by Jenna Coburn
He dropped a heavy keychain of janitorial dimensions into her hand. Just the fact that he walked around with that and didn’t jingle like a bag of tools falling down a mountain added to Ardelean’s mysterious aura. Alethea gave these keys to the kingdom an intrigued look.
“It’s that one,” Virgil pointed out. “Thanks.” He went back into the center of the place, and she slipped out from under the canvas and went to his trailer. She let her shoulders hang. Apparently it had to be a lot of police work, after all. It would be so exhausting. Maybe she’d get some more free breakfasts with Holden Westley out of it, though.
After trying about a dozen keys, the door finally opened. It wasn’t that she had forgotten which key it was, or at least that’s what she told herself, it was just that there were infinite keys looking exactly the same. If anything was enchanted, it was that chain of keys.
Inside the twilight of the deserted trailer, she spotted the notebook instantly, lying square on the table, still opened and with a pen on it. She resisted her curiosity and simply picked it up and put it under her arm. Looking around the place, Alethea wondered if she had ever been in there alone before.
That’s when she found something. There was an old photograph of three individuals: Virgil, Pierce, and a woman. She was actually quite pretty—no wonder they’d been fighting over her; she looked very young and full of life. It seemed strange that she had died so young. Perhaps Alethea should have asked what killed her. Each of the people in the photo had put their name down—Virgil’s wild, swung lines, as if he was writing with a quill, Pierce’s indecipherable scrawl, and finally, in neat letters, the name Pearl.
Alethea’s eyes narrowed. Pearl. She had heard that before. It was the name of the barmaid at Spoony’s Bar. “There are no coincidences, huh?” she asked the photograph. None of the three people in it answered. “I’ll make you talk,” she directed at Pearl. That was kind of morbid, she realized. She put the photo down and pulled out her phone.
“Agent Westley, I’ve got a favor to ask of you. Can you drive me into town? I’m ready to bust this thing wide open!”
She wasn’t really sure if she was ready to bust this thing wide open, but it sounded like a really cool thing to say while running and being on the phone with an FBI agent. Virgil looked at her with confused eyes as she just waved at him again and left the big top. She couldn’t wait for the car—too much excitement.
About fifteen minutes later, Holden Westley picked her up at a street corner.
“Nice to see you again in good health,” he said. “You’re going to ‘bust this thing wide open?’ That sounds very promising.”
“It’s not a beef storm, but it’s up there,” she agreed with him. “If I’m right, that is. We need to go to Spoony’s Bar. I have another favor to ask of you, though.” He glanced at her, and she took that as a sign to go ahead. “I want to go in alone at first. You need to keep a low profile, I don’t want to…scare anyone off. People react differently if there’s a special agent around.”
Holden nodded and put on a bright smile. “I understand, Miss Thwaite. But I have to disagree with you.” He turned his head for a moment. “I feel like you don’t act differently. It’s quite refreshing, actually.” For some reason, that made her blush. She bit her lip.
“Thanks.” Her voice was small, and it was all she could say for now, which seemed only to improve Agent Westley’s mood even more. The drive to Spoony’s Bar went by rather fast, mostly because the driver had picked up on his passenger’s immense urgency. She jumped out, thanked him, and went inside.
Chapter VIII
Not much had changed from the impression that Alethea had gotten of Spoony’s Bar the day before; it was a bit earlier in the day, so there were even fewer people there, but she wasn’t too interested in the crowd. The person she was looking for stood behind the bar, idly cleaning some glasses, evoking the impression that there was some hidden source of an infinite number of dirty glasses.
“Hi Pearl,” Alethea said as she approached the bar and put her hands down on the wood.
“Last time you ordered a coke and never paid for it,” Pearl told her and eyed her suspiciously.
And Alethea thought she was going to be the one putting someone on the spot. She coughed awkwardly. “Well, uh, I’m sorry.” She took out her wallet and slipped a ten over. Pearl pocketed the money. Apparently she’d just gotten a huge tip.
