Cold Memory

by Leslie A. Kelly

  “Mick here spent the next ten hours touching every surface he could to try to catch the thoughts of anyone who might have seen that dumb bird,” Shane said, not without pride. “Even though it had hurt him, tormented him, until he finally caught the trail and tracked Sweetie to the big tent.”

  “How’d you get him down again?” asked Shep.

  Mick shook his head. The man knew damn well. But he told the story anyway, knowing everyone needed the lightness of the moment.

  “I smeared peanut butter all over my face, threw a bunch of sunflower seeds on it, and then climbed up the rope ladder to get close enough for her to smell me.”

  “Damn bird coulda poked your eyes out,” said Shane.

  “And getting that peanut butter out of your hair was a nightmare,” said Gil, reaching out to tousle Mick’s hair like he was an eight-year-old again.

  Mick let the memory console him for a minute, and distract him from the fact that Jersey—who had fallen to his knees and hugged him for a full minute after he’d brought the peanut-butter-smeared bird back—was now lying dead in his bedroom. With another little bird stuffed in his throat.

  God, this world was ugly. He didn’t have to touch a damn thing, read one single thought, to know that.

  “Poor old Jersey,” Shep mumbled, digging the toe of his heavy boot into the dusty ground. His sadness quickly segued into self-interest. “So, Shane, are they gonna shut us down, do you think?”

  Shane merely cast the man a hard look. Then he and Gil turned away and walked back over to join the rest of the crowd, still watching the local cops, who had now been joined by staties and crime scene investigators.

  Shep, not getting the hint, turned to Mick. “What do you think? We gonna be walkin’ the unemployment line soon?”

  He wanted to say no, but he couldn’t. With the pressure Gypsy had been under by the town to shutter the place, at least until Barry’s murder had been solved, he didn’t see how they could remain open now with two murders. Once they closed their doors, once the brightly colored rides went dark, and the cheerful calliope went silent, he had to wonder if the carnival would ever open again.

  “I don’t know, Shep,” he said, not wanting to pour gasoline on the fire of gossip that was already blazing through the crowd. “Let’s just hope the killer is caught very soon.

  “Well if the juice-men don’t catch ‘im, he better hope we don’t. Otherwise, that bad boy’ll be swung up before he can say ‘I surrender.’”

  Shep had always been a swaggerer, so Mick didn’t take him seriously. But he didn’t doubt that sentiment was being whispered in some carnival circles. That would just up the tension and violence quotient, something nobody needed.

  Mick left the pair, walking over the grounds and talking to old friends, hoping to get more information. Nobody had seen a thing. Mornings were busy—even weekday ones—with rides to open, food to prepare, games to staff. Only the girl, Penny, had even noticed Jersey wasn’t around.

  Making a mental note to talk to her, Mick talked his uncles into going with him for some lunch. A few others tagged along, and then a few more. A big group went to the local diner. By the time they came back, the police had released all of the other homes, and people disappeared inside of them.

  He immediately looked for Gypsy. It had been hours since they’d parted ways at the police station, and he’d seen some vehicles start to pull away, indicating some of the work was done. Finally, at almost four, she texted him, asking him to meet her by the Pirate Swing. He headed there immediately. Even from several feet away, he could see the tension in her jaw, and the weariness on her face even though she’d been just fine at breakfast. She wore strain like a full-length coat.

  “You okay?” he asked as they stood near the ride’s fence, where they had a straight line of sight toward Jersey’s place. They watched the medical examiner’s vehicle drive away, hauling Jersey’s—and Sweetie’s?—remains to the morgue.

  “No. I’m definitely not okay,” she admitted, rubbing at her forehead as if digging against a headache. Beneath her chief’s hat, her hair was clenched behind her head in a tight bun. He wanted to pull it down, give her a cold cloth, and rub her temples. He obviously couldn’t do any of that. She was on the job, with a new case not doubling the pressure, but multiplying it exponentially. There were ramifications beyond the deaths of two men.

