Jake’s eyes were turbulent. His mouth twitched, and his hand reached up in a restless gesture to rub his whiskers with a fist. “Don’t, Patty.” His words were rife with meaning.
Patty’s smile wavered, and her body lost some of its pep, her shoulders lowering a bit. For a moment, Pippa felt like an intruder. This was a moment between Jake and Patty. For them alone. A story they shared that no one else had read.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Jake coughed as though he was choking on something. He craned his neck left and right, then in a gruff motion shoved the bottle of milk he’d been holding toward Pippa.
Startled, Pippa grabbed for it. The minute her grip was secure, Jake charged from the stall, following the steps Forrest and Georgiana Farnsworth had taken only minutes before.
All turned silent for a while as Patty drew in a breath and released a shaky sigh. Then she turned, and with the movement a whiff of perfume teased Pippa’s senses. Patty’s eyes grew soft and a bit watery, if Pippa wasn’t mistaken. Pippa adjusted her hold on the bottle, aware that her legs were still pressed against the elephant calf, with Lily’s trunk still wrapped around her ankle.
“He coulda worked for Capone, ya know?” Patty shrugged as she informed Pippa of Jake’s secret world. “But he told him no. Straight up told Al no.” She gave a wry laugh. “People think Jake’s here at Bonaventure ’cause he’s good with the elephants. But it ain’t that.”
Pippa waited, giving Patty the space she needed to continue.
Patty’s smile was sad, and she pressed her lips together in resignation. “He’s gonna kill someone someday, I just know it. And you know what?”
Pippa’s breath caught.
Patty leaned forward, her voice dropping as she spoke conspiratorially. “I ain’t gonna say a thing when it happens either. Jake knows what he’s about, and he knows what he’s gotta do.” She snapped her fingers, the sound bouncing off the wooden walls. “It’s what happens when someone messes with family, ya know? That’s what I love about Jake. He and I? We’ll never be. He’s too good for me. But he’d kill for me. He’d probably even kill for you, if you wile your way into gaining his loyalty.” Patty ran her finger under her bottom lip as if wiping away errant lipstick. “When she was alive, he would’ve gone to hell and back for her. Problem is—” Patty paused, making sure Pippa was listening and not explaining who “she” was—“he did go to hell for her. And he ain’t never been able to leave.”
The riverbank was a beautiful place to escape to, and escape was Pippa’s sole purpose now. Lily had not responded to Pippa, nor had she suckled from the bottle. Jake hadn’t returned, and Patty had left almost as abruptly as she’d appeared. Forrest, for the moment, seemed to have forgotten his charge over Pippa, leaving her to herself, to her thoughts, and to the disturbance deep in her soul.
Was no one truly happy? It was a question that plagued her mind with the persistence of its basic entity. Patty’s observations about Jake left Pippa troubled—very troubled—and were an unsettling sequel to Georgiana’s strident declarations of abuse and accountability for such. Maybe this was why the Watchman was so elusive? He was trying to guard her, to protect her from the troubled secret world of this place. This vibrant, glorious, dark place called Bonaventure Circus.
The meadow that stretched to the east of Pippa was in sharp contrast to the circus grounds across the river, where a few tents had been erected for training purposes, where ruts from wagons marred the countryside, with groups of men busy working, preoccupied with one job or another. A corral boarded a small herd of zebras, their black-and-white stripes like an exotic flag against the hillside that rose beyond the circus headquarters. Once, two summers ago, Bonaventure Circus had erected its magnificent Big Top, with the intoxicating red-and-white stripes, flowing flags, golden cords, and massive tent pegs wrapped with heavy ropes. Bluff River had celebrated their own circus to end a successful year—the town had showered upon them their accolades. Now? Georgiana’s voice was only one, but she was persistent and loud and completely uncaring what anyone thought of her. People were restless. The war and Depression had left them jaded, Prohibition had reinforced the concepts of morality, and women winning the vote threatened the moral fabric of the small town. It would be easy to find a reason to cast angst onto the circus.
