Black Arts, Tarts & Gypsy Carts

by Erin Johnson

  Suspicion prickled the back of my neck. “Where were you the night Madame Zerna was killed?”

  Her deep eyes blazed. She spat, “It’s none of your business!”

  I stepped toward her. She trembled, glaring down at me from the caravan. “Did you have something to do with her death?”

  She stomped her booted foot. “No! Never.” She huffed out her nose and looked away, shaking her head.

  “What are you doing here now?”

  She turned her pale face to mine, her chest heaving. “I was in town the night she was killed. Satisfied?”

  “All night?”

  “Yes,” she hissed.

  “Where?”

  Her nostrils flared and she shot daggers at me, but I waited for an answer. Finally, she spat, “At a pub… the Rusted Wreck. Ask anybody, I was there all night.”

  I lifted my chin. “Thank you. Good night.”

  She huffed. I walked away from the caravan. After I’d gone a few paces, I turned back. Frennie pushed through the beaded curtain, all the candles and colored lanterns blazing to life. Just before she whirled and slammed the door shut, I caught sight of what she’d been hiding behind her back. Light gleamed off the blade of a black-handled knife.

  12

  The Rusted Wreck

  I stood at a quiet intersection the next morning and yawned. I’d hardly slept the night before, between the adrenaline rush of being caught snooping by Frennie and the whirring of my brain as I tried to figure out what she was hiding.

  Even if it hadn’t been for all that, I couldn’t have slept through Wiley’s snoring anyway. Thirty minutes ago, I’d woken him up by literally dumping a bucket of water on his head after every other method failed. He woke up spluttering and flailing.

  “Yeah, yeah.” I’d yawned, waving off his distress. “Time for your shift.” I wasn’t about to let him sleep through his shift at the booth… especially when I needed to sneak off to investigate Frennie’s alibi. He didn’t need to know that though. “I have official business in town, so you need to open the booth. Now.”

  Wiley had stood, wiping water out of his eyes and trying to blink at me through them.

  “Oh, and… can you tell me where to find the Rusted Wreck?”

  When he’d frowned, I’d frowned right back. “For the official business reasons, of course.”

  I now planted my hands on my hips and turned left, then right. Darkness hung behind the shop windows and nothing stirred in the streets, except for a girl pushing a flower cart. I probably shouldn’t have trusted Wiley to give me accurate directions, especially when he was still half asleep.

  I sighed. I knew Iggy would keep him in line in the booth, but what about me?

  I was lost and about to turn back, when I spotted the pub. I strode forward down a narrow, cobblestoned street, colorful bunting crisscrossed overhead between buildings in celebration of the carnival. But tucked down an alley, the entrance to the Rusted Wreck was completely devoid of decoration or festivity… unless copious amounts of graffiti and chewed gum stuck to the wall counted as decoration.

  Dusty windows, blocked from the inside by signs, curtains, and boards, stood on either side of a black wooden door. Above it, a faded sign proclaimed its name.

  I took a deep breath, then pulled open the door and stepped inside. It took my eyes several long moments and lots of blinking to adjust. When they finally did, only one word came to mind. Wow.

  The Wreck certainly lived up to its name. The only light that broke the dark haziness inside, was from the strings of colored lights that hung haphazardly from the ceiling and dipped around the bar on the right side of the long, narrow room. I stepped forward, my boots sticking to the floor.

  The wraparound bar appeared to be made of uneven driftwood, with stools of all different styles pushed up around it. A bartender polished a mug with his back to me, while a couple of old men played chess in the corner, and a lone guy sat hunched on a stool at the bar. I walked up and stood a few spots over from him, taking it all in.

  Above the bartender’s head, the rotting hull of a ship jutted out from the wall. The buxom mermaid figurehead leaned straight toward me. With her crossed eyes and missing teeth, she fit right in. Hold up, did someone actually carve her like that? A stuffed seagull dangled from the ceiling and—was that an active beehive in the corner?

  “Lassie!”

  I ignored the comment, clearly directed at me, by pretending to be interested in my fingernails.

  “Lassie! I know you.”