  But damn, if anybody had ever looked like she needed a hug, it was Gypsy. His arms ached to pull her close, but he knew that was impossible. Not here. Not now.

  Someday. Yeah. Someday.

  “This is bad, Mick.”

  “I know. One murder could have some rational explanation,” he said, understanding her fear. “But two?”

  “Exactly.”

  They didn’t continue, both understanding the implications. There had been two murders on these grounds in the past two weeks. Both surprising, given the victims. Both brutal. Obviously connected.

  They could no longer even try to pretend this was a one-off murder, with Barry merely being an unlucky victim. The FBI might not call it a serial killer case because the numbers weren’t high enough. Yet. But Mick already knew they were dealing with a psychopath. Who knew where he might stop?

  “I don’t imagine I can get inside yet.” He didn’t hold out a lot of hope that the monster had been more careless than at the funnel cake trailer, but there was always a chance.

  “No, I’m sorry.” Her pretty lips twisted. “State crime scene investigators are in there now. After that, well, it looks like I will no longer have control of the case. The town brought in a team of homicide detectives on loan from Jacksonville P.D. They’ve already invited me out.”

  “I take it you don’t mean to dinner.”

  She managed a tiny laugh that was half-sigh. “No, they’ve told me they don’t require my assistance in the investigation. They have a theory. You ready for this?”

  “Killer clown?”

  Her next laugh was a little louder. “Close, actually. They’re thinking professional jealousy.”

  “Somebody wanted to be the chief funnel cake maker or the champion of the Ducky Draw?”

  She wiped a hand over her brow, weariness oozing from her pores, though the day was only half over. “I don’t know what they’re thinking.”

  “They know nothing about this place, or these people.”

  “Exactly. It’s not like the family is open to outsiders. The toby news line is already on fire about outside juice men taking over.”

  Funny, the longer both of them were around this world, the more they both fell back into the carnival lingo they grew up using. Toby news was the carnival grapevine. Once those grapes started popping, the vine just went on and on. And juice men were cops…who, in the old days, would squeeze those grapes dry in exchange for looking the other way when it came to petty crime on the midway.

  “They’ll close ranks and stop cooperating,” he said, remembering what Shep had said about carnival-vigilante justice.

  “Sure they will. I know both of the JPD detectives they brought on. They’re unimaginative, by-the-book, and not the types who play well with others, and they’re going to burn connections before they can make them.”

  “Shit.”

  “They’ll never let you near that crime scene, even after it’s processed. Frankly, they probably won’t let me in again, either. There was also a piece of paper left under Jersey’s…under the body. They put it in an evidence bag and wouldn’t let me even have a look at it.” She crossed her arms tightly over her chest. “I’m going to have to hack into my own crime files to even find out what it was.”

  “Assholes. And the Winter Carnival?”

  Her whole body stiffened. “Closed until further notice.”

  He bit back a curse, not surprised, but certainly concerned for the D’Onofrio family. Her grandfather would be crushed. His uncle and Gil would take a financial hit. They owned two of the big rides, having invested in them for their retirement. They leased them
to Frank Bell. The longer the carnival stayed shuttered, the more money they would lose, along with everyone else.

  Besides, once closed, it was possible the carnival gates would never reopen. That’s certainly what would happen if Monty and his investors had their way. A new election was coming up next year. The wealthy land developers would probably be able to get a few town council members in their pockets, and goodbye Winter Carnival.

  Even if they weren’t shut down for good, if this closure went on too long, these people would be hit in their already thin wallets. Though they had rights to the land, if they couldn’t make a living off it, they would eventually pick up and leave. Most of them were too old, too tired, or too sick to go back on the road. They didn’t, unfortunately, have many other options, most of them having lost touch with outside family members, who couldn’t understand the lifestyle they’d chosen. They could end up in nursing homes, or even homeless, and he knew they were all too proud to take much of the financial help he would certainly offer.

