Foul Play at the Fair

by Shelley Freydont

  “I’m not. It’s just that I came here on business.”

  “I didn’t think I’d gotten lucky.” He sliced a bagel and spread a glob of cream cheese over one half. “They’re still hot. Not New York, but pretty damn good.” He passed the bagel half under her nose and her stomach growled.

  “Oh, all right. Thank you.” She took the bagel half.

  He spread another half for himself and perched one hip on the kitchen table. “Okay, shoot.”

  She wiped a smear of cream cheese off the corner of her mouth.

  He smiled. She frowned. “I was hoping to see some back issues of the paper.”

  “Checking up on whether I ran your ads or not?”

  “No. Much further back.”

  His eyes narrowed. “How much further?”

  She shrugged. She didn’t think she could fool him for a minute. After all, he was—had been—a world-class investigative reporter. “Say the eighties?”

  His mouth tightened.

  She jumped in before he could say no. “I was hoping you had computer files, microfilm, microfiche?”

  “I got boxes.”

  “Boxes?”

  “In the basement. Years and years of them.”

  Good grief. Boxes of newspapers. A dirty and tiring afternoon awaited. “Do you mind if I take a look?”

  He shrugged, walked past her to the hallway, and opened a door. “After you.”

  She stepped into the doorway. Below her was a pitch-black hole.

  Chaz leaned over her to flick on a wall switch. Yellow light dimly lit a forest of cardboard boxes stacked almost to the ceiling.

  “Go for it. Just don’t leave a mess.”

  Jackass, Liv thought as she carefully made her way down the stairs. There was barely room to stand up at the bottom and only a few narrow alleys between the cardboard towers. There were probably bugs and no telling what else down here.

  Dates were handwritten on the side of each box. The latest ones were the closest to her, naturally, which meant she could spend hours just getting to the eighties.

  Which she did. Two hours later, she found 1990, and twenty minutes after that, the eighties. At the very top of the stack was 1989. She read down until she got to the bottom box—1985. She was going to have to move all these out of the way to get to 1982, the year Pete Waterbury had left home.

  She sneezed for at least the fortieth time that afternoon. She was covered in dust just like the boxes; her hands were filthy, her throat was parched, but she’d be damned if she’d ask Chaz for a glass of water. He could have offered to help. Though she really hadn’t expected him to.

  She wondered how he could stand looking through archives. Because someone had been looking. A number of the boxes showed less dust than the others.

  She stretched her aching back and pulled the box from off the top of the stack. Dust and dirt particles fell on her head; she dropped the box to the floor, and another cloud of dust assaulted her nose.

  She pulled the second box down and a third. There was an open space behind it, just large enough for someone to stand in to search through the files. She pulled the third box away and climbed over the rest. There were the remaining eighties and—hallelujah—this stack was shorter than the others and less dusty.

  She wanted to crow with success. 1984, ’83, ’79. What? She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and looked again. The first three years of the eighties were not there. She turned around in her little column of space, checked the stack behind her: ’78, ’77…She pulled those boxes away and found a stone wall. The three boxes she needed were missing.

  Missing. And she bet dollars to doughnuts where they’d gone.

  She climbed back over the boxes and stomped up the stairs. And found Chaz Bristow right where she knew she’d find him. Asleep on the couch.

  Her fingers itched to grab him by his faded, torn shirt and throw him on the floor. But being a rational person, she jabbed him in the ribs.

  “Wha-a?” He bolted upright and blinked at her. “Oh, it’s you. Find what you’re looking for?”

  “No. I did not,” she said, her teeth clenched so tightly she could hardly form the words. “Where are they?”

  “Where are what?” With his hair sticking up and that surfer smile, he was darned charming, and she wanted to slap him.

  “Nineteen eighty through ’eighty-two.”

  “You didn’t find them?”

  “You know I didn’t. You sent me down there knowing I wouldn’t find them. You jerk. You let me waste a whole afternoon looking for information you knew I wouldn’t find.”

