by Lee Child
“Any enemies, Mrs. Hampton? Demands for money, threats?”
The face that jerked toward Miranda was sharp, still pretty. “N-no. Not that I know—and please, don’t tell my husband. He’ll—Geoff is so impetuous, I’m afraid he’ll—don’t tell him!” She gasped, the sable quivering.
Miranda ground the Chesterfield into the arm of Grogan’s chair. Waited for Mrs. Hampton to breathe again.
“Did Susie ever run away—or get lost?”
“No. Please, please, just find her. I don’t even care if you find that—the monster who took her, just find my little girl.”
Miranda leaned forward. “Exactly what happened?”
“I—I told them already. Sergeant, why do I have to—”
“—you don’t have to do nothing, Mrs. Hampton. This here’s Miranda Corbie. She’s what they call a private eye in them fairy tales people read.”
The woman held the handkerchief up to her face.
“Are you going to help get my Susie back?”
“I need the truth, Mrs. Hampton—in your own words.”
The woman took a deep, rattling breath, closed her eyes for a moment. “Cotton candy. Susie likes it. She just turned five last week, I—I was looking for a smaller bill—the man at the counter didn’t have change for a twenty—”
Miranda looked up, exchanged glances with Grogan.
“—and by the time I sorted it all out, I turned around and she was—was gone.”
“Where does the clown come in?”
She closed her eyes again, shaking her head, hand to her heart. “He’d been following us. I’d noticed him, he’d made Susie laugh earlier, and we threw him a dollar. I thought he was just, you know, performing as those people do, but I can see now that he was following us.”
Miranda pulled out the pack of Chesterfields, offered one to Mrs. Hampton. She shook her head. Miranda’s lighter sputtered, and one of the uniforms stepped forward with a lit match, while another one sniggered. Miranda grabbed his hand for a moment, looked up, and said, “Thanks.”
She inhaled, leaning back in Grogan’s chair. Said it casually. “So you didn’t actually see him take Susie.”
Lois Hampton fixed her large brown eyes on Miranda’s, all reproach and a mother’s dignity, surrounded by the faint odor of Choward’s Violets and Sen-Sen.
“Miss Corbie—I didn’t need to see him. I know. My daughter’s in danger.” She bent forward, placing a gloved hand on Miranda’s sleeve. “Please—please help me.”
Rick wasn’t at the Press Building. Miranda hung up the payphone, watching husbands pull wives into the Ford Building. Hit the receiver, asked the operator to try the San Francisco News. Shook out another Chesterfield from the crumpled pack.
“Rick—Miranda. I’ve got something.”
He paused for a moment then, laughed, Irish lilt always so goddamn irritating.
“It’s not like you ever call and ask me over for a drink. What is it? Need some help with that shiny new PI license of yours?”
She struck a match on Ford’s wall.
“You were over two weeks ago.”
“Don’t worry, honey, you don’t have to ration me. What is it?”
“Little girl kidnapped by a clown.”
He whistled, and she held the phone away.
“Don’t fucking whistle. Woman’s name is Lois Hampton. Lives in the city. Five-year-old daughter, blonde. Susie. Husband is Geoff, they’ve got money. I need you to look her up.”
Silence, while Rick scribbled. “What about the clown?”
“He’s not a clown by now. I tried to tell Grogan to search the restrooms, but he’s still out looking for circus acts. Just check Lois Hampton.”
He hesitated. “Miranda—”
“Yes?”
“—should I look for—you know—”
“Molesters? Rapists? Another Albert Fish in a clown costume?” Her voice was heavy, and her hand shook when she brought the cigarette up to her mouth. “Check everything. I’ll call you back in half an hour.”
“OK.”
She hung up the phone, taking a last shuddering inhale of the Chesterfield. Squinted up at the giant National Cash Register, the two-foot numbers marking attendance. Twenty-three thousand and counting. A lot of them five-year-olds.
Children’s Day. Four hundred fucking acres of it.
She lost them at La Plaza. Nearest restroom was across the road at Vaationland. He’d sneak into the ladies room, use the girl as an excuse.