  I sighed and turned my head, expecting to be hit on by some creeper. Instead, I was pleasantly surprised. The ferryman who’d helped me escape the rising tide when I first arrived in Bijou Mer sat a few stools over, slumped over a nearly empty mug of golden liquid. That’s right! The name of the pub had sounded familiar—he’d told me I could find him here. I just hadn’t expected to find him now.

  “Charlie?”

  “Lass, remind me of your name.”

  I pressed a hand to my chest. “Imogen.”

  He sat up straighter, still in his navy work uniform and cap. He tapped the bar. “Imogen. That’s right. Good to see ya! Randy, a drink for the young lass.”

  The bartender turned and raised a dark brow at me.

  I waved him off. “Thanks, but I’m all right. Isn’t it a bit early?” I cocked a brow at Charlie.

  He chuckled and raised his glass, then downed it. “The question you should be asking is, isn’t it a bit late?”

  I folded my arms and smiled in spite of myself. “You mean to tell me you’ve been here all night?”

  He chuckled and nodded. “Here every night.”

  I laughed. “You party animal.”

  He patted the stool next to him. “Take a load off.”

  I scooted up onto the stool and rested my arms on the bar, then immediately peeled them off the sticky surface—ew—and folded my hands in my lap. “So… this is the Wreck, huh?” I glanced around, eyeing the glowing, dusty bottles of brightly colored liquid on the shelves above the bartender.

  “Beauty, ain’t she? Keeps the damn tourists out. Only place us locals can drink in peace.”

  “A lot of locals come in? Mostly regulars?”

  Charlie nodded, stroking his thick, white mustache. “Mostly. We get some new faces from time to time though.”

  “I actually came in to ask about that. You weren’t here two nights ago, were you?”

  Charlie snorted. “Randy? Was I in here two nights ago?”

  The bartender nodded without even looking up from his work.

  Charlie smiled. “Seems I was.”

  I grinned. “Okay. Do you remember a young woman in here that night? Her name’s Frennie.”

  Charlie squinted. “Describe her.”

  “Uh—long wispy hair, thin… possibly not the friendliest.”

  “Ah!” The ferryman clapped, then rubbed his calloused hands together. “I know that woman—was here all night.”

  “All night?”

  He nodded. “From tide rise, to tide ebb, dusk till dawn.”

  I nodded for him to continue, though I didn’t hope to gain much. He’d just corroborated her alibi.

  He shook his head. “Lass got pissed drunk—rantin’ and ravin’ ’bout her boss, a madame somethin’ or other. Sayin’ she was abusive and awful to work with. Passed out at the bar—over at that stool, yonder.”

  “Did she threaten her boss at all?” I leaned closer.

  Charlie frowned and pulled his lips to the side. After a few moments, he shook his head. “Not that I recall. Though, at one point I remember her winkin’ and sayin’ she’d pulled one over on the boss. I remember ’cause she was tryin’ ta wink, but one lid just vibrated and she couldn’t seem to open the other. Wasted, that one.”

  Interesting. What could she have meant, pulled one over on Madame Zerna? Could she be referring to the murder?

  “She came in last night, too, same gal.”

  “Did she?” I sat up straigh
ter.

  “This time she was a sobbin’ and wailin’ to any that’d listen. Said her boss was dead!” Charlie shook his head. “After the first night, you’d a thought she’d be relieved. But no. Said she planned on making things right.” Charlie looked up and called to the bartender. “You remember that, Randy? The gal with the knife?”

  The bartender nodded, again without looking up.

  “Knife?” My fingers gripped the edge of the bar.

  Charlie nodded. “Lass whipped out this wicked-lookin’ black-handled knife. Randy cut her off at that point and sent her on her way.”

  My chest chilled. I’d seen Frennie with that same knife last night. If she’d been as wasted as Charlie claimed, things could’ve ended much worse for me and Iggy. I continued to grip the edge of the bar, less out of anxiety and more because the thick sticky coating held my fingers there.

  “Thanks, Charlie. Listen, I’ve got to run, but I’ll come back when I can.” I hopped down from the stool. “And if you come by the carnival, I’m helping run the bake booth. I’ll give you a hand pie to say thanks for your help.”

