by Jenna Coburn
She sent him a message back. It read ok. She wasn’t sure he’d get the message—that is, the real message in writing two letters without capitalization in response to his letter from the trenches. Alethea had a good half hour to get herself ready, and she made the most of that.
Agent Westley had only waited ten minutes when Miss Thwaite got into his car.
“Good morning,” he greeted with a bright smile and started the car. She couldn’t help but smile back; this was such a change from the mood her family would have at breakfast.
“Good morning, Agent Westley.” She looked him up and down. “How are you today?” It kind of slipped out, and then it was there, and she couldn’t take it back. All she could do was take a deep breath and prepare herself for whatever tangential story she had reminded Westley of.
“I feel good, thank you for asking.” He glanced over to her. “Some of the gaps in the case have been filled, and I am optimistic we can uncover what parts remain. Pierce Jewell’s testimony did not yield much, and I believe he is not lying. The Beef Storm Steakhouse has an excellent reputation, by the way. I heard of it from several people on nonconsecutive occasions, independently, and that piqued my interest.”
“Okay,” Alethea replied. She wondered if he really “heard” or had just interrogated the locals; the second possibility seemed far more likely. “Why would anyone call their steakhouse Beef Storm Steakhouse?” she picked up on the question she had had earlier; it was half-rhetorical, but she couldn’t resist it.
“It sounds promising, doesn’t it?” Holden Westley sounded more than just enthusiastic. Alethea was struck wordless, and she looked at him with big eyes. On one hand, seriously?! On the other hand, he somehow had a point, and his fervor was infectious.
A beef storm.
Perhaps it was just brilliant marketing.
When they reached the restaurant, there was nothing too extraordinary about it—no zany logos displaying a storm of beef, or anything like that. It seemed to go for a rather safe and conventional ranch look. They went in, got a good table, and although it was—kind of—a work breakfast, Alethea wondered when she last had been on a date. Moving around with the circus didn’t really make for a good love life.
The Beef Storm Steakhouse was less full of people than Westley’s praises had indicated. Of course, that only meant–
“More for us.” Holden smiled as he mentally collected menu items. As if they were going to run out of food.
“So I’ve come up with a theory that I want to look into,” Alethea finally told him. It was visible that he was all ears—outside of the part of his attention that he needed to watch for the food being delivered their table. “It’s only come to me because of something Virgil—that is, Mr. Ardelean, our circus director—told me.”
Unconsciously, she started fiddling with a piece of a napkin. “He and Pierce Jewell, they’ve met before, and they didn’t parted on the best terms. I’m thinking that someone had originally intended to kill Jewell and blame it on Virgil, but something went wrong. So what we’re seeing is the remnants of a plan that came apart.”
“That’s an interesting take, Miss Thwaite. Both Mr. Jewell and Mr. Ardelean seem like the kind more likely to make enemies than your brother,” he mused. There was a sudden rise of excitement in the air that prevented the conversation from continuing as scheduled; the food began to arrive at their table.
It took a few minutes before Alethea could talk again. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about—making enemies. I figured my best lead is to find out what Pierce Jewell is actually doing and who he could have made an enemy of.”
Finding an enemy of Virgil’s was too difficult, not simply because the old director was only ever open with his past if there was absolutely no other way—or when he had a weak moment—but also because there were just too many people he could have slighted. She saw that much in his eyes; he wasn’t always the man the circus folk perceived him to be. He was good to his own, but not necessarily to anyone else.
“Pierce Jewell,” Agent Westley repeated between bites. “Knowing what he does won’t help you. He’s working in one of those jobs where you make more enemies than you can count.” He actually had to think about what he was going to say next, but he used the opportunity to stuff his face.
“It’s one of those financial things. Sometimes when people go off on a tangent, I do not listen completely.” He smiled apologetically. There was something in his teeth, but Alethea just let things take their natural course. “I know that seems to be quite the negative trait for an FBI agent, but believe me, so far it has worked out, and this head of mine has a habit of never filtering out the important parts.”
Now that he was actually building up to those “important parts,” he put down his knife and fork. “He’s one of these equity…people. He goes to firms that are beyond saving and dissolves them and all their assets.” He started eating again; it was less shocking than she had considered. He might have been a baby-seal-clubbing landmine producer, after all. “It’s kind of a depressing thing. People don’t enjoy losing their jobs, that’s certain.”
She nodded as profoundly as these insights afforded, and then went on to figuring out what this meant for her. There was a bankrupt firm in this town, and the amount of workers there had to be limited. Their rage was displaced, but they at least had a reason to go against Jewell.
“So what firm is he dissolving here? It’s everyone who was involved with them who has a motive,” she urged. Alas, Agent Westley’s expression told her that she wasn’t on the right track.
“He’s not actually in town for that. Believe it or not, he was visiting his sick mother.”
“Visiting his sick mother?”
“Visiting his sick mother.”
“Visiting his sick mother….”
Alethea trailed off there. She imagined what his mother looked like. Then she imagined how knowing what his mother looked like helped the case, but came up blank. “The truth has to be out there,” she philosophized.
