Trumpets sounded and kettle drums beat a march as the lights came up on Tommy Dagger and Sandra. With her usual grace and his indomitable bravura, they moved effortlessly through their preliminary routine, ruining cigarettes with whips and axes. Then The Major reentered, mic in hand, and asked silence of the audience. The knife thrower's covered prop was rolled into the ring and, to a threatening fanfare, the stage hands revealed the giant wheel I'd seen earlier that morning.
“The Wheel of Death,” the ringmaster intoned.
Tommy led Sandra onto the platform. This time she went willingly. He turned her over to the huskies, then prepared his knives, while they strapped her – spread-eagled – to the wheel.
“This, ladies and gentlemen, is one of the most dangerous feats under the Big Top,” The Major warned. “But that is not danger enough for Tommy Dagger or the fearless Sandra.”
The trumpets blared. The drums pounded. The stage hands hustled back on carrying a large paper screen which they maneuvered to center and stood on the sawdust near Tommy. “In a performance,” The Major went on, “attempted only three times before in all of circus history…” Tommy readied himself, squaring off, steadying his nerves, gauging the range to Sandra and the wheel. A snare drum rolled. The wheel began to spin and the immobile and helpless Sandra began doing cart-wheels in place. The crowd gasped, oohed and aahed. Kettle drums replaced the snares as tensions in the massive circus tent began to rise. Cued into action, the stage hands moved the screen into place between the knife thrower and the spinning wheel, completely blocking Tommy's view of Sandra.
“The Callicoat and Major Combined Circus,” The Major boomed, “is proud to present Tommy Dagger, Sandra, and The Veiled Wheel of Death.”
Like the paying crowd, I watched breathlessly (and unmoving) as Tommy did his thing. Executing rapid, consistent, and carefully timed throws, he hurled seven knives through the blinding paper veil and into the wheel alarmingly close to – but never touching – the courageous Sandra. Thomas Lacrosse may have been a mad man but Tommy Dagger was one hell of a performer. All I can say about Sandra (or Anita, whichever you prefer) was that I'd never seen so gorgeous a woman with a bigger set of balls. Based on the applause, the crowd agreed.
Then came the ringmaster again. As he introduced Alida there was something more in his voice than vigor and showmanship. Personal pride and braggadocio welled as he announced “The pièce de résistance” and directed all eyes to the peak of the Big Top. The aerial performer may have been the girl of Alfonso's dreams, but she was more than a dream to The Major. It was a relief, bound by circumstances, to see her act in full without having to battle urges, feel guilty, or cut out early.
Alida made her stunning entrance as before, dropping from the sky on a rope made of fabric, undulating free, and alighting on a pedestal before her audience. This pedestal featured only one post, upon which, in a glistening purple leotard, the pixie did a handstand and – upside down – rotated before the crowd as the post slowly turned. She gracefully dismounted, plucked the post from the pedestal, and tossed it away, then did seven back flips in place atop the empty podium. I was dizzy.
She stepped backwards to where a ring, three feet in diameter, attached to a slack cable, lay on the platform. She took the cable in one hand and the ring in the other. As she touched it, the ring lit from within and glowed white in her hand. She spun in a circle. She released the ring, but held her grip on the cable, and continued spinning. The glowing ring circled her, faster and faster, to the delight of the crowd. The cable grew taught in her hand, lifted, and carried Alida spinning into the air. Thirty feet up the lithe acrobat came to a stop and floated as the ring orbited her like a glowing moon.
Alida hooked the cable with one leg. She hooked the ring with the other. She spun above the crowd, her glistening purple leotard, her glitter, and the lighted ring becoming one blurred arc of beauty as she picked up speed. She released the cable, taking the ring with both hands, shifting the orbit of the whole, and was suddenly spinning in the center of the ring.
She let lose, dropped, and fell across the ring at her stomach, spinning, but now dangling on either side. She took a slender ankle in each hand and became a blur of purple and light again. The audience went wild with applause. She came out of the spin and righted herself as the ring dropped. She was good, very good in the heights of the Big Top, and as good and easy on the eyes once she'd touched safely back down on her platform.