  Chaz shrugged. “You’re kind of cute when you get all riled up.”

  “You haven’t seen riled. I’m just getting started. You think you’re so clever? Well, let me tell you, you lazy, conniving, unmitigated chauvinist throwback—”

  “Even cuter when you use all those big words.” He grinned unrepentantly at her.

  “Ugh. Thanks…for nothing. I’ll see myself out.” She stormed toward the front of the house, knowing full well he was following her.

  She reached for the doorknob, but his hand enclosed around hers. “Maybe you should give this up.”

  Liv stilled, her anger gone. His statement, his tone of voice. Was that a warning or was he threatening her? Even though she’d flirted with the idea of him and Janine as a Bonnie and Clyde duo, she hadn’t really thought that either of them would actually murder someone. Now suddenly it seemed all too possible.

  “Fine. Whatever you say.” She tried to turn the knob, but he held it fast.

  And being a New Yorker with a black belt in karate, she did what she was trained to do. She stomped on his bare foot, clipped his chin, and ran like hell.

  Chapter Nineteen

  She’d run two blocks before she realized that one, no one was following her, and two, the rain had stopped. She slowed down to a fast walk. It was getting pretty dark, and she fought the urge to look behind her.

  But Chaz wouldn’t be chasing after her. He wasn’t a killer, and she doubted that Janine was, either. A wave of contrition swept over her. She really hoped she hadn’t broken his foot. She’d way overreacted.

  She was such a dope. Now she’d have to apologize. She started trotting toward home, where she would take a hot shower, wash her hair, and pull the covers over her head until she could pretend she hadn’t just made a fool of herself.

  She hadn’t left the outside light on, but the Zimmermans’ back porch light was on and it was just enough to see by. She reached in her pocket for her house keys. A shadow stepped out of the bushes. Liv let out a screech.

  “Jeez,” she exclaimed. “What do you want?”

  But it wasn’t Chaz. As the figure stepped into the semi-light, she recognized Anton Zoldosky.

  “I have been waiting for you,” he said ominously.

  “Me?” she squeaked.

  “I want to ask you why you were searching our trailer yesterday. What was it that you hoped to find? You are not a thief.”

  “I can explain.”

  Anton grunted and crossed his arms. She wondered if her landladies were watching from their window. If they would call Bill. Because Liv couldn’t run; there was nowhere to go but home.

  Whiskey began to bark on the other side of the door.

  “I am waiting.”

  Liv took a calming breath. “I wasn’t.”

  “You were.”

  “No, actually, I was stopping…someone who was searching your trailer.”

  “Who was doing that?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I was on my way to talk to Andy Miller. I saw a car at your trailer, but I had seen your truck in town, so I went to check it out.”

  “Who?”

  “It doesn’t matter, truly. They were looking for a check they had written to Pete Waterbury. Pete was blackmailing he—them. But the police had already confiscated it.”

  “Who is this person?”

  “I can’t tell you. But, perhaps, can you tell me who Pete wa
s blackmailing?”

  “I know nothing about blackmail. He was a hired hand. Kept to himself.”

  “Did you see him talking to anybody in town?”

  Anton’s brows dipped. Liv hoped that meant he was thinking. “No. No one. Ah. To a young girl. I told him none of that.”

  Roseanne, thought Liv.

  “And one other. A man with silver hair.”

  Ted. She had seen the fight, but she hadn’t seen Anton watching. Had Pete and Ted met a second time?

  “Do you remember when he talked with this man?”

  “The evening before he died. We were waiting to pack our things. In the parking lot for the workers.”

  The vendors’ parking lot. So Ted must have gone back to continue his argument with Pete. Something he hadn’t bothered to share with her.

  “And you are sure this person took nothing else?”

  Liv thought back. She hadn’t searched Janine; that would have been ridiculous. But what else could she have been looking for? “I don’t think so. I didn’t see anything. I made her—them—leave. Are you missing something?”

  Anton scowled but didn’t answer. Then he slowly shook his head. “You stayed behind.”

