performers’ tents, Tony right behind.
I’m drawn to a lone light coming from inside one of the tents. I can tell by the flickering it’s a kerosene lamp hooked
onto the center pole. We’ve been strongly advised not to use kerosene lanterns because of fire. The new battery lamps, while not as long lasting, are far safer. Closer, I see it is Constantin’s tent.
“What’s he doing using a kerosene lamp?” Tony asks, in voice filled with indignant outrage. “The tent flap’s not even tied down. Lord knows what could happen.”
Lord knows, indeed.
The wind whips through the loose flap, causing the lantern to swing ominously back and forth on its hook. On the other side of the canvas, the shadow of a standing man moves in and out of focus with the shifting light.
Half-blown inside by the force of the wind, we see the shadow belongs to Doc. He’s stock still, looking at a fluttering piece of paper in his hands, hands covered with blood.
“Doc?” I call out and come closer. He turns to me, a dazed expression on his face.
“I found him. He’s dead.” He looks down at his hands again, opening them palms up. The paper adhered to the drying blood. He doesn’t seem to notice. “I tried to help.”
Beyond Doc I see Constantin lying on his back in front of a battered, black trunk, one of his show knives with his insignia sticking out of his abdomen, crimson blood running wet on his white shirt. His arms are stretched out as if he was sunbathing. But there is his face, features contorted in anger or pain, maybe both, and eyes wide open.
“Jesus Christ,” Tony cries out so loudly, the sound of his voice hurts my ears. I turn around to Boss Man, gaping at Doc’s extended, bloody hands.
“He killed Eddie,” Doc says with no expression to his voice. He offers me the bloodstained note, oblivious to Tony and his wails.
“I know.” I say, watching him, but not moving.
“He says it right here,” Doc goes on, shaking the note in my face. Then he drops his arms to his sides and stares
straight ahead. I go to him, repeating his name several times, trying to get his attention. When I touch Doc on the arm, he stares at me with heavy-lidded eyes. I can’t read anything in them.
“Put the note back, Doc, where you found it. Right now. Put it back. It’s evidence. The police are going to want to know where it was.”
“I found it over here,” he says, pointing a crooked finger. “On the edge of the trunk.” He walks over more like a zombie than a man and sets it down. The note, heavy with blood, lays flat on the deep, inside brass rim of the trunk, untouched by the howling wind.
“You’re sure he’s dead?” Tony asks. “The blood looks so… fresh.”
“Only just,” Doc answers, coming to life a little. “Probably not more than fifteen or twenty minutes, I would say. I tried to save him,” he repeats, looking at his blood soaked hands, as if seeing them for the first time. I notice his trouser pockets are also rimmed with blood. Maybe he tried to put his hands inside to warm them.
Tony collapses into a nearby chair. “This is a nightmare, but I never wake up. I never wake up.”
“What are you doing here, Doc?” I say, ignoring Tony. His answer is slow and mechanical.
“I heard yelling, things being knocked about. Then I heard a man’s scream, coming from here. That must have been when he stabbed himself. I came to see what was happening.”
While he is talking, I take the swaying kerosene lantern off the hook. “We need to send for the police.”
Doc’s eyes are riveted on his bloody hands. Either he can’t or won’t respond. I turn to Tony. His face is so blanched of color, I fear he might faint.
“Get up, Boss Man,” I jab him on the shoulder. “Get up and take Doc back with you to your suite, then send someone
for the sheriff. I’ll stay here.” Tony stands at my order, swallows hard, but instead of moving, stares down at the dead man.
I turn back to Doc. “Tony will get you some water to wash your hands, sit you down, take care of you. You need to rest. Go on.” He doesn’t move.
“Tony,” I scream, “you need to take care of Doc. Come on, both of you. Somebody, move!” Roughly, I push the men to the entrance, willing them both into action. “I’ll keep the flashlight. You take the lantern.” I thrust the lantern into Tony’s hand.
“What are you going to do?” Tony asks, finally focusing on me. “You can’t stay here by yourself.”