I had yet to meet or speak with Alida. I wanted to for a number of reason and hoped to after the show. But it was not to be. Immediately after the final gala parade, as the boisterous crowd made its collective exit, the tent flooded with carnies, animal handlers, and maintenance crew, returning everything to its starting place for the night show. In the organized turmoil, the performers vanished. There was no time to speak with Alida or anybody else.
Alfonso, stripped of his red nose and floppy shoes, his face cleansed of grease paint, back in his civvies, was suddenly at my side and raring to go. He had a lead, or at least a guess, on the destination of the lamming Bearded Lady and, finally, he laid it out.
I had to hand it to him, it sounded like the trail to follow. I certainly had no better suggestion. But it meant leaving the city. And gave us a thin window through which to follow it. The midget was needed back in Chicago for the evening performance.
We hit the road but, on the way out of town, I stopped at my office first. I had to. I needed to know Willie had not burned the place down or stolen me blind. I needed to know how Lisa was doing. I needed to see how the repairs were coming. We didn't have the time but I took it all the same.
As we entered the lot I saw the glass remained broken out of my front door. But there was no reason to panic. I also saw the vestibule had been swept and the door frame prepped for a replacement. On the opposite end of the building, the window in my office had been replaced and gleamed like a lake in the summer sun. The glass crew were in the waiting room easing the pane for the picture window into its new home. They secured it and I had a word with the foreman who promise they'd be done and dusted by mid-afternoon. Score one for the good guys!
Lisa was not there. That made me happy and disappointed me. We'd argued about it and I had insisted she stay home, rest, and recover. And I'd meant it. But I would also have been secretly delighted had she come in. I have difficulty finding my hind end without her. I would like to have told her where Alfonso and I were headed, just so she knew.
Willie was still there, looking sad and pathetic, hugging the sling supporting his arm and shot shoulder. That made me happy and disappointed me. I appreciated his coming to my aide, said so, and meant it. But I wasn't overjoyed to have needed him in the first place and secretly held it against him. What? I can't be complex?
“We'd better get on the road, Blake,” Alfonso said. (That's the redacted version, he cussed three times getting that sentence out. It was a perfect introduction for Willie.)
“I want to give my secretary a call at home first,” I told him. “See how she's feeling.”
“She ain't home,” Willie said.
“How do you know?”
“She came in. Then she said she had things to do.”
“What things?”
“She didn't say.”
“Was she all right?”
“She looked aw-right to me,” Willie said. Then he grinned like an ape. “Then, Lisa always looks aw-right to me. Ya know, Blake, if she really wanted to help a guy out–” I slapped his shoulder. Yes, the one in the sling. He jerked, howling like a mutt, and accidentally smacked his own chin.
“Does your mom let you eat with that dirty mouth?” I asked.
“What?” he cried, cradling his arm, dabbing his shoulder, cradling the arm again. “I was only saying! Ya sweet on your sec-r-tary or something?”
“That was a slap,” I warned him. “Next time I punch you on the bullet wound.”
“Aw-right, aw-right!”
“Now get back to Lisa; and keep it clean.”
>
“She looked fine to me.” Willie raised his good arm in defense. “She looked… healthy. What word won't get me punched? All I'm saying is, if she was sick or hurt, it didn't show.”
“Where did she go?”
“I don't know. She didn't say. She didn't say what she was going to do. Said she had things to do and asked if I'd mind staying and keeping an eye. I told her I already told ya I'd stay. Then I told her I'd stay. So I stayed.”
“Good. Thank you. Continue to stay. Continue to not have your friends here. Continue to not put your feet on my desk.”
“Okay, Blake, okay. But how about a little something for the effort?” Willie pinched, then rubbed, the fingers of his good hand. “I'm starving.”
I patted myself down… to no joy. I looked to Alfonso. He swore at me, without saying a word, then shook his head.
“We're destitute,” I told Willie. “I haven't been to the bank yet.” I pointed at Lisa's desk. “Try the lower drawers on either side. Lisa stocks more food than the Piggly Wiggly.”
Alfonso and I beat it out of there.
Chapter Eleven
Our destination, to hear Alfonso tell it, was just over two hours from Chicago.