Pippa sank to the ground and tucked her knees against her chest. The baby elephant was on the brink of death. The circus’s welfare hung in the balance. Georgiana Farnsworth would capitalize on all of it and try to bring the circus to an end. Was it inevitable? An ending to an illustrious beginning. Perhaps it was because of all this that the Watchman had become more persistent of late. To protect her from the shrapnel when it all exploded into a final demise.
Movement beside her snagged Pippa’s attention. She twisted to look over her shoulder. Warmth curled around her senses as Clive the dwarf approached her. They were eye to eye with her sitting and him standing. Wispy gray hair lifted in the soft breeze, and his brown eyes twinkled as they always did. His nose was too large for his face, according to humanity’s arbitrary standards, and his ears winged from his head with thick lobes. Age spots dotted his face. The dark blue shirt he wore had been tailored to fit his short arms, which ended in thick hands and stubby fingers. He was both beautiful and kind.
The older man settled himself beside her. His eyes were sharp when he looked at her. “You’ve nothing to smile about today?”
Pippa attempted one, for Clive’s sake. “I’m worried.” About so many things.
“The calf will be fine.” Clive stared out over the river as if he hadn’t a concern in the world. It wasn’t surprising he’d deduced a portion of her anxiety, yet it was the unspoken ones that stabbed at her. They all had question marks stuck at the ends of them. The unanswerable dilemmas, the unknowns of the future, and the equally unknowns of the past.
Clive’s head turned, and he moved his hand to Pippa’s shoulder. “Ernie is a good trainer. And Jake . . . he needs this calf.”
It was a cryptic statement, especially after Patty’s unsettling remarks. Pippa realized her unspoken question was written all over her face as Clive searched it with his eyes and nodded.
“We all have our secrets,” Clive continued, “some worse than others. All require healing.”
His eyes roamed the sparkling waters of Bluff River as it rippled over the rocks in its journey. It wasn’t a large river—not like the Mississippi to the west of them—but was only the breadth of a few circus wagons side by side.
The snort of an elephant on the other side of the river grabbed their attention. Pippa watched as a line of three Asian elephants, with swinging ears and waving trunks, plodded toward the river. Jake led them, his short crop at hand to give gentle prods if needed.
Clive’s voice was quiet, as though he didn’t want it to carry to Jake’s ears. “He’s a troubled soul, Pippa, with much anger.” Clive shifted his gaze to her. “While he is also good, revenge can blind that goodness. Be cautious.”
Pippa watched Jake, the familiar cigar hanging from his mouth and the confident swagger of a man who fought his way through life. She picked at a blade of dying grass, the autumn breeze rustling her sleeve and reminding her of the impending winter.
“Revenge?” She questioned the dwarf, noting not for the first time how aged he really looked. The lines creasing his eyes, cheeks, and neck. Was it really age or was it perhaps the onslaught of life’s required endurance?
Clive’s nod was subtle, even as he kept his eyes fixed on the elephants, on the flapping of the large tentlike ears, and on Jake, who stood solitary and troubled on the riverbank.
“Revenge is an evil in and of itself.” Clive finally tore his gaze from Jake and rested it on Pippa. “In it we seek to find ourselves, but more likely than not we become more lost than we ever were before.”
Chapter Twelve
CHANDLER
Chandler fingered the black-and-white postcard she held in her hand and lifted he
r eyes to compare it to the outside of the building. The depot had been an impressive place back in the early nineteen hundreds. By the time this photograph had been taken, it seemed its future decrease of necessity was prophesied by the presence of a Ford Model T parked just outside the canopy. A couple dressed in twenties garb loitered on the walk near the very entrance where Chandler now stood.
“That window there was the men’s sitting room.”
The voice over her shoulder startled her. She reared back, already uneasy being at the train depot alone, even though it was daytime and for some reason ghosts tended to prefer darkness. Chandler eyed the man.
“I’m Cru. Lottie’s son.” He extended a hand.