“Yes, I can. Someone should be here in case Ioana comes looking for her father,” I say. I lean in and whisper in Tony’s ear, “See if you can send someone out to search for her. I’m worried about where she is, but I’m also worried about Doc. I think he’s in shock.”
Shaking himself into life, he nods, and put an arm around Doc. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he says.
“I’ll be fine. Take care of Doc and go get the sheriff,” I repeat.
I watch them leave, the wind swirling around them like a small tornado. Lightning flashes closer now and thunder rolls overhead. I tie the flap down to keep the wind from blowing things around inside the tent any more than it already has.
I aim the torch at the man with the outstretched arms. He hasn’t moved. I search the corners of the tent with the light, turning everyday objects into eerie shadows. Satisfied no one is hiding, particularly a traumatized, terrorized Ioana, I relax a little, find an electric lantern, and switch it on. The
batteries are low and it gives only half the promised light. But it is better than nothing.
I begin to investigate the tops of several trunks and tables, not only to see what I can find but to keep my nerves from getting the better of me. A narrow wooden box contains several knives rolled up in burlap. Behind the box is a coil of flat wire, the same as I saw wrapped around Eddie’s neck.
On his makeup table, a set of keys on a small chain hold a white rabbit’s foot. One familiar looking key of blackened silver, short, thick, and blunt edged, causes me to pick them up and slip them into my pocket.
I end my hunt at the edge of the trunk that holds the note, written on the bottom half of a sheet of note-size paper. Bloodstained fingerprints obscured a letter or two but the printing is clear enough, with Constantin’s familiar signature finishing off the missive. I lean over and read the contents out loud, my voice eaten up by the shrieking wind outside the tent. I read it again and again.
I strangled the clown to keep him from running away with Catalena. Now she is dead because of me. It is only fitting I go the way of my daughter, by my own hand. May God forgive me. Constantin
I steel myself and turn my attention to the dead man. The knife is buried to the hilt within his chest, just under the sternum and slanted upward. It looks like the only stab wound but there’s so much blood, it’s hard to tell. I do another search directly around him but come up with no other weapon. Everything is in disarray, presumably from a man who thrashed about in his death throes.
My mind is always on Ioana. Where is she? I’ll have to find out later. Right now, I have to stay where I am.
Exhausted, I sit down on a crate several feet away from the body. The storm breaks and I hear rain beating down on the roof of the tent. I shiver and draw up my legs, hugging
them with my arms. The electric lamp fades and dies but, fortunately, the flashlight doesn’t. I wait, Tony’s revolver in
my pocket, flashlight in hand, beam focused on the dead man. It seems like hours but it’s probably less than thirty minutes.
A blaze of light shoots through the canvas from the headlights of an approaching car. I jump up, turn in that direction and stand, unwilling – maybe unable -- to move. I hear the sound of a car door opening and closing.
Tony calls out my name, while untying the flap and throwing it back. He’s left the car’s lights on and is backlit, looking like a macabre figure standing in the doorway, dressed in a tan raincoat and hat, both dripping with water.
“The sheriff is on his way,” he says, bre
aking the silence. “I decided to drive to Five Points, myself. The fewer people that know about this right now, the better. I haven’t even told the Brothers yet. I’m leaving my headlights on, so Draeger will know where we are. I’ll wait with you.” He comes toward me but walks past, staring down at the dead body.
I follow Tony, spouting questions. “Where’s Doc? How is he? Where is he? Has anyone found the girl?”
He turns back to me. “Doc’s okay, but he must have spent ten minutes washing his hands. I gave him a drink and he went back to the First Aid Tent. Ioana’s there, sleeping, and he wanted to be there if she woke up.”
“She’s there? But how…?”
“Doc told me that she came running to the tent around two am, terrified, crying, looking for help. Her father went crazy, she said. Doc calmed her down, gave her something to
make her sleep, then went off in search of Constantin. That’s what brought him here.”
He opens his mouth to say more, but is stopped by the sound of an approaching vehicle. We both watch the oncoming headlights blending in with Tony’s own.
