“If I could just make it all go away, Jeri,” Tony says, leaning against the back of the chair, his face turned up to the ceiling. “One man dead, another in the hospital with a concussion. And poor Catalena. She seems to be taking Eddie’s death harder than anyone.”
I say nothing, suspecting that Doc hasn’t told Tony the latest about the teenager’s condition. No matter how he feels about it, Doc will soon have to. As the man running the Big Top, Boss Man needs to know things like that. But this is Doc’s tale to tell.
Tony looks at me. “God, this stinks.” He reaches over and finishes off the wine in his glass. “So what now?”
I’m nervous, apprehensive, scared, you name it. But you can’t show something like that, another thing I learned at Brinks. If you’re calm, the client is calm or, in Tony’s case, a bit calmer.
“Now we eat,” I say, in my best bon vivant manner. “Or at least, I do. I don’t get filet mignon that often. And turn the radio up. I love Glenn Miller.”
Chapter Eleven
5:30 p.m., Sunday
I cross the lot, looking for Tin Foot, working out what I’m going to say to him. I avoid going by any place where my two showgirl pals might be. Tony says he’s on his way to update Doris and I’m sure she’ll turn right around and tell Margie. I don’t want to be nearby when they discover I’m the Big Top’s new private dick, temporary though it may be.
Doris and Margie helped pick up the pieces when my Brinks days fell apart and this will make them nervous. They tend to treat me like their kid sister, a role I usually love, but that position is apt to get in my way this time.
I’m surprised Doris told Tony about my days with Brinks, although I could tell she hadn’t gone into detail, just by the way Tony looked at me with questioning eyes. He wanted to know more, but he was following the “mind your own business” rule of the circus, something I have come to count on.
Then there are those damned boots. Before I let my guard down with Tony, I’ll have to check and see just how many men wear the type of boots that are burned in my memory.
Making a quick detour toward the lions' cages, I search for Harold. I find him, as usual, hanging around Old Kirby. He’s inside the cage, down on all fours filling up the five-gallon water bowl with fresh water from a hose, and looking more like a grasshopper than a man. Old Kirby is stretched out in a corner of the cage having a cat nap. I reach in and tap Harold on the shoulder to get his attention, unwrap Tony’s steak from my napkin, and dangle it in front of him.
“Harold,” I shout. “I’ve got an untouched filet mignon here. It’s a shame to see it go to waste. Okay if I give it to Old Kirby?”
Without saying a word, he lifts the meat from my fingers, pulling it inside the cage and examines both sides. “Well,” he says with hesitation, “ordinarily I don’t let nobody give my cats nothing, but seeing as it’s you and it’ll just go to waste… Aw, go ahead. It won’t do nothing but fill up his back tooth, anyways.”
I laugh and trot to the other side of the cage, reach between the bars and drop it in front of the sleeping lion’s mouth. Old Kirby’s eyes flicker open and his nose twitches. He sits up on his haunches and sniffs the meat, only to lie back down, leaving the food untouched.
“See that?” Harold says, in a worried tone. “He’s been like that all day. I don’t know what’s the matter with my boy. The vet checked him over, got some tests going. Says he looks all right but Kirby’s acting peculiar.”
“I’m sure it’s because of what happened this morning. We’re all a little shaken. He’ll be all right tomorrow. Try not to worry.”
Harold doesn’t reply, but shakes his head. He stretches out a long arm and strokes the sleeping cat’s mane, ignoring me. I turn to leave.
“Jeri,” he calls out. “Thought you’d like to know I found something under the wagon. Meant to give it to Tony but you’ll do. Hear you’re helping him out.”
So word is out already. I have less time than I thought.
He reaches in a corner of the cage, palms a lumpy piece of paper, and thrusts it toward me through the bars.
It looks like a wad of inexpensive notepaper sold in most drugstores, soaked through by rain, now drying into a distorted origami nightmare. Streaks of mud further obliterate the blue inked writing that has almost been washed away by the downpour. I try to force it open but it fights me back,
wanting to tear apart in my hands. I stop and look at Harold, who’s watching me.