Of course he was. The same vibrant blue eyes. She took his hand and was pleased at his firm but polite grip, his eye contact, and the fact he seemed to have manners. Unlike Hank Titus.
“Chandler Faulk.”
“Yes. I know. I was walking by and saw you. Figured I’d say hey.” Cru stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans. His T-shirt was clean and emblazoned on the front with the logo of a local coffee shop. “Do you know much about this place?”
“Not really,” she answered and noted the undisguised interest in Cru’s eyes. Maybe if she threw out the single-mom card now, he’d run. They all did. She bit her tongue and opted instead to take advantage of his potential expertise. Jackson was leaving pestering voicemails on her phone, and she’d even had an email from Uncle Neal asking how long it’d be before she started her detailed assessment of the property. No time to get settled in for a few months. No grace to stay home with Peter and be a mom and make sure he was okay and set up his online schooling before she launched into the massive project. No. She was ejected into the job like a spitball launched from a rubber band.
Chandler handed Cru the postcard she’d obtained from the local historical society. “I know the depot was built just before the turn of the century for the Madison-Charleston Railway, but I’d be grateful for any information you could give me as well.”
Cru smiled. It reached his eyes, elongated creases in his cheeks, and reminded her a bit of Jim from The Office. There was eagerness in his voice—eagerness for the history but also to please. “Yeah so, originally it was just going to be a stopping point, but then the Madison-Charleston Railway decided to move its headquarters here too.” Cru pointed to the second story. “Their offices were up there, along with the telegraph center. They also rented out one or two to the circus higher-ups who preferred fancy office space over being in the trenches of the grounds. The first story was where the ticket agent was located, plus the men’s and women’s sitting rooms. Toward the far end there”—Cru swept his arm toward the west of the building—“is where the rooms were for luggage, unclaimed baggage, and the like.”
Chandler studied the building, its brick darkened with age, its roof now tilting inward as if inhaling a breath and holding it. In the initial pre-purchase inspection, the building had been deemed structurally sound. But Chandler wasn’t blind to the fact it was going to need a lot of work. Jackson was right in one regard. Demolishing a building and starting fresh was often less hassle and the least expensive way. Yet he didn’t always have the foresight to envision the long-term attraction of a historic building like this one. It still called to people, years later, and with the circus museum just over the hill, and the old railroad tracks skirting the view of the river, it was far from a foolhardy notion. In Chandler’s opinion, it was brilliant, and this wasn’t the first historic site she’d brought back to life.
Chandler cleared her throat. “Did the circus train come through here too?” If it did, that was just another added draw. Restore the old depot, decorate it with vintage circus posters, build it out for small, unique shops inside. Maybe a coffee shop in the middle to greet visitors when they first walked in. A partnership with the museum would result in a little foretaste of what guests would find when they purchased a discounted ticket here to visit the nearby circus memorial.
Her mind was spinning with possibilities.
Cru nodded. “Yeah, it did. Only, they unloaded most of the cars over there.” Again he pointed, this time toward the east. “The rail yards were down farther. The area was a lot more open than it is now. What you see over there is the county co-op building and the old feed mill. Even those are deserted now. The south side of Bluff River needs some TLC, now that we’ve revived the historic district downtown.”
Time to uncover a bit more about Cru. Chandler tucked the postcard into her messenger bag slung across her chest. “So, your mom says you lead ghost tours?”
A low chuckle and she looked up in time to witness Cru’s grin. He kicked a stone that went hopping into the burned-up patchy grass that grew untrimmed along the depot’s foundation.
“My mom’s ghost tours,” he clarified. “We started them about five years ago. I’ve always been a bit of a history buff, and my mom, well”—Cru waggled his eyebrows—“you know she’s more than a firm believer in the other side.”
“Are you?” Chandler couldn’t help but ask. A motorcycle rumbled toward them on the cracked asphalt street. It wasn’t a highly used street, so she cast the bike a curious glance. Hank Titus. Their eyes locked as he rode by. Beefy arms and shoulders. Wild hair. A bit of Tarzan mashed together with a gorilla. His look was piercing and, in Chandler’s opinion, rude.