  “To make sure the person left. I was leaving when you came.”

  “This is true?”

  Sort of. “Yes.”

  “Anton?” A brother stepped out of the shadows. He was followed by Serge.

  “You were to wait in the truck.”

  “We were worried.” Serge glared at Liv. “Why did you break into our home?”

  “We don’t appreciate thieves,” the other brother said, and curled his lip.

  In a moment of sheer insanity, Liv wondered what his name was. “I’m not a thief. I was explaining this to your brother.”

  “Hey!”

  They all turned to see Chaz Bristow running up the driveway.

  Liv groaned and slapped her forehead. This whole day was becoming a farce. She might even laugh if she hadn’t been scared out of her wits several times in the last few hours.

  “Chaz,” Liv warned.

  He sprinted the last few yards, shoved an accordion file at Liv, and pushed her behind him.

  “Chaz, wait.”

  Chaz landed the first punch.

  “Stop it,” Liv demanded.

  Serge surged forward and threw his body weight and cast into Chaz’s chest. Chaz staggered back, and the third brother punched him in the face. After a stunned moment, Chaz rebounded. Anton grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him aside.

  “Serge, Georgi. Go back to the truck.”

  The two brothers stopped fighting, but stood fists clenched and scowling. Then they turned as one and disappeared into the growing darkness.

  Anton glanced over at Chaz, who was nursing his eye. “You are not hurt much. I apologize for my brothers, but you are much too impetuous, my friend.” And he, too, slipped into the night.

  “No shit,” Chaz said, fingering his cheek.

  “Come inside. I’ll get some ice.” Liv unlocked the door.

  Whiskey shot out the door, looked back at Liv and Chaz, then jumped into the bushes where the Zoldoskys had disappeared.

  “Whiskey, come back here. There are bears in the woods.”

  “Are not,” said Chaz, holding his face. “Well, maybe, sometimes.”

  “Whiskey!”

  The Westie’s head appeared out of the bushes, then the rest of him. He shot past them and back into the house.

  “That bear threat really worked,” Chaz said.

  “He knows it’s dinnertime.”

  They followed Whiskey to the kitchen. Liv dropped the file on the table, opened the freezer, and got out an ice tray. Whiskey barked and sat down, looking up expectantly.

  “You’ll have to wait your turn, buddy. We have an emergency on our hands.” She dumped ice cubes into a dish towel, twisted it into a bundle, and handed it to Chaz. Then she went back to the fridge and fed her dog.

  “Do I get fed, too?” Chaz asked from behind the red plaid towel.

  “Only if you want half a can of chicken bits in sauce.”

  “I’ll pass.”

  “Thought so. What’s in the file?”

  Chaz pulled the file toward him and clutched it in his free hand. “First there have to be some ground rules.”

  “Which are?”

  “No more hitting, stomping, or slapping.”

  “I apologize, but I didn’t slap you.”

  “You would have gotten around to it.”

  “Possibly. Now, I take it you came all the way over here, not to save me from the Zoldoskys, but to show me what you probably could have shown me before I wasted a whole afternoon looking for something that you knew wasn’t there.”

  “Party of the third part.” Chaz grinned, which was a bit lopsided. Hopefully he wouldn’t have a fat lip as well as a black eye.

  “You are so annoying.”

  “Then how come you’re trying not to smile?”

  Liv shook her head. “Because you’re that kind of annoying.”

  Chaz gave her a look but opened the file and dumped a pile of newspaper articles on the table. “But I’ll expect dinner.”

  “It’s only five thirty.”

  “This might take a while.”

  She pulled a chair next to him and watched while he arranged the yellowing, brittle papers with one hand. But she knew what they were about long before he had finished. Clippings from 1982. Articles on miscellaneous acts of violence and theft perpetrated on the citizens of Celebration Bay. Others reporting on the disappearance and subsequent search for Victor Gibson.

  “Why are you showing me these now?”