The car stops outside the tent, close enough so that we hear two car doors slam shut and loud voices competing with
the wind and rain. I withdraw the revolver from my pocket and tap Tony’s hand with it, not looking at him.
“You’d better take this back while it’s on my mind.”
He says nothing, but wraps his fingers around it.
The flap jerks open and the sheriff enters brusquely, dressed in a long grey coat over his uniform, water droplets on his face and hat. Behind him the deputy who stood watch over Tin and I the other day is muttering indistinguishable hell, fire and damnation quotes from the Bible. I only catch a word here or there.
Sheriff Draeger turns on him. “Shut up.”
The sheriff is angry. I can almost smell his anger. He looks at Tony. “I am so sick of you people and what’s going on around here. What’s she doing here?” He glares at me. “Why are you always around, missy? You seem to be everywhere.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer when he sees Constantin’s body. He yells back to his deputy. “Holy Jehoshaphat. That’s him all right, the knife throwing man, the one whose daughter killed herself.”
Draeger moves forward, past Tony and me. He kneels beside the body while the deputy stays in the doorway, terror stricken. I can see his lips moving but no sound comes forth. I think he’s still mumbling quotes from the Bible.
“Where’s this suicide note you mentioned?” says the sheriff, rising. Tony looks around for it and points to the edge of the trunk. I feel lightheaded and sit back down on the crate, putting my head between my knees.
“What are all these bloodstains on it? Did he write it after he stabbed himself? Jesus, you people are strange.” The sheriff’s voice is filled with disgust.
“Doc’s the one that found him, sheriff,” replies Tony. “He said he tried to help and got blood all over his hands. After he knew the man was dead, Doc picked up the note to
read it. Jeri’s the one that made him put it back where he found it.”
“Where is the doctor now?”
“He went back to the First Aid Tent to take care of the little girl.”
I listen to all of this as if it’s part of a dream. The sheriff walks toward me, the rustling of his raincoat drawing my attention. I open my eyes to his anger. He shakes the note under my nose.
“This the note you saw in the doctor’s hands?”
I nod, too tired to talk.
He reads it through once or twice, then spins around to Tony. “Well, I guess we found our man. I won’t be coming here in a few hours to close the circus, like I thought.” The sheriff lets out a small laugh. “Too bad.”
Sheriff Draeger’s eyes turn back to me. “I’ll have to talk to this doctor. Then I’m going to talk to you, little lady, I hope for the last time. Meanwhile, you two get out of here. You’re in my way.”
I rise and go to the doorway, saying nothing. The deputy moves aside, as if I have the plague. I almost laugh. Close on my heels is Tony, who takes off his raincoat and throws it over my shoulders.
“Let’s go back to my place,” he says, taking control. It seems the more bedraggled I’m feeling, the more he’s come to life. “Just give me a minute to turn off my headlights.”
He returns, saying, “You can get some sleep without people bothering you asking what’s going on. I’m going to give you a drink, too, same as Doc.”
“You’re getting wet,” I say, with a shiver.
“It feels good.”
We walk for a few moments in silence. I’m unable to think, running on fumes, as they say. But one thought does break through the wall of fatigue.
“What about Rosie, Tony?”
“I’ve got everybody out looking for her. She won’t be any trouble to us much longer. Let me take care of it, Jeri. It will be all right.”
I don’t answer, busy shielding my face from the wind and rain, and so weary I can hardly walk. I stumble when a gust of wind all but blows me over.
“Jeri, I’ve got you,” Tony says, putting his arm around me. “Come on.”
We trek the length of the train to his suite in silence. He opens the door, ushers me inside and into the bedroom, taking the raincoat from me and hanging it on a nearby hook. He pulls off his wet jacket, throws it in a corner, crosses to the closet and grabs a dry one, shrugging it on. He is a man in a hurry.
“Here,” he says, taking two navy blue towels from his bathroom, throwing one to me, and wiping the rain off his face and hands with the other. I towel-dry my hair, saying nothing, but my mind starts to work again, going over and over what happened.
