Red Herrings Can't Swim (Nod Blake Mysteries Book 2)

by Doug Lamoreux

  Alfonso had hired Mickey; according to him, he hired all the drudge help. So it followed the midget had little or nothing to fear by the old man's presence. At least not at first. Had Mickey seen something at the circus soon after coming aboard? Had he found the ingredients for a blackmail stew so quickly? Alfonso claimed there were hinky things going on under the Big Top. But hadn't the midget just been talking about romance, guys and dolls? Hadn't he been bitching with his penis? Likely, Alfonso's problem wasn't the problem. So the blackmail, if it existed, stemmed from something else. If it had, then that meant history. Who at the Callicoat Circus had a history with Mickey the Geek?

  Alfonso did. That I knew. But it was only in passing. Had he known Sybil was really Gerald? Did it matter? Was Sybil's being a Sideshow fraud a bone of contention for anyone? Why should it be for Alfonso; he was a Sideshow fraud himself. Benga the Pygmy. Sheesh. Besides Mickey, to hear it told, had once been the genuine article. Maybe there was nothing to Alfonso knowing either of them. He'd known a lot of the old performers. How had the midget said it, he'd been coming in while they were all going out. Alfonso was a yes (but with a lower-case y). Sybil? Yes, of course (capital Y). Mickey and Sybil had worked together somewhere back in the day. I'd seen the picture that proved it. There was no doubt that, no sooner had the Geek been killed than, the Bearded Lady beat swollen feet and waddled out of there. No! That wasn't true. She hadn't gone immediately. She didn't leave at the murder. She'd paid Alfonso a clumsy visit. She'd asked about me sticking my face in and then she took a powder; when she learned someone was looking into the murder. Was that on purpose? Or had my appearance merely brought the murder to her attention? Which was it? Did the facts make her a frightened runner? Or did they suggest Sybil had done the deed? The former held water. The latter leaked when you added the pesky fact that Sybil had become the second victim.

  But was she the second victim? Of the same murderer? Her murder, too, had been initiated by a knife in the back. A second circus worker? In two days? An acquaintance? Too many coincidences. No. It had likely been the same killer. Probably for the same reason. The same guilty knowledge? The same threat of blackmail? Someone else, the killer, may have had a history with Mickey the Geek and Sybil the Bearded Lady. Who?

  The Canary? I'd seen the poster. But was the bird on the poster the same as the bird in Mickey's cryptic final sentence? If it was one sentence; one complete thought. Lisa didn't know for sure. Thinking of Lisa… How was she? Where was she. What was she doing? I didn't have time for that now. I had two bodies to worry about.

  “The Canary didn't die when she fell from the sky.” Was The Canary a trapeze act? It was almost too cute to buy. Then again, what had been the likelihood of my seeing that poster among 10,000 posters on display two hundred miles away? In a museum I shouldn't have known anything about? Was I, Nod Blake, finally able to claim a little luck? I knew better than to count my chickens. Nothing had been hatched but more questions. There were a lot of birds in the sky. Who was The Canary? What was her story? When did she fall? Was she Mickey's canary? And, if so, where was she now?

  I was on a roll. I didn't know if I was accomplishing a thing, but the miles were disappearing beneath the new tires of my Jag, Wisconsin had vanished in my mirror, and Chicago was inching closer. I may not have been learning a thing, but I was on a roll, so I kept at it. Who remained? The Major…

  Who was Karl Kreis? What was his deal? Other than those few minutes in our chance meeting in the performers' dormitory – when the midget and I had told him a whopper – I hadn't spoken with The Major at all. Yet, based on Alfonso's assessment that “something hinky is happening around this circus” (and the corroborating fact the circus employees were dropping like flies), I had to admit I seriously suspected The Major of the murders. But I also seriously suspected that notion was stupid. All I had to do was back up a step and take a good look. When I did, with the exceptions of Mickey and Sybil, I still suspected everybody.

  What about the Callicoats, the late owner and his good lady widow? Anything to be sifted there? Or had they merely owned the playground? The slay ground? I reminded myself of the first rule of detecting, 'When you begin to wax poetic, move on.'