Just.
One hundred and ninety minutes in a two-seat Jaguar with a grumbling, cigar smoking, bad tempered midget incessantly changing radio stations was, I'm telling you, not “just” anything but a slice of hell. I took I-90 west toward Rockford with Cheap Trick covering Ain't That a Shame. But before Robin Zander got a chance to tell me why… click. Crossed the state border into Wisconsin while the Blues Brothers bounced a Rubber Biscuit. Before it landed… click. Continued north for the famous Wisconsin Dells resorts with Billy Joel griping about a Big Shot. His tale was half told when… click. Near the Dells, I took the WI-33 exit while Rickie Lee Jones strained to Chuck E's In Love… click. At Barrelton, I turned onto Washington Avenue with The Knack's drummer trying to get My Sharona started… click. Each time I demanded he pick a station and leave it, Alfonso swore at me. At last I turned onto Water Street and, as the World Circus Museum rose before us, Rod Stewart whined Da Ya Think I'm Sexy in my ears. That's no way to travel.
But we'd reached the hunting grounds. The World Circus Museum, in Barrelton, Wisconsin, the National Historic Landmark and original home and winter quarters of the famous Parker Brothers' Circus (not the game board family, the circus clan). That was Alfonso's brilliant intuitive guess and our destination in the search for Sybil.
At the turn of the 20th century, three of the world's largest circuses, one originating there (the others, from European old countries, adopting it), made Barrelton their home and returned there following each tour to repaint and repair equipment. The shows spent the cold winter months sewing wardrobe, building props, auditioning new acts, rehiring returning performers, and planning the itinerary and travel routes for the up-coming season. They also cared for their animals, hundreds of horses and ponies, dozens of elephants, camels and other hay eating creatures, tigers, lions, birds (including ostrich), and monkeys. Of the original twenty-five Parker Brothers' structures, ten winter quarters buildings still remained while the entire facility had been made into a museum and theme park. This was home to the old-time circus folks and to performers like Sybil.
The Main Entrance, off Water Street, crowned by a sign reading: 'The Grandest Show on Earth', took us into the museum's largest building. Adult tickets were ten bucks, kids got in for half. I'd stopped for folding money en route and, as I was paying for both and my humor needed stretching, I suggested we pass Alfonso off as a child. The notion was received with the same attention-grabbing diction you've come to expect from my miniature companion. The midget's ticket cost me ten bucks too.
The Grandest Show Hall housed exhibits on all aspects of circuses from around the world, circus history and, in particular, the history of the Parker Brothers' show. But we weren't there to see that. I had a case to follow and Alfonso had a friend and co-worker to find. He knew the place and I did not. Without needing to be asked, the midget led the way on a bee line through the crowd and the building, past the costumes, the banners and flags, the props, past the pics of the Parker Brothers, and the Stronk and Witte Combined, past the John Whipple Circus, and on out the northeast exit into the park. Despite my having legs three times longer than his, I had to run to catch up.
Beyond the door, running the length of Water Street, was the historic Parkerville portion of the park. To our left was the Wisconsin River, bisecting the grounds and, on the far side of the river, the kids' playground, Sideshow, and the Hippodrome. Yes, they had a permanent full-sized Big Top tent where the museum staged a full-fledged circus every day.
A sizable crowd stood gathered on either side of the river. Above their heads, balanced on a wire stretched from one bank to the other, a Tightrope walker slowly made his way across. With a childish glee, I pointed him out. Alfonso followed my stare without enthusiasm. “That's Tight 'wire' walker,” he said, correcting me. “But he isn't a Tightwire walker. He's over twenty feet above the water, so he's a Highwire walker.”
I couldn't argue. But I didn't care either. The guy was far enough out and high enough up that, as far as I was concerned, he could call himself anything he wanted. He wore leather slippers, carried a long sagging balance pole (rotating it to check his sway), and looked the part to me. The crowd agreed.
“He's good,” I said.
“Yeah,” Alfonso allowed with a shrug. “But he's no Karl Wallenda.”