“So Pearl,” Alethea began again. “I wanted to talk to you about the murder of Larry Patrick.”
“Oh yeah? Poor Larry. But I told you before that I already told your friend Agent Westley everything I know,” Pearl spoke with great emphasis. “So I wouldn’t know what else to tell you.”
“I know, Pearl,” Alethea said. Pearl raised an eyebrow.
“You know what?”
“I know everything,” Alethea assured.
Pearl sighed. “That’s good, so I guess you don’t even need to talk to me then.” She demonstratively turned and put the glass away.
“Pearl was your mother’s name, wasn’t it?” It was a grand bet—a huge leap. But there wasn’t any other explanation. She had the right age, and there was something about her look that just struck her. Of course she couldn’t be Pearl, herself, who’d have been much older, so that was the only option left.
Pearl’s eyes narrowed. She may have been a good liar, but that still took her by surprise. “What of it?” she replied breathlessly.
Alethea smiled broadly. She was right! It took her some willpower to resist jumping up and down and dancing the dance of investigative success. “Oh, nothing. Except that you killed Larry Patrick and tried to frame my brother for the murder, which is not cool at all, Pearl. So, you know! Follow me peacefully, and I won’t have to…do karate. Circus folk know karate, Pearl.”
“Pff.” Pearl said dismissively. “You’ve got nothing! You’re just crazy, that’s what you are.” She glared at Alethea.
“Your plan failed, Pearl. You can admit it. I mean, okay, you’re pissed off and think that Pierce or Virgil or both are responsible that your mother died or something, but really, it didn’t work. You killed some poor schmuck by accident and blamed it on another poor schmuck, and those two get off unscathed. Is that what you wanted?”
Pearl threw the glass against the ground. “Shut up!”
Alethea didn’t. She had crossed over an invisible boundary, and although it hurt her in her heart, the only thing she could think of was to piss off Pearl enough that everything that was bottled up inside her kind of just exploded out, and then she’d have something definite to go on.
“I mean, this is me just guessing, but isn’t Pierce your father? How could you kill your own dad? That’s just sick. It’s sad enough that your mother died, but you’ve got to be screwy in the head to also want to complete things by murdering your own father! And not just that, you also wanted to hold another man responsible who wasn’t involved since your mother decided to leave him!”
“It wasn’t like that, okay?! It wasn’t!” There were tears in Pearl’s eyes. Alethea felt bad, but she couldn’t let it show. “It’s both their faults! They ruined her life, and they didn’t give two shits about her, or about me! And he’s not my father!” She sobbed. “He’s not my father, okay….”
Pearl sunk down, her head on the wood of the bar, and just kept talking, her shoulders shivering. Alethea wasn’t sure what to do; things had gone a little too far. That’s when she spotted a bottle of whiskey directly behind the bar; she whisked it—presumably that’s where the word comes from—and a glass, and, in a strange reversal of roles, poured Pearl a drink.
Pearl drank, and coughed. “My mom was an acrobat, you know. A dancer. I’ve never seen her, but I’ve seen photos. She was so beautiful.” She cast a look of longing at the bottle. Alethea filled another glass, double this time. “Only she was caught between two men. One of them convinced her to do some new trick…something spectacular, I suppose. It would have gained them all kinds of fame…only s
he failed. She got injured.”
Pearl emptied the second glass. “And when she got injured, she lost them…first one, then the other. Virgiliu couldn’t look her in the eyes anymore, and Pierce just stayed with her because he felt obligated. He left her as soon as he could get out the door—stayed just long enough to be able to convince himself that he wasn’t a bad guy, or something.”
Alethea poured her a third glass, and Pearl didn’t wait. She had remarkable resilience for a girl her size. “It just…it just kind of destroyed her. She never recovered from that, and I…I was there, I saw her, and when she died…they didn’t care. Neither of them came. Neither of them cared. Neither of them thought that I was…I was even a person.”