  “What flavor?”

  “We’ve got cherry and blackberry.”

  Charlie grinned. “I’ll be there.”

  I dashed off, hoping Wiley hadn’t gotten into too much trouble while I was gone. He’d have to survive on his own a little longer, because first, I needed to visit Rhonda. While Frennie certainly had a rock-solid alibi, I couldn’t help but still be suspicious of her. She had motive—Charlie’d heard her complaining about how much she hated her boss. And what had she meant when she said she’d make things right? Why pull a knife? I shook my head as I dashed uphill through the cobblestoned streets. Maybe Rhonda could help me make sense of things.

  13

  The Necklace

  The same jailor with the eyepatch led me up to Rhonda’s cell, then moved down the noisy hall to give us some semblance of privacy. Rhonda glared after him.

  “He’s stingy with the dessert portions.”

  “You get dessert?”

  She sniffed. “Despite the appearance of the building, we’re not in medieval times.” She rolled her eyes. “Though providing only one slice of chocolate cake is close to torture.”

  I quirked a brow. “Maybe I should get arrested.”

  Rhonda gave me a look, then brightened. “What’d you find out? Do you have the diary?”

  I sneezed into the crook of my elbow, then sniffed. “Ugh. Sorry, I think the hay floor’s giving me allergies.” I shook my head and filled her in. “So, no diary, but I’m positive Frennie is hiding something.” I ticked off evidence on my fingers. “We know she hated Madame Zerna. Plus she had that knife—”

  Rhonda shrugged. “That was an athame.”

  “A who?”

  “Athame—necromancers use them in their spells. It’s ceremonial.”

  “Oh.” I brushed my bangs out of my eyes. “It looked sharp enough to be a weapon.”

  “Right, but it wasn’t the murder weapon. That was a saw.”

  “Right.” I nodded. “I remember finding you holding it.”

  “Yes, well.” Rhonda coughed, her cheeks flushing a darker shade. “Frennie has an alibi in any case. Let’s drop that line of thinking for now.”

  “Speaking of alibis.” I leaned against the iron grating that separated us. “What’s yours again?”

  Rhonda’s brows drew together. “Psht. What? We’re not talking about me. I-I was in bed—sleeping, definitely sleeping, in a bed. My bed.”

  I planted my hands on my hips and gave her a skeptical look. “Yeah, ’cause that doesn’t make me suspicious at all.”

  She waved a hand impatiently. “Moving on… I had another vision last night. There were handwritten letters, and I saw a woman clad in a sparkly outfit, with a long ponytail.”

  “The magician’s assistant?” Her description matched that of the woman I’d seen arguing with Madame Zerna and disappearing into the Dark Magician Scullivan’s tent a couple of nights ago.

  Rhonda clicked her tongue. “Sounds right.”

  “Okay… guess I’ll be visiting the magician’s tent later.” My stomach twisted. It’d been kinda fun investigating with Iggy—until we’d got caught. Maybe it was the whole “dark magician” thing, but I didn’t want a confrontation with Scullivan and his assistant. They seemed more intimidating than mousy Frennie.

  Rhonda tapped a finger against her full lips and looked off. “There were zombies too, in my vision, but that might’ve been the chocolate cake before bed. Chocolate always gives me zombie dreams.” She lifted her palms and giggled. “No idea why.”

  “Right, well.” I patted the cool iron bars. “Take care. Try to survive the hardships of only one slice of dessert while I’m gone. I’ll come visit again tomorrow, as long as I can get my shift at the booth covered.”

  She sighed, slumping against the bars. “I’ll try.”

  I squinted at her, unsure if she was joking or not. As I turned to head down the hall, a short figure flanked by two taller ones strode toward me, shadows against the bright light outside the corridor. The prisoners in the other cells grew raucous, screaming and pawing as they passed. As they neared, I made out Inspector Bon and two officers. He nodded when he saw me, not even bothering to drop the triumphant smirk from his face. He stopped on a dime and pivoted on his heel to face Rhonda. Was he only capable of ninety-degree turns?

  “Ah, my favorite new prisoner.”