“Right,” I conceded. I wasn't an expert but knew the name from the papers. One of the most famous wirewalkers, from the most famous circus family, of all time. The founder of the Flying Wallendas, aged 73, had fallen ten-stories to his death the previous year while trying to cross between the towers of the Condado Plaza Hotel in San Juan, Puerto Rico. “He's no Karl Wallenda. But neither is Karl Wallenda anymore.”
Alfonso ignored me, snipped a new cigar with his fancy cutter, and lit it. “I'm surprised they're still putting on the full show. It's getting late in the season.”
“August is late?” I asked. Alfonso nodded and puffed.
The wirewalker teetered, drew a gasp from the on-lookers, recovered his balance, and continued across. “You ought to add something like that to your act,” I told the midget.
He swore, of course, then added, “I couldn't do that high balancing crap. Even if I could, my act's too tame. People like imminent danger. That ain't me.” Alfonso smiled. “I'm Frankie Avalon. I can't work without a net.” I gave that the groan it deserved. “That's a joke,” Alfonso said. “That's funny shit.”
I waved for the midget to shut up. By then, the wire walker had arrived safely and was waving from the far side of the river. “Yippee,” Alfonso said. “He made it. Big surprise. Can we go now?”
“Absolutely. Let's find Sybil.”
“It would be better if we split up,” Alfonso said. “Cut the place in half to look. Be faster.”
“How faster? Wouldn't she be at the… Whatever they call it; the Sideshow.”
“She might. If they put her to work. Then again, she might not. Be faster if we look and not waste time guessing.”
“I wouldn't know where to start.”
“You start here in Parkerville,” Alfonso ordered, indicating the row of old buildings before us. Then he pointed over the bridge. “I'll cross over and take the circus.”
“But I've never seen Sybil.”
“What, are you kidding me?” The runt stood, arms akimbo, staring like I was an idiot. “How you gonna miss a three-hundred-pound lady with a full black beard?”
He had a point.
I was being ridiculous, I knew. I was a grown detective, wearing my own long pants, and didn't need a chaperon. But I felt as out of place as a whore in church. And, I admit, I didn't fully trust Alfonso. I didn't know him. I didn't know anything. He may have been Mickey's killer for all I knew. He was so insistent on coming to Wisconsin with me and so adamant about our splitting up,
it struck me wrong. It might have been my paranoia, God knew I had plenty. Then again it might not.
It didn't matter. Alfonso was on his way.
Not only was I suspicious but my inner child wanted to kick up a fuss. Alfonso had taken the circus on the far side of the river, and all the fun, for himself; the play area with swings and slides, blown up bounce houses, a carousel, and something called the Double Wheel of Destiny I could only wonder at. East of the playground, he'd have the Circus Wagon Restoration Center (featuring, I'd learn later, a gargantuan handmade miniature circus) where, obviously, tourists were entertained by seeing old circus wagons refurbished. Beside it, the Wagon Pavilion housed a collection of two hundred antique wagons from circuses and carnivals around the world. On the opposite end, to the west, were rail trains on truncated tracks (the object of which I didn't quite see), the penned live animal rides, the caged wild animals, and the Sideshow tents leading to the Hippodrome. I was jealous watching Alfonso cross the bridge. But I wasn't there to play and neither was he. We'd come to find Sybil.
He'd given me this side of the river, the Hall through which we'd entered and Parkerville, the original winter grounds buildings. I started my search at the Office. Not in it, at it. A sign on the door promised someone would return soon. I re-started my search at something called the Ring Barn and, from there, hit each of the old buildings in succession, the Elephant House, Animal House, Baggage Horse Barn, and the Wardrobe Department looking for, and asking all I met if they'd seen, the Bearded Lady. I got a fascinating glimpse behind the scenes of a circus. Beyond that, I was chasing a wild goose.
We were looking for Sybil in connection with the murder of Mickey the Geek. Not as a suspect, merely to ask what (if anything) she might know about it. We had no clue as to the killer or the motive. We had no sense of a sinister conspiracy. At no time did it occur to me we were wading into deep dark waters. It never dawned our questions would be of interest to anyone but us. Or that those questions might spook someone to kill again.
Red Herrings Can't Swim (Nod Blake Mysteries Book 2) Page 10