“Maybe.” Cru was answering her.
Chandler tore her gaze from the bike as it sped away.
“It’s hard not to be sometimes,” he went on. “I’ve seen things. They’re unexplainable. Once, I was leading a tour down by the river, and we saw someone running through the woods. It was across the water, so it was impossible to get very close. But it matched up with the story of the girl who drowned in the river back in 1902. She was fishing with her brother and fell in. She couldn’t swim and neither could he. It was just a sad story really, but seeing her ghost?” Cru gave a mock shudder. “Weird. Just weird.”
Chandler couldn’t help but raise her eyebrow. “And you’re sure it wasn’t an actual person running through the woods?”
Cru returned her skepticism with a smile. “What’s the fun in believing that? Especially when you’re leading a tour and people want to see a ghost.”
Chandler laughed. Cru was coming more from the angle of tourist attraction than actual belief in the spirit world. She was okay with that. And yet reconciling such phenomena with her faith was something she still considered. There were many opinions on the subject, biblically and supernaturally, but Chandler preferred to handle these things with care, regardless of how they were interpreted by others.
“Anyway,” Cru said and hefted a big breath, “Mom said you might need help with this old place today.”
“How did she know I was coming?”
“She just knows,” Cru replied with a shrug. Accepting. Not questioning.
Chandler wasn’t sure she liked the creepy sensation that rattled through her, but then it wasn’t exactly rocket science for anyone to figure out where Chandler was likely to be. Lottie only needed simple intuition really.
Chandler adjusted her messenger bag and dangled her keys in the air. “I was just about to unlock the door and go inside.” Actually it was why she’d been hesitating and instead assessing the old photograph while standing outside the building. Going in meant going in alone. Something about this place. Its skeletal remains, hollow on the inside, with dusty memories embedded in the stale air . . . it gave her the heebie-jeebies unlike any other old building she’d been in before.
Unlocking the padlock, she and Cru stepped back in time. The echoes of their footsteps reverberated on the wood floors, and the image of their profiles reflected in the mottled floor-to-ceiling mirror that hung across the room by the door leading to another large space.
“The women’s sitting area.” Cru strode toward the tall mirror and its accompanying doorway.
A wave of dizziness disoriented Chandler for a second. She grabbed for the
wall, planting her palm against it to steady herself. Thankfully, Cru hadn’t noticed. He seemed too enthralled in the old building. She needed to sleep. Badly. But she hadn’t been able to. Not since Hank had thoroughly creeped her out with his sadistic hints of some old serial killer called the Watchman, and Lottie’s insistence that the spirit of a murdered woman haunted the upstairs of Chandler’s new office.
Chandler squeezed her eyes shut to center herself. When she opened them again, Cru was studying her. She needed a conversational red herring and fast. “Have you ever heard of Patty Luchent?” she blurted.
Cru raised an eyebrow and then nodded, as if choosing to ignore whatever concern he might have had with seeing her hug the wall with her eyes closed. Chandler mentally chided herself and dug in her bag for her water bottle as she followed Cru into the women’s lounge.
“Patty Luchent is quite the lady.” Cru’s voice echoed against the antique framework. He was standing in the middle of the floor, looking up. The ceiling was high, the walls marred with graffiti and layers of mold and dust that had permanently embedded into the gilded wood. Carved scrolling on the crown molding draped wooden flowers halfway down each of the room’s four corners. But some of the wooden petals had been busted off, and the wood was blackened with moisture and rot in many places. Eyebrow windows, curved at the top and straight at the bottom, were made solid with brick and concrete.
“Do you know how she was murdered?” Chandler stepped around a gaping hole in the floorboards. Lottie had given her an assortment of rumors, and she was curious to learn what Cru would speculate about.
The Haunting at Bonaventure Circus Page 10