  Rhonda batted her eyes and pressed a hand to her chest. She pawed at him. “Am I really?”

  Again, was she joking?

  “You are. Because you’re making this case so cut-and-dried.”

  Her face fell and she cocked a brow. “What does that mean?”

  Inspector Bon lifted a hand up to face height. A silver chain necklace with an ugly demon charm dangled from his fist.

  “Uh— Rhonda, your necklace.”

  Inspector Bon spun to smirk at me. “Thank you, Miss Banks, for confirming that it is indeed Rhonda the Seer’s.”

  Rhonda huffed and widened her eyes at me.

  “Sorry,” I mouthed.

  “Do you deny it?” Bon turned his head to peer at Rhonda through one eye.

  She glared at him. “Do you deny you’re bald under that hat?”

  Bon turned beet red. Now that she mentioned it, I’d never seen him without his police cap.

  He shook the necklace at her. “Just answer the question—is this your necklace?”

  Rhonda leaned against her tall wooden bed and crossed her arms. “Sure. That’s my necklace. I lost it and have been looking for it for a few days. Where’d you find it?”

  Bon’s self-satisfied smile deepened. “Inside the magician’s table at the victim’s feet.”

  My jaw dropped as Rhonda’s cheeks blushed a deep red. She chewed on her lip.

  “Care to explain how it got there?” Bon nodded toward his officers. “We’re ready to take down your full confession.”

  “Psht. Even if I had done it, I wouldn’t make it that easy for you.” Rhonda recovered some of her sass. Coolly, she ignored Bon and nonchalantly turned to me. “See you tomorrow, Imogen?”

  As Bon and the officers spun to look my way, turning their backs to Rhonda, she widened her eyes and mouthed, “Help me!”

  14

  Scullivan

  I held my breath inside the big tent, alongside everyone else. It was noticeable, the anticipation, the gruesome fascination. I’d thought the tent was packed the first time, when Maple and I had come to see Madame Zerna’s performance. Tonight there had to be twice as many people.

  With rows of people standing around the perimeter, I only had a seat because Edward the Strong had gotten here early and saved me one. My shoulder brushed against his broad one, but I didn’t mind, though the seats had been shoved together and we sat packed in with everyone else. He somehow made me feel protected—maybe it had something to do with his ability to bend steel and catch falling tent poles
.

  With Maple caught up working late in the bakery, and Sam helping, I’d been afraid I’d have to attend the show alone. But during our practice, after I visited Rhonda, I’d mentioned my plan to Edward and he’d suggested we go together. I’d hesitated, afraid it might be a date.

  Not that that would be awful, I got along with him well, I just…. I still had feelings for Hank, and didn’t look at Edward romantically. I felt relief when he clarified, “It’s always nice to have a friend to go with.” Friends—I was cool with that.

  Several acts appeared on stage—a fire eater, acrobats who swung from giant spiders’ thread, a mermaid singer in a giant fish bowl. After about an hour, my stomach twisted as Scullivan Night pushed the “saw the lady in half” table to the stage, his sequin-clad assistant, Riga, perched on top.

  The image of Madame Zerna, dead, sawed in half flashed into my mind and I squirmed, trying to erase it. It seemed wrong for them to still be using the prop. A murmur went through the crowd.

  “Brazen move,” Edward muttered at my side.

  Scullivan barked out a cruel laugh. “Yes. You’ve heard of this table, I see.”

  The audience answered with uncomfortable chuckles, and then a hush. “A woman died on this very table, just yesterday.” He turned to Riga, who leaned forward, her mouth slightly open, hanging on his every word. “Does that frighten you, my dear?”

  She gave an exaggerated shudder, then winked. Brave girl—I wouldn’t want to climb into that table. Or maybe she was just really weird.

  With a flourish, Scullivan lifted the lid, then opened up the sides of the coffin-like box. He pulled a few volunteers on stage, who passed their arms through the openings and fiddled with the lid. They verified its solidity and authenticity. Scullivan then conjured up a giant guillotine blade, which floated above their heads. He floated it down and plucked a hair from a volunteer’s head, then handed it to him.