  Alida Harrison? While I'd heard a lot about her from the lovesick midget, he hadn't really told me a thing. Hell, I got the impression that, other than the fact she made his heart beat faster, Alfonso didn't know a thing about her. I'd never met her or even seen her up close, so I had no way to guess. What was her deal? Did the aerial acrobat hold any cards? Was it a coincidence Alfonso had dealt her in? Or was the midget sticking knives in people?

  Speaking of that little twerp… Where was he? Why had he run out on me in my hour of need? What did he know? When did he know it? Where was Alfonso while Sybil was getting her murder and circumcision? Had he been there? What part, if any, had he played? What had he seen? Or heard? Was Alfonso the killer? Was he in line to be killed? I looked at the dashboard clock, did the math, and realized the midget's bus had long ago reached Chicago. That brought another worry. Now he'd reached home, with no notion who or where the murderer was, was Alfonso still breathing?

  None of my questions offered any obvious answers; at least not to me. All contributed greatly to my already throbbing head. That brought up one more query to which I was champing at the bit for an answer, who hit me over the head?

  On my return to Chicago, I wanted to go immediately to my snitch, Large, to learn all he could find about the victims, the circus owner, the performers, and The Canary. The timing made that impossible. I may have been able to roll Large out of the sack, and he may have been willing to start the wheels of progress rolling, but his usually delightful wife would have taken one look at the clock and chased me north swinging her jumbo gumbo ladle at my already aching head. The investigation would have to wait until, at least, early morning.

  I considered paying a visit to the circus performers' dorm on Navy Pier to check on the whereabouts and the vital signs of Alfonso Valencia. But I nixed that stop over for the same reason. It would have to wait until the sun came up.

  Hosed in both directions and unable to proceed, I returned to my office instead. As I pulled into the lot, I was delighted to see the windows were all repaired. I found the bill, front and center, on my desk blotter and – while it wasn't chopped liver – it wasn't anywhere as bad as I had imagined it might be. Depending how the wind blew, I thought I might pay it out of pocket and take away the insurance company's opportunity to raise my rates. Something… Something had finally gone right.

  I took the gun from my shoulder holster, glad to be rid of it, and locked it back in my safe.

  I made myself a well-deserved drink with a few fingers of 'this' from my liquor cabinet, a splash of 'that', and a twist of 'one of those' from my tiny refrigerator. I jury-rigged a bag of ice from the freezer. I applied the latter to the back of my abused head and the former to my parched lips. I slipped into my desk chair with a relaxing sigh and gave the repair bill another glance. For a guy whose life had been stood on end by the murders of two people from a circus he hadn't heard of three days prior, who'd taken several good whacks to the noggin, whose office and precious Jaguar had been vandalized, who was still under the real threat of being charged (and maybe convicted) of homicide, it was nice something good had finally happened. I sipped myself to sleep.

  I woke to sunlight streaming through my new office window and to the raucous sounds, streaming through my door, of Lisa rummaging through her desk. Pulling my feet from my desk, I accidentally kicked over my half-finished drink, creating a puddle on my papers and a situation that asked for cussing. Request granted. Putting my feet down, I accidentally stepped on and popped my fallen bag of water (formerly ice), creating a larger puddle on the floor beneath my chair and a situation demanding more of the same. It was a colorful start to the new day.

  I called Lisa's name as I stepped from my office, then stopped in my tracks. It wasn't Lisa. It was Willie Banks rummaging in my secretar
y's desk with his working arm. “What are you doing here?”

  He looked confused. “Ya called me here.”

  “When did I call you?”

  “Yesterday,” he said, looking even more confused. “To watch the window guys. Don't ya remember?”

  “Of course I remember. Who called you here today?”

  Believe it or not, Willie managed to look more confused yet. “Nobody. I'm still here from yesterday.”

  “You didn't go home?”

  “No. Ya didn't tell me to.”

  “You stayed all night?”

  “Yeah. Wasn't I supposed to?”

  “Where did you stay? You weren't here when I came in?”

  “I was. I slept upstairs.”

  Upstairs was one room, a small one, filled to the rafters with unpacked boxes of only God knew what. It was a running gag that some day I would hire a detective to discover what was up there. The slug had used it as his flop house.

