Richard jabbed a finger in Ernie’s direction. His face reddened. “You’ve nothing to hold over me. I couldn’t care less about your name as an elephant trainer.” He gave a small shout of laughter.
Ernie nodded. “But you care about your name. Bonaventure Circus is no small business, and your elephants are at its center. It stands to reason the man in charge of their care and training wields a lot of influence in this world.”
A veiled threat. He would smear Ripley’s name. Could smear his name.
“Father, I would like to stay.” She could hear the words that seemed to emanate from Jake’s eyes to hers. What do you want?
Ripley leveled his gaze on her, and she could feel his eyes drilling into her as if trying to read her intentions, hidden motives, or otherwise clandestine reasons.
“No.” His response was emphatic.
“I can make a difference with Lily, and I—”
“I said no.” Ripley lifted his hand, his signature gesture for her to be silent.
Pippa clamped her lips shut, her courage to defy wavering in the tradition of obedience.
“You already caused enough trouble.” Forrest edged his way forward. It was evident he had found his voice and was determined to speak his mind. “As Pippa’s future husband, I must support Mr. Ripley and insist myself that Pippa will not be returning to the circus.” He ended his statement with a burning glare at Jake.
The tiny spark of rebellion long smoldering inside of Pippa burst into a small flame, fed by the oxygen of Forrest’s authoritative decision.
“Listen to me,” Ernie urged the circus owner to bypass his pride. Pippa whipped her head to the right to look at Ernie, who had unknowingly interrupted the argument balancing on the edge of her lips. “We need your daughter,” he insisted. “You need your daughter. If she visits Lily, spends time touching her, helping feed her, Lily could respond far quicker and heal faster. Together, with Jake, I believe we can save Lily’s life.”
And a massive financial investment.
Those were the unspoken words hanging over the stall. The ultimate threat to Richard Ripley, and the one he would care the most about.
Ernie hurried to add for extra measure, “Elephant calves are the offspring in a matriarchal system. In the wild, the females will band together to protect the young. In captivity, the young need their mother. If they can’t be reunited, then they’re subject to human care. There is no organized herd, therefore no replacements except the human entity the calf bonds with. In this case, Miss Ripley.”
“Ludicrous.” Ripley paced the floorboards in front of the stall. It was apparent he was aggravated by the correctness of Ernie’s statement and was willing to argue it, even if it made him appear irrational. “Find someone else.”
“There is no one else.” Jake turned to Pippa. She caught her breath. For a brief second, it was only them. He had entered this fight, not for Lily but for Pippa. She could see it. In his eyes, in his posture, in the way the muscle in his jaw twitched with determination.
Jake met her gaze and smiled, even as he addressed Forrest and her father. “Pippa has a gift.”
She returned the smile, drawing even more confidence from the contagiousness of his.
“What gift?” Ripley spat.
“She cares.” Another voice joined in. This one caused them all to shift their attention downward. Clive stared up at them with firm challenge etched on his face. “Your daughter has always loved this place, its people, and its animals.”
Ripley’s lips tightened, the color draining from his face. Clive seemed to tower over her father, even though his shorter frame wouldn’t have risen above Ripley’s head were Clive to stand on a chair.
“Let your daughter be who she was meant to be. This place is in her blood. I know it. You know it. Even Lily can sense it.”
Forrest shot Pippa a look. Heat crept up her neck. No one, ever, had the courage to call her father out about her birth.
Ripley stalked a few steps from the stall, flipped his suit tails back, and rested his hands on his hips. “You cannot hold my daughter responsible for the life of that elephant. And I don’t want her anywhere near that man.” He pointed at Jake.
“No one was implying it was Pippa’s responsibility to keep Lily from dying. It is her gift to nurture. Let her use that ability in hopes of success.” Clive stepped toward Mr. Ripley. “Your niece took part in a crusade against the circus and inflicted God knows what further harm to our existence. Lily’s survival hinges on quality care, and the circus hinges on Lily’s survival.”
Ripley opened his mouth to reply, but this time, this moment, Pippa found her voice.