Clean-shaven, late thirties, dressed oddly. Maybe baggy pants and a souvenir shirt. Unless he’d planned it, and was hiding more than a trick hanky in his clown suit.
A guide stood outside, buttons still shiny on the uniform. College kid.
She asked: “You see any clowns this morning?”
He rolled his eyes. “Lady, I could tell you—”
“Don’t. This one kidnapped a little girl.”
Jaw dropped. “Geez, lady. I’ve seen maybe three or four. All the kids, you know. Children’s Day.”
“Any come in here?”
“Maybe. I’ve been moving around.”
She headed inside the curve of the building. Women’s and men’s restrooms, side by side, across from the cafeteria and barbershop.
Attendant a slow, stooped woman with a Russian accent. Da, there was a clown. Da, he come in with a child. She stroked the dollar bill like it was a pet.
The other one, younger, dark-haired, lounge help. Another dollar. Yes, miss, told him it ain’t proper. No mother, I says, and he says she’s sick in bed, and he’s off work, needs to wash up. Washed up right there in the sink. Felt sorry for him, miss. I ain’t done nothin’ wrong.
Another dollar, help the guilt along.
Little girl was crying, miss. Hungry. Talked about doughnuts. What’s this all about? I ain’t done nothing wrong, miss, I can’t lose my job, gotta feed my own kids. No, don’t remember what he looked like without the face on. I ain’t done nothing wrong. He was just an average Joe, miss. Just an average Joe.
Miranda ran out of the powder room, the door banging behind her.
Doughnuts meant the Gayway, Maxwell House building, hot coffee and crullers, the Doughnut Tower’s fat red neon stripes slicing through the fog.
Couple of hundred in the restaurant, maybe forty kids. No little blonde girl. No clown, ex or otherwise. No luck. Spilled out like coffee, good to the last drop.
Miranda checked the Penny Arcade next door, then up and down the strip, past the Glass Blowers and Loop-A-Swing, the diving bell and flea circus. Her ankle twisted on a souvenir kewpie doll dirtied from sawdust and cigarette butts. She stopped, breathing hard, picked it up. Maybe from a kid in Children’s Village, the Gayway’s official nanny service, complete with on-duty nurse and riding ponies. Perfect for when the parents ogled nipples at Sally Rand’s.
She stared at the painted face. Midget Village, Chinese Village, Children’s Village. Too many goddamn villages. The clown would be in the big villages by now, San Francisco or Oakland. He’d gotten by her, gotten by them all.
Miranda walked to a phone by the Fun House and dialed Rick. Set the kewpie doll on the phone ledge.
“Sanders? You got anything?”
“Yeah. Half a goddamn hour, Miranda—”
“Fucking tell me.”
He grunted. “Lois Hampton. You said the kid is five, right?”
“Turned five last week. Why?”
“She married Geoff Hampton, finance attorney, four years ago. Methodist service. No parents for the bride. She worked at Emporium—probably counter girl, from what the society column left out.”
“So she married up. And the kid’s not his.”
“Or is, but nobody waited for the license.”
Miranda tapped her second-to-the-last cigarette out of the Chesterfield package. “What else?”
“What the hell do you want for thirty minutes? No child killers. So far.”
She took out the Fair lighter, lit, and inhaled, blowing smoke an
d watching it drift by the Headless Girl stand.
“See if you can find a birth certificate for Susie. And call Whitney—the concession director. Lean on him for a list of clowns working Treasure Island today.”
Rick hesitated. “Listen, I want her found as much as you do. But I can’t spend all day—”
“Yeah, I know. Give it another hour, Rick. OK?”
He grumbled. “Yeah, Miranda. Don’t I always?”
She hung up the phone, staring at the two giant Ferris wheels turning side by side. Shielded her eyes to make sure. A little blonde girl and a dark- haired man were sitting in a top car, laughing.
Shoved her way to the front of the line, eyes on Susie, insults behind her.
The operator leered, all teeth. “Your money’s worth, missy. One dime. I’ll make sure you get a good, long ride.”
Miranda showed him her ID. “Stop the goddamn wheel.”