“And yet, it has to get in here,” Agent Westley said and tapped his finger against his forehead. She had half expected him to pat his belly instead. They finished their breakfast without incident, and had lost most things to talk about, mainly because Miss Thwaite’s enthusiasm had been stymied.
It was only much later that she admitted, “This police work thing…it’s so much work.” She looked at Agent Westley with new eyes. “I mean, you know…going through all that, looking for some connection, I just…that’s just…I mean, believing my brother did it just makes it so much easier, doesn’t it?” She bit her lip. “Is that why they’re doing it? Because he’s right there and it’s easy?”
The FBI agent sitting across from her awkwardly patted her upper left arm as a show of support. “There, there. This is just how things are. Nothing is lost yet. You don’t have to act defeated. For just one day of investigation, as someone who is completely new to it all, you made immense headway. You can’t measure your second day by the same standard.”
He was right, but some part of her really didn’t want to listen to him at all. There had to be something better—some better way—that would bring her right back on track where she left off. For some reason, she strongly felt that if she had continued her investigation the night before, she would have been much more successful.
They were having breakfast at a place called Beef Storm Steakhouse, so that was kind of cool, but otherwise, she couldn’t accept that things might take a lot longer. The killer might even be getting away.
“I’m sorry, Agent Westley. I just feel like I need to do something, and then if I do the correct thing, all the dominoes will fall and things will be alright again. I thought I had that, but now I am not so sure again. I need to find some other way.”
She went so deep into thought that she didn’t notice anything going on until she was back at the circus grounds, just dropped off by Westley, who had suggested for her to “take a few hours off and relax.�
�� She wasn’t going to do that. Well, at least not in the way he imagined. Instead, she went straight to Madame Lécuyer’s trailer.
She knocked, but didn’t really wait for an answer before she went inside. “America?” she asked, like some confused pilgrim father. And America rose from her slumber.
“Who is it?” the old woman contracted as she blinked at the world. She immensely enjoyed sleeping in past noon, so this was a very unwelcome interruption of her beauty sleep. If she had had the mental presence, she would have said something about how she earned her rest and that these young people should get off her metaphorical lawn, which was old person slang for “case.”
Alethea pushed through the awkwardness, ignoring her first instinct of leaving through the still-open door, coming back half an hour later, and acting like nothing had happened. “It’s Letha,” she confessed. The next second filled her with a very warm feeling of friendship. Apparently, America actually liked the young woman enough for her expression to soften.
“Letha,” she repeated back. “Where did you leave your manners? You can’t just walk in on me like this.” Slowly freeing herself from the tangle of her bedsheets, America got up and walked over to her unexpected guest. She was wearing a long nightgown with faded colors of light blue and flowery red.
“I’m sorry, I just…I couldn’t wait. I needed some advice and didn’t know where else to turn. It’s about the case again. Last time you were a lot of help, I think, so that’s why I’m back here.” While Alethea actually believed her words, it surely didn’t hurt that she was complimenting America like that; everyone knew that America liked to hear about how awesome she was, and to be reminded of the successes of the past when she bailed someone out.
“Right, right,” the old woman confirmed and threw on her bathrobe before she sat down together with Alethea. America’s expression was one of warmest understanding. She gave off the impression that there was nothing in the world one could not share with her, that one could not endure together with her.
“So you made a lot of progress yesterday?” She bore a knowing smile. “That’s excellent to hear. Oh, wait a minute, dear.” America stood up again and began to make tea for the both of them. “I’m going to tell you something that you won’t believe, Alethea Thwaite.”
“I’m already not believing that, so well done,” Alethea Thwaite replied dryly. It took both of them a moment to enjoy the contradiction.
“You know that tea you drank yesterday,” America started and then paused. She turned to look Alethea straight in the eye, in a very meaningful fashion. “It was enchanted. Magic.”
The young woman laughed. “Wow, you were so right. I won’t believe that.” Only the intensity that America had when looking at her made her doubt herself. It all felt like a prank; why would there suddenly be a serious talk about magic? Did Madame Lécuyer actually believe in all of that—the herbs, the talismans, the remedies and salves that had power beyond the mundane?
Or maybe she meant it metaphorically? “Wait, are you serious? I mean…are you?” Alethea wrinkled her brow. This was a bigger mystery than any she had encountered the previous day. America was unerring in her expression—gentle, but firm, entirely sure of herself, speaking as someone spoke of anything they knew to be true.
She came back to the table, putting down the tea set and putting a pillow behind her back. Once she sat comfortably, she started to explain. “You do not see it because it’s everywhere. In the smallest of things, and the smallest of ways, things happen differently because someone or something wills them to be different. The trick lies in making it unnoticeable, just barely.”
Alethea’s expression oscillated between simply drawing a blank and a twitching eyebrow that wanted to doubt so badly, but couldn’t quite do it. This was America, after all—the kindly old woman, who wouldn’t just play a prank like this. And she was not senile or something like that; if anything, she was one of the sanest people on the circus grounds.
“What people call bad fortune, good luck, fate, coincidence, all that, well, that’s someone’s design—an invisible hand pushing chess figures around on the board. Not always, of course, but the odder the situation, the stranger the things you see, the more likely it becomes that someone had their magic fingers in that soup.”