“I am staying, Father.”
Her pointed sentence shushed all the men into silence. She dared to look at Forrest, whose mouth was slightly ajar. Jake, a spark lit in his eyes. Clive gave her a silent nod, and Ernie crossed his arms. She finally looked at her father.
His expression was discomforting, with his narrowed eyes and the way he studied her. Assessing, as if trying to read her thoughts.
“Lily needs me,” Pippa added and followed up her declaration with a nervous, shuddering intake of breath. “I-I have to help.”
“Richard,” Forrest started in protest.
Ripley held up a hand, then ran it across his nose and mouth, agitated.
“You’ve no good reason to deny your daughter this—or yourself. You stand to benefit most of all.” Clive tipped his head and stared up at his employer. “Is there any other legitimacy that would argue against Pippa’s presence here?”
It was a challenge. And it was evident that Richard Ripley recognized the truth of Clive’s wisdom. Recognized and hated it all at the same time. Pippa watched him eye Clive, who continued to look at Ripley with a stare that could only be interpreted as convicting by anyone who witnessed it. God love dear Clive. He was fighting for her too.
“Very well.” But the words were ground out between clenched teeth, and her father’s dark glare did little to give Pippa reason to celebrate.
Chapter Twenty-Five
CHANDLER
They hadn’t touched anything. Outside of the skeleton that had careened forward, clawing its way into the light after years of being buried behind the closet wall. Hank had gone one way, Chandler the other. The authorities gave her water, a blanket around her shoulders, and asked her a million questions. The ensuing chaos brought with it curious onlookers. People coming to see the train depot they’d ignored before. The presence of multiple police cars, an ambulance, the cop cordoning off the depot with yellow crime scene tape. All of it was a horror movie gone bad. Chandler searched for Hank among the growing throng of authorities, EMTs, and gawkers. His bulky form would be hard to miss, his strong features and confident pose. But he was nowhere to be seen.
A car pulled up behind a squad car. The front door opened, and Lottie jumped out. Concern was etched on her face as she zoomed in on Chandler and hurried toward her.
“Honey! I just heard! Oh my gosh!” Lottie grabbed Chandler’s hands. Chandler carefully withdrew them. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Lottie—she did—but the woman’s fascination with the haunted gave Chandler the willies, if she was being honest. It wasn’t surprising that Lottie would be here. She would want to lend her insights, her expertise, so to speak.
Lottie didn’t seem offended by Chandler’s withdrawal. Instead, she gave Chandler a light pat on the shoulder as she stood beside the stool the officers had provided Chandler when her shaking legs had forced her to ask to sit down.
“You must be completely terrified.” Lottie’s observation was nailing the truth, and Chandler nodded. She sniffed and shot a fast look at the depot. The yellow tape around it had so many implications. From death, to murder, to the sudden ceasing of work on the depot project itself.
Chandler squeezed her eyes shut to clear her vision.
“You need to get home and get your feet up.”
God bless Lottie. Suddenly, Chandler liked her more. Her e
motions were waffling, which wasn’t unusual in heavy moments of stress.
Lottie hollered in small-town fashion at a nearby officer. “Warren, can I take Ms. Faulk back to her place?”
The officer looked up from his phone and walked in their direction. He shook his head. “I don’t know if she’s cleared yet. They may want her down at the station for questioning.”
How many more questions could she answer? Chandler grimaced and bit the inside of her lip. “I really—really need to go home. I don’t feel good.”
Warren’s eyebrow rose. “I’ll get an EMT.”
“No.” Chandler almost snapped and regretted the tone of her voice. “Sorry, I just . . . I have a chronic condition, and until I lie down and get some rest . . .” She let her words hang.
Lottie inserted herself into the conversation, her bracelets jangling as she pointed to a man in khakis and a polo shirt. “Go ask your boss, Warren. Detective Janson must have sympathy for Ms. Faulk here. Unless she’s going to be hospitalized, it’s obvious she needs to lie down.”
“There’s the ambulance—” Warren started.
“At home.” Lottie pinched her lips together.