She let her head sink against the wooden bar again. “When they both came here, that was it. I went to the circus and I got so angry. They came here for business. Business. So I wanted to show both of them. Assholes. They’re…they’re bad people…and they’re still going around hurting others. I wanted to stop it.” Her tears had started flowing again.
“But everything went to hell. It didn’t work out at all. I was nervous and scared, and then I must have switched up the rooms or something. I knew that Pierce was some sort of ladies’ man. That’s how I lured him here; I tricked him. But your brother and Larry, that was just…random chance. I just…I just…I tried…I don’t know.”
Alethea had heard enough. She went around the bar, slipping under the falling board, and hugged Pearl, who just let it happen. She didn’t have a fight in her anymore; all the strength she had used to keep a straight face and to act like nothing was going on had disappeared from her, and she was just a young, confused woman—a lonely, desperate soul.
The resentment Alethea had built up against the murder had disappeared in the same moment that Pearl’s mask had fallen. She didn’t even really notice when Agent Westley had come in; all she saw was that he suddenly stood on the other side of the bar. It was very calming to look at the sincere expression on his face.
“Jane Pearl Wynne, I am hereby arresting you for the murder of Larry Patrick, and for providing false testimony and false evidence in order to obstruct justice.” The girls didn’t really listen to him, but after about half a minute, Pearl trotted to the other side of the bar and held out her hands.
“Sorry for this formality,” Agent Westley excused himself and put handcuffs on her. He looked to Alethea. “Good job, Miss Thwaite.” She smiled back at him, and Pearl was taken away to the special agent’s car.
Alethea sighed deeply, watching them go. She poured herself a taste of that whiskey. It tasted excellent, and she put another ten down behind the bar, just for good measure. She wondered if there was anyone else working at Spoony’s, because their barmaid had just been kind of arrested, and if the place was empty now, someone would have to close up.
Pearl had said some things that came rather unexpected, but there was no way to tell what exactly went on in that brain of hers. Alethea only felt pity now—pity that these lives had been cut short, had been derailed like this. And while she was still lost in these melancholy thoughts, Holden came back in again.
“Excuse me, Miss Thwaite? Are you coming with us?”
She glanced up at him.
“Agent Westley, do you believe in magic?”
“Excuse me?”
“Magic,” she repeated.
“I’d like to go to Las Vegas sometime,” he diplomatically said.
Alethea nodded. “That would be cool, Agent Westley.”
Chapter IX
They had wanted fireworks, but North Carolina was pretty clear on that. And they had an FBI agent attending, after all. It took a few beers to loosen up, but afterwards, everything was dandy.
Of course, Holden Westley didn’t drink.
“To my sister, Detective Thwaite, and to her sidekick, Special Agent Holden Westley!” Braden yelled and raised his glass.
Most of the circus was in attendance, and there was a sparkling fire, the smell of half-burned meat in the air, someone played guitar and someone else had more bongo drums than any single person should possess.
“Please, I’m not here in my official function, so call me Holden Westley,” Special Agent Holden Westley said while raising his hands in a calming gesture. He still wore his suit. Alethea wasn’t sure how he could look more out of place. That is, Rob also wore a suit, and he was already starting to adopt some new mannerisms.
Still, Alethea felt that it was just a look. Everyone that had met Holden Westley had made some faces, including her, and they thought of him as a weird guy. Here, in the circus, he wasn’t weird at all. That suit was just a costume, the same thing they all bore. Whatever weird preferences or idiosyncrasies he had, they could all laugh about them together.
It was family, after all. It was a refuge from the outside world. Braden had been released just yesterday, but Virgil had very quickly put on a party and organized everything, together with Alethea. Now, he sat in a comfortable chair and watched over everyone else, and even that only because she had convinced him to come.
At the moment, he was engaged in a vigorous discussion with America, the only person that could match him in life experience and fiery spirit. Whenever Alethea looked over to them, one of them noticed, and they waved at her. It was cheesy.