Face red, he pulled one of the long handles. She leaned on his shoulder, the line behind her starting to whisper.
“Step aside when you get to the car with a little blonde girl. I’ll tell you when.”
He nodded, easing the cars to a stop, one at a time, one at a time. Three more to go before Susie.
A fat lady in the car before them had difficulty getting out. Susie’s hat was off. The clown’s hand stroked her hair, greasepaint still filling the cracks in his face.
Their car swung into line. Miranda poked the operator in the back with the kewpie doll, and he opened the gate, got out of the way. The clown gave Susie a small push and she walked forward. Miranda stepped in front of her, held out the doll.
“This is for you, Susie.”
The little girl stared at her, confused. Miranda grabbed Susie’s hand, eyes raised to the clown. He looked from one to the other, panic twisting his face. Then he jumped off the platform, running into the Gayway crowds while a woman behind them screamed.
It took three minutes to find a cop. She gave him Susie, ran past Greenwich Village toward the opposite end of the zone. Where the hell could a clown go to be inconspicuous? Except he wasn’t a clown anymore.
She stopped in the middle of the grounds, breathing hard. Susie was safe. Not harmed. But the clown . . .
She looked up at the complex called Children’s Village. And took out her last cigarette.
He was slapping on greasepaint when she walked in the room. Jumped up, shrank against the wall, eyes large without the makeup, focused on the .22 in her hand. Still sad.
“Please, please, lady. I was just trying to see her. She don’t even know I’m her father.”
She stared at him, smoke from the Chesterfield curling toward the cracked mirror.
“Some fucking father. You expect me to believe you? You kidnapped a little girl, goddamn it—”
“There’s proof. Loie’s got it. She showed it to me. Before—before she got married.”
He wiped his forehead, his hand shaking. Sank slowly into the chair, the bare yellow lightbulb throwing shadows across his face.
“Made me promise never to see her. Susie’s chance. Loie’s chance. My little girl could have the good things . . . I ain’t never gonna be able to buy her what he can. And I kept my promise. I ain’t seen her since she was a baby.”
Miranda gestured with the .22. “Keep your hands on the counter. I saw Stella Dallas, and it plays better with a woman. You broke your goddamn promise. Why? Got religion, all of a sudden? Or did you figure you’d be Daddy for a day?”
Face, mouth, voice, pleading, looking at her, not the gun. “Loie brought her here, to the Village. I make balloons for the kids . . . Loie was leaving for Sally’s, didn’t recognize me with the face and all. I stopped her, asked about Susie, but she was worried ’bout people seein’ us together. So’s I took Susie when she left, tried to—to spend a little time with her. Knew they’d probably look for me as soon as Loie figured it out, washed my face, took my street clothes with me.”
Miranda blew a stream of smoke toward the cheap pine wardrobe in the corner, the pistol steady and pointed at the clown.
“What were you going do with her? Tell me that—what were you going to do with her?”
“I weren’t gonna keep her, lady. I just wanted to see my little girl. Give her some fun, something to remember her old man by. She said she likes cotton candy. Please don’t lose me my job. I like kids. I’m good with kids. Ask Anderson—didn’t he tell you? Didn’t he tell you I’m good with—”
“Fuck the job. Worry about San Quentin.”
Face whiter than makeup, shadows under the eyes, dark pools. Hands trembling on the counter. The Tower of the Sun carillon played the hour, “Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.”
His voice croaked, reedy, strong, sure.
“All right. Go ahead. I’m not sorry for tryin’ to see Susie. I’m glad I did it. I’d do it again. And at least she’ll know her old man was willin’ to pay the price for seein’ her.”
Miranda took a long drag on the Chesterfield, studying his face. He met her eyes, breathing hard, defiant. Disturb not her dream . . .
She said: “Put some makeup on.”
She thought about Susie, and about what Susie would want. But fuck, Susie was five years old, and it didn’t matter what she’d want. Children’s Day was make-believe, and only once a year.
At least she had a father who loved her. That put her ahead. Put her ahead of Miranda.