Warren cleared his throat, gave a short nod, and headed toward Detective Janson. Within minutes, Chandler noted that Detective Janson nodded, glanced in her direction, said something to Warren, and then strode toward the depot and ducked under the tape.
Warren returned and released Chandler to Lottie’s care. “You’ll probably be called in at some point,” he added.
“I don’t know anything more than what I told you all earlier,” Chandler insisted.
“Just be available,” Warren prompted.
Lottie intervened with a smile. “Of course she will. She’s got nothing to hide.”
Five minutes later, Chandler was sinking deeper into the soft cushion of Lottie’s car, the bucket seat wrapping up and around her hips. She closed her eyes and willed herself to bring Peter’s face into focus. A semblance of normalcy in the riotous circumstances of the day.
As the car approached a red light, Lottie applied the brake gently. Her hands gripped the steering wheel at ten and two as she stared ahead at the strip of quaint businesses that bordered the river—a row of brick buildings that used to be machine sheds for the circus in bygone days.
Chandler wasn’t comfortable with Lottie’s profession. Oh, not the real-estate business, but her connection with the other world. Still, it nagged at her. The footsteps outside the closet. The moaning. The fact that it ended as quickly as it’d begun, and then the discovery . . .
“Did you—sense anything at the depot just now?” Chandler asked the question before she chickened out. She wasn’t summoning a tarot card reading, and she certainly wasn’t trying to have Lottie read the energies around her for some sort of communication with a dead loved one, but she couldn’t help but be curious. There were things—moments in life—that simply couldn’t be explained. Chandler’s grandmother would have claimed it was demonic. Her pastor might have touted spiritual warfare. She wasn’t sure what Nel would think—the thought of her wheelchair-bound friend made Chandler wish Nel were with her now. Grounding her. Advising her.
The light turned green.
“Do you want to know?” Lottie responded softly. She steered the car around a corner and headed east toward Chandler’s cottage. Lottie managed a sideways glance at Chandler, her blue eyes connecting for an instant before returning to the road. “I try not to impose where my gifts aren’t welcome. I can respect a person’s skepticism—even their beliefs.”
“I believe in God, in His Scripture. But I am curious.” Chandler tried to hide her wince of regret. She probably shouldn’t ask. Like playing with fire, the spirit world. Whether a real dead person, a demon, an energy, none of it sounded particularly comforting.
Lottie cleared her throat. “I understand that. To answer your question, I did sense some energies at the depot just now. But I couldn’t focus. I couldn’t get a read on who it might be. Or what.”
“You don’t believe it was a ghost trying to make contact?” Chandler inquired.
Lottie shrugged, and her shoulders nudged her long earrings. “I don’t necessarily believe every energy is a person who’s passed. Sometimes it’s just energy itself. Positive or negative. In a place where violence has been committed, very often it is a troubling energy and difficult to pinpoint.”
“But you do believe in ghosts?”
Lottie nodded. “Oh yes. I do. In fact, the other night when we heard Patty Luchent scream, even I almost peed my pants.”
Chandler laughed.
Lottie joined her, then continued, “Conversing with a spirit isn’t like having a conversation like we’re having. Typically, if they make contact, then I must acknowledge them before they will communicate. When they do, it’s typically images or concepts brought to mind, not words of dialogue.”
“Do you believe it’s actually the person’s spirit who’s passed on or . . . well, some believe it’s part of the spiritual world but not actually the person.”
“A demon?” Lottie asked outright.
Chandler squirmed. The word seemed so blunt, almost as outlandish as ghost.
“I suppose?” Lottie shrugged. “I didn’t grow up in a Christian home. But I do believe there’s a whole spiritual realm beyond explanation.” She gave Chandler a quick glance. “Whether you believe it’s a demon or a ghost, it’s nothing to take lightly. We can agree on that, right?”
Chandler nodded. Yes. They could.