Alethea bit her lip and glanced at the tea; America picked it up and drank freely. It was hot, but that didn’t seem to bother her much. “Yesterday you drank that tea and things just came your way. In the smallest of ways, everything was pushed, put in the right place, where you could find it. People opened their eyes and their mouths; even the close-hearted and close-minded chose to give you a moment of their time.”
She put the cup down again and grasped the young woman’s hands in her mottled fingers. “You’re old enough now, Letha. This is nothing for the young and the wild. I’ve seen how much you care about the people around you, and how important this circus is to you. Just seeing the expression you had when you came in convinced me. And you don’t simply have to believe me. Take all the time you want.” Madame Lécuyer smiled. “But drink your tea.”
Alethea didn’t know what to say, so she just followed her orders and drank her tea. An unnoticeable, secret kind of magic that makes things kind of go your way? It was strange. And difficult to disprove, if things actually went her way; that was why she was so doubtful. If America Baker had started throwing fireballs and summoning ghosts of ages past, that would have been very difficult to discount, but this?
“So…hm.” Alethea scratched her neck. “If I drink this tea, I’m going to solve the case? Is that what you’re saying? I mean, if you…that’s…good, I guess.” America shook her head.
“That’s not how it works, dear. We still have to do our own. You still have to pick up the right threads. Now tell me where you’re stuck. Maybe I can help you in a more mundane manner, too.” It was quite visible that she was enjoying herself thoroughly; perhaps she had a love for mischief that Alethea hadn’t previously detected in her.
“I’m stuck at finding the killer, that’s it,” she said with a self-deprecating grin. “The last lead I had, finding out why someone would want to kill Pierce Jewell, just led me to the realization that everyone could have had a reason to kill him.” She hung her head. “So we’re looking at…hours and hours of…I don’t even know. Police work, I suppose.”
America considered the situation, but her answer still came very quickly. “I think you’re starting from the wrong place. People don’t murder people for impersonal reasons. You need to find who Pierce wronged personally, not because of business. He’s not a drug dealer, after all, I assume? What could Pierce have done that hurt just one person?”
That made Alethea think, but she didn’t have much to go on. “Well, ehm…Virgil told me that Pierce took his girlfriend or something. So apparently he’s not big on respecting other people’s romantic relationships?” She put her head on her hands. “But I doubt that an angry boyfriend would have gone through such an elaborate scheme…. Perhaps it was a woman. And….”
She wrinkled her brows. “Wait. I mean….” She propped herself up again and looked at America with big eyes. “So this is just a cascade of coincidences, right? Like…odd stuff. So if I consider that, then I’d say the person who wanted to kill him is exactly the woman in that story—Virgil’s old girlfriend that Pierce ran off with.”
When she said that, it sounded perfectly silly, but if she accepted the point that it all was just a weird coincidence, it made total sense. “That’s the right thinking,” America commended. Alethea involuntarily smiled and shook her head, but the old woman was convinced. “Go ahead, believe it. You need to find out who that woman is and what she’s doing.”
“Okay.” Newly appointed supernatural investigator Thwaite didn’t sound entirely convinced, but this lead was as good as any, and even without believing in magic, what was one small leap of faith? In the worst case, simply nothing would come of it. “Then I’m going to go meet Virgil again and
ask him who exactly this lost love of his is.”
“Attagirl! Go get ‘em!” So she went off. Virgil wasn’t asleep, but he also wasn’t in his trailer. After a short search, she found him in the big top doing directory things, such as overseeing that the clowns wouldn’t break anything and the musicians had practiced the new piece he had given them.
“Virgil! I have to talk to you about that lost girlfriend of yours!” She spoke a little too loudly, and the old man flinched.
“I told you that in confidence,” he pressed out. “Come with me.” He took her by the hand and they went to the side, in the half-darkness between the rows of seats, near a closed entrance. “What’s the matter now? I never should have told you about this.”
“I’ve got a theory. I mean, America put me up to it, kind of. What if the killer is that woman? Everything’s connected! That would only make sense, don’t you see?” Alethea surprised herself with the amount of enthusiasm she defended this newborn hypothesis with.
Virgil shook his head. “That can’t be true, Alethea.”
“How can you be so sure?” Her tone was challenging.
A deep sigh. “She died, Letha. She died some years ago.”
“But….”
That just didn’t fit. She was so sure of herself—how could it be? “Then I’m…I guess…then I was wrong.” She was as clueless as she looked and sounded, and Virgiliu could only offer her a good pat on the shoulder, like a consolation prize for trying so hard. Perhaps that thing about magic was all nonsense, after all.
She should have been happy about that, but she really wasn’t. It was pretty sad.
“So I’m back where I was again. I suppose you don’t have any good tips?” She looked at him with a shine of hope in her eyes, but Virgil just shook his head.
“I’ve got nothing for you,” he apologized. They stood there for a bit longer, neither of them saying anything. Yet, just before Alethea wanted to leave again, the circus director asked her something. “Could you do me a favor? I forgot some of my notes in my trailer. They’re in the same notebook, you know the one. Here’s my keys.”