“There are some fresh pajamas in the top drawer, Jeri. You crawl into my bed. You’ve even got clean sheets; I slept on the couch in the living room last night. Don’t worry. No one will disturb you. I’m going to spend the rest of the night
talking to the North Brothers about the end of the season. But I think this mess is finally over. Maybe I can even talk Doris into coming back to me.”
His voice has almost a cheerful tone, as he picks up a decanter filled with amber liquid, pours a liberal amount into a crystal glass, and hands it to me.
“The way I see it, Constantin killed Eddie and then took his own life. Poor Catalena got caught in the middle. I think it’s over,” he repeats. “My job will be to convince the sheriff and the town council of that before they burn this place to the ground. I’ll wake you if the sheriff wants to talk to you. Drink up. This will help you sleep.”
I don’t say anything but accept the drink. He watches me sip the scotch, then dons his raincoat and hat once more. He throws me a half smile as he closes the door to his suite behind him. I’m left to collapse into his large, sumptuous bed, more space than I’ve experienced in two years.
Chapter Twenty-five
11:00 am, Tuesday, July 7th
I wake up not knowing where I am, what time it is or even what day. Groggy and disoriented, I struggle to an upright position. When I remember the night before, I lie back down, close my eyes and will myself not to think.
Outside I hear children playing. I stretch out a hand to pull back the dark blue curtain on the small, oval window and look out. The sun is shining and I can tell by the shadows or lack of them, it’s late. I call out Tony’s name, wondering if he’s in the sitting room. Silence.
I throw back the covers and get up too quickly. Lightheaded, I have to sit back down for a moment. I’m stiff, puffy and carrying so much achiness, I feel hung over. The past few days are catching up with me. I need to do a barre, plus some exercises, even though all I want to do is sleep for a week. I force myself up, put on my now dry clothes, toss Tony’s pajamas in the hamper, and make the bed before I leave, good little Italian girl that I am.
Outside, the sun is dazzling and the air is clean and crisp from the storm. Around me some of the specialty acts are going about the business of the day, half-dressed in colo
rful costumes, practicing routines or talking among themselves in small groups. Roustabouts tote supplies and feed, handlers deal with animals, workmen carry tools, the sound of hammers reinforcing or building something crash like cymbals in the air. Small children burst through each of these scenes at play, going every which way. It is a normal day in the circus, putting aside three deaths.
I linger on the lower step of Tony’s car, trying to orient myself. I hear a “Hey, Jer!” and turn in that direction. Tin Foot is waving and hurrying my way. He grabs me in a bear hug and squeezes so hard it knocked the breath out of me. He releases me just as quickly and stands back taking my presence in.
“How are you? I should be mad as heck at you. Why didn’t you come and get me last night? I thought we were partners in crime. You know, that kind of stuff.” His tone is light but his features express his anxiousness and maybe a little hurt at being left out of the dénouement.
‘Tin, it was the middle of the night and it all happened so fast. Once I read the diary --”
“What diary?” he interrupts.
“Catalena’s diary and…never mind all that now.” I wave the subject away with impatience, wanting to move on. His face registers surprise at my dismissive attitude. I do some backpedaling and link arms with him, patting him on his bulky shoulder at the same time.
“I’m sorry, Tin. There are so many things I need to bring you up to date on. Why don’t I tell you over breakfast?”
“Breakfast?” He laughs. “You mean lunch. It’s eleven-thirty.”
“Tin! Is it really?” I pull him in the direction of the tents. “Well, then the chow tent should be open. Come on. I’m starving!”
Tin doesn’t budge. “Wrong way, Jeri. Lillian made up some sandwiches for us back at car fourteen. We can talk there privately and what you have to say better be good. I’ve been waiting a long time for you to get up.”
While we walk up the thirty-five cars to the girls’ sleeper, I reflect on how like Tin not to say the words Ballet Broads or Virgin Car. He is a true gentleman. I smile at him and he grins back, holding up a rough wooden figure of a ballerina.
Death of A Clown Page 20