She called Lois Hampton, calmed her down. Met with her privately, lunching at the Women’s Club, Susie still holding the kewpie doll. Suggested new terms for Susie’s daddy, especially with Geoff away so much. No, no publicity, Mrs. Hampton. No publicity.
Called Rick. Got a liverwurst sandwich at Maxwell House, walked to the Owl for more cigarettes. Finally strolled over to Midget Village, watching Shorty twirl a six gun for some kids and their parents, the late afternoon sun stretching across the bay, the midgets making long shadows in the sawdust of the corral.
A cop ambled by, stood next to her.
“Hear you found the missing girl, Corbie.”
“Yeah.”
“Lost the kidnapper, though?”
Miranda shrugged, opened a new package of Chesterfields. “I don’t know, Gillespie. Sometimes a clown is just a clown.”
He stared at her. “What the hell does that mean?”
She blew a smoke ring, watching it rise high on the bay wind, drifting above the Gayway.
“It means Happy Children’s Day.”
He shrugged his shoulders, and moved on.
*
KELLI STANLEY is an award-winning author of two crime fiction series. City of Dragons (from Thomas Dunne/Minotaur Books in February 2010) continues the story of Miranda Corbie—private investigator in 1940 San Francisco—e x-escort, and the protagonist of Children’s Day. Kelli’s debut novel, Nox Dormienda, set two thousand years earlier in Roman Britain, won a Macavity Award nomination, and the Bruce Alexander Award for best historical mystery of the year. Kelli lives in foggy San Francisco and earned a master’s degree in Classics. Discover more about Kelli and the worlds she writes about at www.kellistanley.com.
WENDY CORSI STAUB
Things aren’t always as they seem,” my father liked to say, and when he said it, I would shake my head as if to say, no, they certainly are not.
Really, I was shaking my head because he was wrong.
Dead wrong.
Dead—the irony should make me smile, but I don’t dare, because they’re watching me now. Every twitch of my mouth, every word that comes out of it, makes them wonder.
Let them.
Yes, my father was dead wrong. Most things—and people, too—are, I have learned, exactly as they seem.
Take Abby. Some might assume that beyond the triple chins and homely façade must belie a sparkling wit or a generosity of spirit. Why else would the most eligible bachelor in town—my widowed father—have married her?
Not for her money, though she had enough of it. But then, he
does—rather, did—as well.
Not for her well-regarded family name, either. Our own name is equally—if not more—illustrious in this particular corner of the world.
Nor did he marry her to raise his motherless daughters. I was going on five when Abby moved in with us, but my sister was a de cade older; she took better care of me than anyone. I have never needed—or wanted—a stepmother.
I barely remembered my own mother, having lost her when I was just a toddler. Yet I have always missed her. Does that make sense?
Never mind; I don’t care if my feelings make sense to anyone other than myself.
My Uncle John told me once that my mother doted on me to the point where people whispered that I was spoiled. But who could blame her for indulging her third daughter when she’d buried her second just two years earlier?
As for her firstborn—if my sister had minded being overshadowed by my birth thirty-odd years ago, she either got over it or hid it very well, because I’ve never sensed resentment from her.
Not even now.
“Are you all right?” she asks anxiously from across the breakfast table, and I’m touched by the concern in her eyes, brown and somber, like our father’s . . .
A terrible, wonderful fantasy sweeps through me, and then I realize it isn’t a fantasy anymore. It’s a memory now, a fresh one; I indulge it until my sister utters my name and repeats the question.
Do I look all right? I want to say in response, as I freely stir extra sugar into my morning tea; no one to protest that shred of self-indulgence.
I couldn’t be better, I want to assure my sister—without an ounce of sarcasm, as it’s the truth.
But I just nod at her, and I sip the hot, decadently sweet brew.
She arches a dubious brow, because, like most people, she subscribes to the theory that things aren’t always as they seem—and because she herself couldn’t be farther from “all right” on this hot and sunny August morning.
She will be, though, in time. The worst of our nightmare is over at last. What lies ahead is nothing compared to what we’ve been through.
I contemplate helping myself to another biscuit. There’s no reason not to. I break one open and slather it with butter, then drench it in honey.