  “We’ve got to solve this,” Gypsy said, turning to walk toward her squad car, parked behind Jersey’s trailer home.

  Mick matched her stride across the field. “Maybe we could keep working this together. Off the books.”

  She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “I was counting on it.” She swallowed hard, her throat working, and he knew whatever words were coming next wouldn’t come easily from her mouth. “Maybe, well, maybe some of your coworkers might be able to lend a hand, too. Strictly off the record.”

  “Strictly off the record,” he agreed. He didn’t tell her he’d already called Julia this morning and put her on notice that the team might be needed.

  They’d all have helped no matter what. But when Julia had heard this case involved his carnival family, she’d offered to come down immediately. She knew a little about his past; all of them did. They wanted to help. He’d put her off for a while, but had no doubt she would be here later this week, with one or two members of the team—if only a ghostly one—along too.

  “You know where we have to start.”

  “Of course,” he said, his anger over Jersey’s murder sliding into tense wariness over the coming confrontation. “We have to keep that meeting with my grandfather, if only so we can rule the old reprobate out.”

  He’d been avoiding a face to face meeting for years. He dreaded it not because he was at all intimidated by his grandfather, but because he hated to be in the same room with somebody who caused him the kind of anger Mick felt in his presence. Mick wasn’t the type to lose control; he wasn’t violent unless he had to be, and could usually keep his temper in check, no matter the provocation.

  But oh, did Monty Tanner provoke him. He seemed to live for that pleasure.

  Not this time. There was too much at stake here. With two murders to solve, and many livelihoods to save, he couldn’t indulge in his own righteous anger. He would not let the man who’d abused and mistreated him so badly in his childhood get to him now.

  The past couldn’t be changed. He couldn’t go back and right the wrongs.

  He could, however, control his present and his future. No matter what happened, no matter what provocation he received, he was not going react.

  No way. No how. He just wouldn’t give the miserable old monster the satisfaction of seeing Mick lose his cool.

  “I’ll reschedule the meeting for tomorrow.”

  He nodded. “I guess I should go home and get some more clothes. It looks like I’m going to be sticking around for a while.”

  “Raincheck on that dinner I owe you?”

  “By the time this is through, Gypsy, I suspect you’re going to owe me Chateaubriand instead of meatloaf and mac and cheese.”

  The weakest glimmer of good humor appeared in her gaze.

  “If you help me figure this out, catch the killer and save this carnival, I’ll make it for you myself.”

  Chapter 6

  It was probably just as well the carnival was closed for the rest of the day, because there was no way Penny could have dodged quickly-thrown knives. Or slow-rolling bowling balls, for that matter.

  She was a wreck, her nerves completely shot. Having found Jersey—one of the first people to welcome her and Val to the carnival—dead in his bed would have been hard enough under any circumstances. But finding him like he’d been….

  “No, no, no,” she whispered, trying to force the horrible pictures out of her brain.

  “You’ll be okay,” Val said, bringing her a cup of tea. They were in the office trailer, which was equipped with two unused bedrooms. Frank had given them the use of it on nights when they had late shows, before early performances the next day. Penny had retreated to it today, needing to be alone after she’d talked to the first responding officer about what had happened.

  Correction: After she’d lied to the first responding officer.

  “How can I tell them?” she whispered. How will they understand?”

  Val sat on a chair in the corner. “You can’t.”

  “But they’ll know, won’t they? I was so stupid to lie.”

  “You did what you had to do, Penn. You had to lie, unless you want to end up in a hospital for people who think they’re Napoleon or something.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  Val tossed a handful of peanuts into his mouth and shrugged. “Look, sis, you and I both know what you can do. Unfortunately, the rest of the world just wouldn’t understand.”

  “But I saw them dusting for fingerprints. What will they say when they don’t see mine?”

  “They’re not looking for yours, they’re looking for a killer’s.”