“Sorry about that,” he says, his gaunt face animated and thoughtful. “I kept it in here so it could dry out. There ain’t much on it that I could rightly tell but in the corner. I thought it might mean something, so I saved it.”
I rotate it in my hand and discover Eddie’s name, faded and blurred but still readable. “Where exactly did you find this, Harold?”
“Near the left wheel, lying on a patch of grass. As I say, I wouldn’t have paid it no never mind, just throwed it away, but I seen Eddie’s name.”
“Thanks. That was smart thinking.”
“You don’t get stupid around big cats. They keep you on your toes.”
“I’ll bet.” I hold the paper cupped in my hand, trying to protect it. I‘ll examine it later. “Who has keys to the big cats’ cages besides you?”
He thinks for a moment. “Well, the cat boss, of course, and Vince keeps one hanging in his office. I seen it.”
“When was that?”
He shrugs. “Don’t know. Last time I was in there. Maybe three, four days past.”
“Anyone else?”
“Shouldn’t be. Don’t pay to have too many people with keys to these here cages. Ain’t safe.”
I couldn’t agree more. “What does the key look like, Harold? I’m just curious.”
He gropes in his pocket for a set of keys that jangle when he pulls them out. He picks out a short, squat key with a blunt end from the ring and waves it at me. “This be it, Jeri.”
I leave, making a detour to the Virgin Car. Hardly anyone’s there, just a couple of girls reading or snoozing in their berths. Going directly into Lillian’s small kitchen, I’m
relieved to find her gone. I grab a small colander she uses to drain spaghetti, put the wad of paper inside and pass it back
and forth under a gentle stream of warm water. Most of the dirt runs off and the warm water makes the paper more pliable. I lift the soggy mess out, wash and dry the colander, put it back, and head for my berth.
Opening the paper without further damage is painstaking work but I manage it. I stretch it out on the glass of my small, sun-streaked window facing the field, where it adheres, and smooth the wrinkles out. I’ll check later after the sun dries it to see what, if anything, remains on the paper.
Still on my quest for Tin Foot, I leave the car and pass the post office crowd standing around Pete, a high-wire unicyclist. At the beginning of each season the performers and crew are given the names of towns, dates of appearances, and general post office addresses, with instructions to let people know where mail should be sent.
Pete’s been the designated courier for as long as I can remember. Except for Sundays, Pete collects outgoing mail from a central box, drives to the post office in whatever town or city we’re in, deposits it and collects the mail.
For this service, everyone chips in ten cents a week, which covers Pete’s time, gas and then some. Six days out of seven you can see Pete standing on the same wooden crate, yelling out names in a clear, loud voice. He rarely yells mine.
My sisters write occasionally but I haven’t heard from my three brothers stationed overseas for almost a year.
Sometimes I write their wives to see how the boys are doing and they let me know that so far, so good. I used to send my father little tidbits of my life, articles, newspaper clippings, holiday and birthday cards but I never hear back. I
stopped writing about six months ago, more of a letting go than giving up. But I still hand Pete my dime every week.
On Mondays, Tuesday
s, Thursdays and Fridays, Pete’s back with the mailbags around one-thirty. Wednesdays and
Saturdays there’s no time to distribute the mail before the first performance, so it’s done in between shows, unless there’s a street parade, like yesterday. Then the previous day’s mail gets handed out the next day. A lot of people get letters and packages two or three times a week or, in the case of Lillian, almost every day.
I see her pacing in the background, an anxious look on her face. Duane writes his mother at least once a day while he’s stationed in Italy with the Ninety-Second Infantry Division. Often Lillian reads excerpts to some of her favorite girls, me being one.
