move faster.

  Mick grinned and lifted his hand to his mouth, licking a bit of puffy, pink cotton candy off his fingertips. Anyways Andrea—so nicknamed because she always inserted the word anyways into a conversation—had given him a cloud of the stuff on a stick. He had obviously enjoyed every fluffy bit of it, moaning with every other lick.

  Lord have mercy. The moans of pleasure were almost as distracting as the mouth.

  Gypsy had to swallow hard and avert her eyes from the sight of those lips parting, and his tongue flicking out to taste the treat. Jesus, she hadn’t been prepared for him when she’d gone to his office. She just…hadn’t.

  She remembered him as a skinny, pale kid with sticking-out ears and big eyes. A nine-year-old who she’d occasionally called Dumbo.

  He’d grown into everything. The ears, the face, and oh, those eyes. They were light brown, but also tinged with gold. The result was a gleaming amber. Mesmerizing. So damned aware of everything around him. They said he knew things. And he didn’t have to touch them to know.

  For instance, he had to know she’d been dumbstruck at the first sight of him.

  He’d been deva
statingly handsome in his suit at work on Thursday—tall, powerful and hard, every trace of that goofy-looking boy eradicated. Today, in jeans and a shirt that emphasized arms that looked way too powerful to belong to Dumbo-the-annoying-kid, he was mouthwatering. The jeans emphasized strong thighs, and the shirt did the same for broad shoulders. The boy-next-door was long gone. Now, with a faintly scruffy weekend-beard highlighting the angles of his face and the strong jaw, he was Hollywood hot.

  She was just thankful he wasn’t a social media type, as he’d said the other day. She used the Tinder app for the occasional hook-up, when she needed a stress-reliever, and tried to steer clear of any locals. Savannah was just far enough away. If that face of his had come up, she would definitely have swiped right. How embarrassing it would have been to have slept with him, only to find out afterward that she’d once barricaded him in a port-a-potty because he’d laughed at her when she’d worn makeup for the first time.

  She shook her head hard. Anyways. There was work to do. And obsessing over how Dumbo had grown up to be this man wasn’t productive in the least.

  “All right, enough, I’m gonna bust,” he said.

  “Do you always eat like that?”

  “Never,” he admitted. He glanced around, his eyes softening. “It’s this place.”

  She followed his glance, seeing the crowds, the lights, the colors, hearing the game talkers and the show barkers, the ding of bells, the squeal of children, the cries of thrill-seekers, the whoosh of the zipper as it swung up to scrape the clouds.

  It energized her just being here, especially on a bright-and-sunny autumn afternoon. God, she hoped the scandal didn’t shut down this place. She couldn’t bear thinking of her grandfather, and all the others, picking up stakes and going on the road again.

  “I guess it does bring back childhood memories.”

  “The best ones I ever had.”

  She considered, and then admitted, “Yeah. Me too.”