  If that wasn't bad enough. “Hey, Blake, it's a mess up there. If yer going to stay, ya ought to unpack and move in sometime. Just sayin'.”

  Great. Now I was getting life advice from a societal reject. “What are you doing in Lisa's desk?”

  “What do ya think? I'm looking for breakfast. I'm starved.”

  “Didn't Lisa pay you, or feed you, when she came back yesterday?”

  “She didn't come back yesterday.”

  That got my attention. “What do you mean she didn't come back yesterday?”

  He cradled his arm and ogled me. “Blake, did ya hit your head or something?”

  “Never mind my head.” I sighed. Lisa's recent activities, her comings and goings, seemed out of character. I couldn't decide whether they were odd and a result of her head injury, or whether they merely seemed odd and were a result of my head injuries. Consequently, I didn't know whether to be worried by her absence or just annoyed. It would have been simple enough to call and check on her. But all thoughts of calling her place, at that hour, were out. Her mother would answer, then I'd have to answer to her mother. I moved my curiosity, and my concern, to a back burner.

  “I've got some running to do,” I told Willie. I dug in my pocket, fingered the cabbage I owed him for the help, but didn't pull it out. Fact was, I didn't know what the morning would bring. Instead of paying him, I asked, “Is there any way you can stick around until Lisa comes?”

  I hated the idea, and myself for getting it, let alone asking the question. But I had no other choice. I wasn't secure in leaving the place alone yet. After all, someone had broken out the windows and fixed my car tires. Besides, I still thought I was doing the slug a favor.

  You couldn't have told by the look of fear on Willie's face. “I'm broke,” he whined through his nose. “I'm hungry. My shoulder hurts. Ya remember, Blake, I took a bullet for–”

  “Yeah, I know. Lisa will be here any minute. When she gets here, tell her I said to make us square on what I owe you. Then tell her I said to buy you breakfast before you take off.”

  “Okay.” Willie shrugged his acceptance. I turned to go. “Hey, Blake, ya want your messages?”

  “I thought you said Lisa didn't come–”

  “She didn't. I took 'em. If I can take a bullet for ya, Blake, I can take a message.”

  Would it never end? I sighed again and, for the first time, noted two stacks of messages on Lisa's desk. The first stack sat beneath a paperweight with an attached note, written in Willie's broad chicken scratch, reading 'Not Important'. The other sat under a paperweight with a note reading, you guessed it, 'Important'. I didn't want to know what criteria Willie had used to make his determinations. I quickly browsed the 'Not Important' collection and was happy to find I agreed. Then I moved to the other pile, to find four messages from Lieutenant Wenders – each one a sliver nastier than the one before.

  “That cop, Wenders,” Willie said, rolling his eyes. “He was insane trying to get a hold of ya.”

  “Put it down to his lack of a sense of humor.”

  “Whatever ya say, Blake. But after the four calls.” He pointed at the notes. “Ya see there. Then he sent a prowl car. No, two cars. No, wait, it was one car, twice.” Willie shook his head, reshelving the books in his mental library. “He wanted to know what I was doing here. I didn't think it was any of his business, but ya know the lieutenant. He kind of has a way of making ya answer. Maybe it's the way he offers to arrest ya every other sentence.”

  I nodded, fully able to relate.

  “So,” Willie went on. “I told him I was watching the place for ya. He called me a liar. Then he said something nasty–”

  “About you or me?” I asked.

  “Both.”

  Wenders' insanity was a given and his threats entirely expected. It was like the fat slob to give me forty-eight hours to find something, and then start hassling me after only twenty-four. Well the lieutenant could wait.

  The other important message, out of the blue and completely unexpected, was from Mrs. Callicoat. Our rich widowed circus owner had also called, twice; the first time to say she wanted to see me as soon as possible and the second to say she needed to see me “urgently”. With all the unanswered questions about her little circus, and after what I'd been through behind the cheddar curtain, the summons was more than I could resist.