“What do you know about Linda Pike?” Chandler ventured. Hank’s declaration before the police arrived at the depot had Chandler’s mind reeling. At first she’d assumed the skeleton was Patty Luchent. After all, it was Patty who supposedly haunted the depot and the costume house. Yet Patty’s body had been discovered decades before, in the twenties. Hank’s supposition made horrible sense.
Lottie nodded and waved at someone strolling on the sidewalk as the car breezed by. “I grew up with Linda, but she was a loner. She didn’t have many friends. Her brother, Denny, was older than us, and Linda adored him.”
Chandler didn’t respond, only looked out the car window at the passing trees and houses. Her hand rested limp in her lap, though every few minutes it jerked involuntarily. A sign of extreme stress. Chandler forced herself to draw in deep breaths. Oxygen. Oxygen was good.
“Why do you ask about Linda?” Lottie asked, halting at a stop sign and looking both ways before proceeding.
Chandler hesitated, then opted for honesty. “Hank made a comment about her. That maybe it was Linda’s skeleton we found today.”
Lottie’s expression shifted, her curiosity piqued. “That could be. I hope it’s so.”
“You do?”
“For the Pikes’ sake. How many years has it been? Forty? I mean, to not know what happened to your daughter, your sister . . . I just can’t fathom the trauma. I really can’t. All of them, even Linda, must be so unsettled.”
Chandler digested Lottie’s words. The empathy in them was genuine and deep. Whether she agreed with Lottie’s abilities or not, there was no denying that the woman cared strongly for the human spirit.
“I suppose Linda’s disappearance rocked Bluff River,” Chandler concluded. This being a small town, everyone must’ve been one person removed from Linda. A child disappearing . . .
“Oh, it did.” Lottie’s face fell as she turned onto Chandler’s street. Large oaks lined both sides, the houses separated by narrow yards. “That type of thing doesn’t happen in Bluff River. Well, not since the 1920s when all that talk of the circus train killer—the Watchman—was rampant. But that was almost fifty years before Linda. I think . . . well, no one wants violence to be Bluff River’s claim to fame.” Lottie paused and gave a sigh. “There’s always something a bit creepy about the circus, don’t you think?”
“But Linda and the circus aren’t related,” Chandler observed as she caught sight of her cottage. Peter. Margie would be in
side too. A cup of coffee, a blanket, maybe a video chat with Nel to soothe her nerves . . .
“Oh, they were related.” Lottie’s contradiction gripped Chandler’s attention.
“They were?”
“Mm-hmm. The Pikes are circus folk. Roots go deep, deep, deep in the circus.”
“How so?” Chandler’s pulse increased. Denny was a motorcycle guy. Hank had never insinuated any connection to the circus, and yet . . .
Lottie side-eyed her. “You don’t know, do you?”
“Know what?” A feeling of dread sent a shiver down Chandler’s spine.
“The Watchman. The man who was executed for the string of murders back in the twenties? He was Denny’s grandfather.”
“What?” Chandler sat up, rigid, so fast the seat belt locked.
Lottie’s regretful smile filled the car, along with her silent confirmation. It was in her eyes. Finally she smoothed her short blond hair and rubbed the corner of her eye as if to wipe away an invisible tear. “The Pikes have always claimed he wasn’t the real killer. Maybe he wasn’t. But Linda was—she was fascinated by it all. That’s why we all thought she was a bit off, you know? Who studies serial killers and circuses?”
Yes. Who indeed? The image of Hank’s deep-set green eyes, his rosary tattoo, and his limited information assaulted Chandler’s intuition. Hank was Denny’s nephew, which would make Denny’s grandfather a distant uncle to Hank. None of it seemed to be enough motivation to seek out the Watchman a hundred years later. Not unless it would somehow explain what happened to Linda. But how did a man long dead slay his granddaughter and then hide her in a wall? If it was her . . .
“Do you believe a ghost can return to—” Chandler broke off her sentence. The question was ridiculous on multiple levels.
Lottie seemed to read her mind, giving Chandler another sideways glance as she pulled into the rental cottage’s short drive and parked the car. “Can a spirit return to protect their secrets? Yes. They will certainly try.”
The Haunting at Bonaventure Circus Page 21