Duane is a beautiful writer and wants to go into journalism when he returns to civilian life. His hefty letters are loaded with descriptive, colorful phrases, written whenever he can snatch a minute. He writes about his daily life, nothing war-sensitive, but on the personalities in the unit, the Italian culture, food, countryside and his encounters with civilians. If the mail from overseas is delayed a day or two, Lillian gets his letters in bunches. He’s written her every day since he joined up eight months ago. It occurs to me I haven’t seen her reading her son’s latest letter -- laughing, crying, holding the letter close to her bosom -- for more than a week.
When Pete turns the bag upside down and shakes it, declaring that’s all the mail there is for the day, everyone steals a glance in Lillian’s direction. I’m afraid she
might break down and cry but instead, her face like stone, she turns and walks away. I’ve never seen such lack of expression. I want to go after her but Lillian’s a very private person. She’s there for all of us but resists when anyone reaches out to help her. Some people are like that.
“This damned war,” I say, parroting Tony’s words.
Chapter Twelve
6:15 p.m., Sunday
Tin is sitting on a bale of hay outside the main tent inspecting the ropes he and I will use at the next performance. His eyes squint painfully in the slanting sunlight but this is something he’ll never let anybody else do. I realize this is one of the reasons why I chose him. He’s not a man who leaves things to chance. Plus, he can charm the quills right off a porcupine when called upon, and every day, I trust him with my life. I’m sure I’ve made the right choice.
I park myself beside him and get to it, telling him verbatim what Tony and I talked about. I leave nothing out, not even the thousand-dollar reprieve of Old Kirby. A gleam comes into his eyes, after the initial surprise. Tin balks at taking any part of the fee but relents when I tell him there’s no other way I’ll do it.
“So what’s my first assignment?” he asks, putting aside the ropes.
“Find out if Eddie owed anyone else money. Vince might not be the only one. It would be easier for you to do that than me. You ever play poker? I thought you might join in on a game.”
“Sure do. Not much entertainment on a farm, Jeri, once you’ve wrestled some cows to the ground.” He winks at me to show he's teasing.
“Is that how you milk them? I wondered.” I wink back.
“With six boys on a farm, card games were a way of keeping us out of trouble. At least, that’s what Ma and Pop thought.”
I jump in saying, “We’re not going to do that winking thing again, are we? Because we could be here all day and there’s a game going on right now at the Clown tent.”
Tin throws his head back laughing, then stands and stretches out his large frame. I glance at his feet.
“Tin, where did you get those boots?” Another pair of what seems to be the guilty boots.
He looks down in surprise. “These? Gus. Boss Man made a deal with him and nearly all the men bought at least one pair. You don’t get a chance at handmade boots often, especially at this price. With my toe, I can’t wear a regular boot, otherwise.”
Gus is the company shoe smith, with a long standing contract with the circus. Every year the performers have a shoe last made of their feet. Gus uses the last to build shoes, shipping them to wherever we are when we need them.
“So that’s a bust,” I mutter. I get up and brush the hay off the seat of my pants. Looking around to make sure no one else is nearby, I say. “Tin, you’ve been around the circus longer than me.”
“Five years,” he answers.
“You didn’t get a chance to see what was used to kill Eddie but it was a flat wire, about a quarter of an inch wide, not thin and rounded like this baling wire.” I point to one of the wires on the two bales of hay we’ve been sitting on. “Have you seen anything like what I’m describing on the lot?”
He thinks for a moment, then gives a toss of his head. “I haven’t noticed but I’ll keep my eyes peeled.”
“I think if we find that wire, we’ll have a good idea who our killer is. Don’t forget your whittling.” I pick a chunk of wood and small knife off one of the bales. “Hey, this thing is sharp,” I say, touching the slender, four-inch blade.
“Has to be if you want to carve through wood.”
I turn the freshly carved piece around in my hand.
“What’s this going to be, anyway?”
“A cow.”
“I might have known.”
He laughs and takes the wood and knife from me saying, “I’m nearly done here, so I’ll get going. What about you? What are you going to do? We’ve got about another hour before half-hour call.”