  “Because you’re not going to give up. And I’d rather know what you’re up to than find you, like tonight, standing up to three crazy Romanians. Jeez. You could have been seriously hurt or killed.”

  Liv shook her head. “They were angry because they caught me in their trailer yesterday.”

  “Are you crazy? Do you have some death wish issue?”

  “Put that ice pack back on your cheek. If you’ll calm down, I’ll tell you.”

  Chaz jammed the towel against his eye. “Ouch.”

  Liv rolled her eyes to the ceiling and explained to him about Janine and the forged check. “She said Pete accused her brother of killing Victor Gibson.”

  “According to the police reports, Joe Tudor and several others were questioned about Victor’s disappearance. But since the others were minors, their names were not given.”

  “You read the police reports.”

  Chaz looked at the ceiling.

  “You’ve been investigating this all along, haven’t you. Of all the disingenuous—”

  “Now, don’t start using those hundred-dollar words again.”

  “Ugh. You stop acting like some deadbeat hillbilly.”

  Chaz stood up and tossed the ice pack in the sink. “Look. I don’t want to get involved in this. But more than that, I don’t want you or anyone else to get involved in this.”

  “I know how to take care of myself.”

  “So you’ve said. But it’s more than just you. You know Pandora?”

  “No. Oh, you mean the goddess who opened the box and set all the ills on the world?”

  “Yeah, that one.”

  “And you think that’s what can happen here?”

  “I know it can. And once it starts, there’s no telling where it will end.”

  “Are you trying to scare me?”

  “Yes. I just…Oh hell, go on and read to your heart’s content.”

  Liv picked up the first article. An incident report of break-ins and thefts. Stereo equipment, jewelry, electronics. What you’d expect from petty thieves.

  “Did you clip these?”

  Chaz shook his head. “Not me. Must have been my dad or uncle.”

  “Investigative reporting must be a family trait.”

  “Curse.”

  “But you found these beca
use you were…” She trailed off, hoping he would finish the sentence.

  “Because they were there. Are you going to read the rest or are we going to dinner?”

  She gave him a look and carefully slid the second group of papers closer.

  Local Boy Missing Near Lake. A local boy, Victor Gibson, 12, was listed as missing today by the county police department. Sheriff Leslie Dorin told reporters that Victor and a friend had been out digging for earthworms for fishing when they were set upon by four youths and chased through the woods near Lakeside Road.

  The name of Victor’s companion, a boy of 14, is being withheld because he is a minor.

  There was a notation in the margin, Andy Miller. It looked like an old entry. It seemed the Clarion had done a bit of investigating on its own.

  According to the testimony of this young man, they came upon the other youths digging a hole in the earth near the shore. There was a large crate nearby and the two boys were afraid they were witnessing a burial. They were spotted by the group and pursued, at which time the companion tried to hold them off while the younger Victor made his escape. The companion was badly beaten and was treated at County General Hospital before being released to the custody of his parents.

  When Victor Gibson did not return home, his mother, Eleanor Gibson, widow of the late Ron Gibson, called the police. The police immediately began searching the area, fearing that he might be injured. Smears of blood were found on the town boat landing. A rowboat, belonging to a local fisherman, was missing. The boy is still missing. Ted Driscoll, the boy’s uncle, is offering a reward to anyone who has information that will lead to the whereabouts of the missing boy. The police ask that anyone having information call…”

  Pete had killed Ted’s nephew. Ted had offered a reward. But except for that one outburst of temper, he’d taken Pete’s return with unnatural calm. Liv reached for the next article. “Local Boy Still Missing.” The police had exhumed the box, but what it contained proved to be not a body but stolen goods belonging to several local stores and nearby farms.

  The next item was a piece of notepaper torn off a small spiral notebook with handwritten notes, ostensibly from the editor of the paper.

  Millers allowed me to speak to Andy. No new evidence. Still no missing boy. Bad. Did learn that the ringleader was Pete Waterbury. Andy says they threatened to kill him and Victor if they told. Have talked to Joss. He is distraught and angry. Vows to do something about Pete’s behavior.