  But morning had come and, before I even thought of doing anything else, I made a trip to the south side. I needed help to dig deep. That meant I needed the biggest, fastest shovel in Chicagoland. That meant Large, my snitch, my researcher, my grounded brain. He was the only human being on whom I could off load my thousand questions and know he'd do something practical with them and waste no time about it. You'll meet Large later in the story, sisters and brothers. For now know I was handing The Major, The Canary, Alida Harrison, Tommy Dagger, Sybil, Mickey the Geek, and Alfonso, off to an expert. I roused him from his slumber and put in my request for information. I ended my portion of the quick visit apologizing for my obvious desperation but reiterating my fear that sloth might add more bodies to the pile. He ended his by promising to loose his locust upon the field. (That's how the big man talked.)

  Afterward, I found a phone booth and called Mrs. Callicoat. Despite the early hour, she was terribly, awfully glad to get my long-awaited return call. I was invited to join the rich widow for coffee on the grounds of her palatial estate. How grand.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Blake,” I told the intercom. “I have an appointment with Mrs. Callicoat.”

  A female voice, made tinny by the speaker, agreed I was expected. The heavy iron gate hummed and swung open like the mouth of a leviathan preparing to swallow me. The voice instructed me to follow the drive around to the rear of the estate. Her mistress, the voice went on, awaited me in the carriage house. I thought carriage houses disappeared with the horse and buggy. What did I know? I didn't have two nickles to rub together. Salivating as I passed the mansion, I followed the long curving drive through unending immaculate lawn and into the estate's back forty.

  Turned out I had been right. Carriage houses, functioning ones, had disappeared from America's residential landscape with the loss of horse drawn conveyances. What the intercom voice should have told me was her mistress was waiting for me in the Wagon Pavilion, or warehouse, or barn. That's what the carriage house was, a huge pole barn standing like Oz in the distance. I parked, took it in, and entered through wide open sliding doors.

  The place was filled front to back with gorgeous wagons from the glory days of traveling circuses. A mini version, I imagined, of the pavilion at the circus museum. I hadn't had the opportunity to visit that one. I'd been curious but Alfonso had hogged that side of the river for the search. Sybil's murder had hogged the attention thereafter. With my psychic replay of the killing, my brief unconsciousness, and my hours at the mercy of the county sheriff, I'd never gotten back to see the wagons. This may not have been the real circus pavilion, with its two hundred wagons, but it was impressive all the same and as close as I
was likely to ever come again. Here there were, perhaps, a dozen wagons. But gorgeous and numerous enough you couldn't see them all at once. What do you want for nothing? I followed the sounds of splashing water between the wagons and cages, cut the corner around a sleeping steam driven calliope, and came upon the rich widow at center ring.

  That's what it was. In the middle of the barn, in the midst of the wagons sat a circular concrete pad, roughly twelve feet in diameter, six inches above the pea gravel floor, a patio and symbolic center ring surrounded by circus history. The pavilion's walls were decorated in posters, specific to something called 'The Major's Major Circus' and the Callicoat & Major Combined Circuses displayed, not merely to champion quantity as at the museum, but to be seen individually. There in splashes of yellow and red, Cedric, whip in hand, faced his big cats. There in green and yellow the elephants danced. There in an explosion of color clowns fell laughing from a pocket-sized Pontiac (could have been a Chevy). In dramatic blue, a cartoon Tommy hurled paper knives at a cartoon Sandra. And there, on a new poster, Alida the pixie hung in the air – happy as a clam to be dangling upside down. Two of these one-sheets hung between each space separating the barn's doors and windows. Almost that is; a gap showed. By the sun-bleached plaster, and rectangle of bright paint, it appeared, one wall recently lost a poster.

  From her place, lounging – coffee in hand – in one of two long sun chairs on her private patio, the lovely rich widow had a swell view of the heart of the pavilion. She seemed, however, to be eying only one item – her chauffeur. Shirtless, his chiseled chest beaded with water, Chicago's stand-in for Surfer Joe stood manipulating a garden hose (with a pressure nozzle) at one of the wagons while his employer had him for breakfast. It's probably the pig in me but, for my money, he looked to be simultaneously blasting the suds from one and lathering up the other.

  I watched for a moment unobserved. When it was clear nothing of note was taking place, or about to, I coughed and made my presence known. “Pardon me.” I got a smile from the lady of the house and a humorless glare from the buff wagon polisher. “I'm Blake. Mrs. Callicoat?”