  “Val, don’t you get it?” she snapped, growing frustrated by his blasé attitude. Despite his intelligence and talent, and his popularity with women, he was still such a kid in some ways. She, on the other hand, had felt like an adult for years, ever since their dad had died and their mom had gotten sick. She’d had to finish raising Val, and sometimes felt she still was. “I’ve been asked me to come down to the station to talk to the detectives tomorrow morning. They’re going to take my prints to rule out any of mine in Jersey’s trailer. But they won’t be able to match them to anything—not the doorknob, nothing. They’re going to want to know why.”

  Although very complicated, the answer was simple: Because she hadn’t been inside Jersey’s trailer today.

  Oh, she’d found his body, all right. Not in real life, though; only in a vision of the future.

  She and Val were the only ones who knew that. He wanted to keep it that way. She wasn’t sure that was possible.

  “You’ve been in that trailer before. They’ll find prints from then.”

  “Not for weeks,” she snapped. “I think I only touched a glass that time. It would have been washed ages ago. I didn’t use the bathroom or turn on a light or twist a doorknob or anything.”

  No, the cops weren’t going to find any evidence of her last visit to Jersey’s place. Especially not any that looked like it was from just a few hours ago.

  “Calm down. We’ll figure something out.”

  “Like how long I’m going to spend in jail for lying to the cops? Maybe—maybe—the local cops would be nice about it, but do you think those detectives from Jacksonville will? They’ll accuse me of perjury or something.”

  “Perjury’s when you lie under oath in a trial or deposition.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Law & Order, what is the usual charge for lying to the police?”

  “Lying to the police.”

  She groaned and reached out to smack him. He ducked, offering her a tiny grin meant to lighten the mood.

  It didn’t work.

  Val finally got serious. He bent over, dropping his elbows onto his knees, and stared at her. “What can I do, Penn? Tell me what you want me to do. I’ve got your back no matter what.”

  “I appreciate that. But I just don’t know.” No matter how she looked at it, she couldn’t find an easy way out of
the corner into which she’d painted herself.

  “Which cop was it?”

  “I don’t know them by name. But it was an older, nice one. Definitely not the younger jerk.”

  “That’s good. I’ve heard the jerk—Potter’s his name—is a real hardass.”

  Just what she needed.

  “How far off track did you get when you talked to the cop? What exactly did you say, and not say?”

  “I told him the truth—that I got worried when I saw Jersey’s booth was still dark well after opening time this morning.”

  “Right. I saw you asking about him myself. Lots of people can attest to that.”

  “I said I was worried, so I went looking for him at his place.”

  “Did he ask about your friendship? Why you were so worried?”

  “No. I just told him I was the only one who was free because I didn’t have a show until noon.” She sighed heavily. “I didn’t want to talk about Jersey—about how much he means to me.” She sniffed, and tears rose to her eyes. “I already miss him so much.”

  He took her hand and squeezed. “I know. I do, too.”

  The old man had been one of the first to welcome her and Val to the carnival, and she’d quickly grown to care about him. He used to come to their show and cheer from the stands. He’d once given her a drawing he’d done of Sweetie. Recognizing his loneliness, she had set out to befriend him. She’d quickly realized, however, that he was giving her something she needed, too. He had become a genuinely caring grandfather-figure to Penny, something she’d never really had.

  He’d told the best stories of the good-old days of the carnival world, or bad-old ones, depending on his mood. Everything from affairs, to accidents, to scandals, to murders. He’d talked about how he’d met Frank Bell, and how the carnival had saved his life. He’d painted pictures of a part of lost history, about life on the road. He’d talked about his jobs—everything from cleaning up after the ponies, to being the ballyman at the tent entrance for the old Vaudeville-like stripper shows. He’d pointed her to Internet sites dedicated to old carnival legends. He’d tearfully told her about the tragedy of the flying Fletcher family—she suspected he’d been enamored of one of the beautiful trapeze artists, who he said flew as beautifully as a shimmering bird. He’d taught her the whole carny dictionary, until she could talk the language with the best of them.