“Cracking the whip, eh?” I grin at him, then sober. “I’d like to go through Catalena’s things while she’s still in the hospital, but without the rest of the family knowing. I’m looking for something in particular.”
“Well, there’s no time like the present. They’re in there, rehearsing.” Tin Foot gestures over his shoulder to the Big Top. “I saw him and the little girl go inside about fifteen minutes ago.”
I steal a look through the entrance flap to the tent. Constantin is barking something in Romanian to Ioana and the roustabout, who is familiarizing himself with the props. It looks like they’re running through the entire act.
Tin leaves and I make a mental note to tell Tony he’ll have to cover any losses Tin Foot might incur while gathering information at the card table. I find a private spot behind Albert’s cage to study Tony’s chart of the compartments. Hardly anyone lingers near the sixteen-foot albino python.
The Baboescu Family has adjoining compartments in the C car housing marrieds and specialty acts. I head for it. I’m not sure what I’ll say if anyone questions me about being in there. I figure I’ll bluff my way through if anyone asks. It’s worked before.
I walk the outside of the car looking in the long line of windows. Most curtains are open, showing empty compartments or people catching a nap in between shows.
Sprinting up the steps at the end of the car, I go inside, as if I’m a woman who belongs. To my relief, the corridor is empty. I hurry over to the Baboescu compartments, fifteen
and sixteen, again making sure there’s no one around. The chart doesn’t give first names of the occupants, so just for the
hell of it, I choose sixteen. Inserting one of the two master keys, I go in.
The curtains are drawn and the small room looks dark and cramped. An unmade double bed and a small nightstand holding three books take up the bulk of the floor space. Beside the books, a small bouquet of wild flowers drink from a glass tumbler of water. The flowers give a spot of color to an otherwise gloomy room that smells of stale clothes and sweat. This has to be Constantin’s.
Always entranced by books, I run a hand over each one, studying the Romanian words on their binders. I pick up a Bible, realizing it’s the first time I’ve seen one in a foreign language. I read somewhere that the Bible is the most widely published book in the world. I thumb through the sheer, almost translucent pages, coming across a few underlined passages.
One passage draws my attention. Some of the words I vaguely understand, having a similarity to Italian, but I’m not sure. I jot them down on the small pad I carry in my purse for study later, then retu
rn the Bible to the stand.
I try the doorknob of the adjoining door but it’s locked, and, unfortunately, from the other side. Neither master key work. That means I will have to go back out into the hallway and in through the outside door, a chancy venture. I open the hall door an inch or two and look both ways. No one. I step out quickly and test number sixteen to make sure it has relocked. As I insert the key into fifteen, the corridor door at the far end of the train opens suddenly with a ‘blam,’ the sound echoing off the steel interior. Charging inside the compartment, I close the door behind me and lean against it, listening hard.
Sounds of a giggling man and woman assault my ears but they pass on by. I hear a compartment door open and
close, enveloping the gigglers. Then silence. My heart thumping, I turn and face this small room and see an upper
and lower berth. The outside curtains are open. With a swift motion, I close them and look around in the half light.
The lower berth is unmade and filled with dolls and stuffed animals, smelling slightly of lavender. That has to be Ioana’s. I grab the side of the upper berth, swing up and into it, and start searching for something in particular.
If girls are the same the world over, I think, Catalena probably keeps a diary. It never interested me but even Margie has one and writes in it daily. She says when she’s old she plans on selling it to the highest bidder to pay for her retirement.
Several times I’ve seen Catalena carrying around a similar small book, red in color, with the same type of lock on it. I want to know what’s in that book.
After looking under the pillow, I begin a careful search of the berth itself and locate the diary wedged in between the wall and mattress. I don’t think you’d come across it unless you were specifically looking for it. Girls and their secrets. I drop down to the floor, throw the book in the bag at my waist and cross to the door, remembering the curtains at the last minute.
Death of A Clown Page 8