“It’s quite the party, and just because I’m not a murderer,” Braden remarked as he came up next to his sister. “You know, maybe next month I’ll not assassinate the president.” She punched him in the shoulder.
“Then maybe next month I’ll not save your ass when you not assassinate the president.”
“You can’t resist saving family ass, sis. Look into your heart, you know it to be true.”
“This isn’t the sister you’re looking for,” she replied and waved him off. He laughed and moved on.
Yet, as he went and she looked at his back, she couldn’t help but thinking that his words were some of the truest ever spoken. She really couldn’t resist that family ass. “Wait, that thought came out wrong,” she said loudly.
“Excuse me?” Holden asked. Lacking any acquaintances except her, he had naturally gravitated back to Alethea.
“Nothing,” she asserted. “So, Agent Westley, how do you like the party?”
Agent Westley took at least half a minute to look around, as if he hadn’t already been there for some time. “It has a very good atmosphere,” he honestly admitted. “I feel that the people in this circus really like what they’re doing, and like each other. It must be great to be working here.”
A soft smile was on Alethea’s face as she watched him and considered the words. “It actually is, I think.” Only, as her eyes swept over the collected crowd, she came to a realization. “But I think that I liked being a private investigator even more.” She sent a sidelong glance towards Virgil; she was still supposed to be his apprentice.
America and Virgil promptly waved at them, and Holden waved back. Alethea rolled her eyes. She couldn’t believe this, so she emptied her beer. Perhaps that made it better. “Tell me about the case.” She didn’t try to hide her curiosity.
“Well, we have attained a formal confession from Jane Wynne. In all likelihood, she will plead guilty and that will settle it. As for me, I will move on from Sparta the day after tomorrow.” There was something indescribable in his tone; she couldn’t put her finger on it.
“So you’re going to investigate a different case?”
He nodded. “That is the life I chose.”
There was one of those long silences between them again. Alethea considered getting a new beer, but before that, she thought of something she hadn’t thought of before.
“You know, I never considered it, because I had other things on my mind and everything went rather fast,” she began. Westley looked at her with a slightly raised brow. “And I don’t want you to misunderstand me. It’s just an open question….”
“Go ahead, Miss Thwaite. You do not have to fear being candid with me,” he enco
uraged her.
“Why did you come to this city? This murder was just a small case…it wasn’t a serial killer or some other weird thing that the FBI would concern itself with. The more I think about it, the more unsure I am why a federal agent would involve himself in such a, well, such an ordinary murder case.” She paused for a second. “I’m thankful you were here, of course. You were such a help to me, but…well, I just wondered.”
Holden nodded slowly. “I understand fully, Miss Thwaite. In your position, I would have asked the same question.” He smiled brightly at her. “You are an investigator, after all. We desire everything to have an explanation, to be packed into neat little packages.”
He said that much, and then he grew silent again, while Alethea looked at him with growing curiosity. He had not said anything at all as of yet. Looking into the distance, he was searching for a way to put it.
“My reasons are personal as well as professional, Miss Thwaite. I do not want to impart any falsehoods upon you, so it has to stay at that. The FBI is a diverse organization, and there are many units. I work on my own, and I work in a way that may be peculiar to many, but there is a reason, I can assure you as much.”
The mood had suddenly gotten quite serious, but he smiled it away again, and she mirrored that smile. “I understand,” Alethea firmly replied. “But thank you for telling me as much.”
“You’re welcome, Miss Thwaite. I have to honestly admit that I enjoyed working with you. While I shouldn’t say that I hope our paths cross again, simply because of the nature of my work, I would enjoy meeting again sometime.”
“And I enjoyed working with you, Agent Westley. Maybe you can come see our show sometime when you’re not working, and we could catch up over a coffee,” she suggested nonchalantly.
He nodded. “I’d like that.” He took a deep breath. “But I think it’s time for me to get going now.” He looked around, but didn’t seem to find what he was looking for. “Please, greet your brother for me and wish him the best of luck. The same counts for the rest of your family.”
