The Haunting at Bonaventure Circus

by Jaime Jo Wright

  “But they can’t . . . kill?” Chandler bit her bottom lip. It was stupid, her line of questioning, yet she couldn’t help herself.

  Lottie seemed to skirt around the question as she turned off the engine. “This is why I wish the dead really did speak clearly and conversationally, like the Ghost of Christmas Past did.” She sighed again. “Maybe we could help appease them before they become violent. Negative energies are . . . well, they require more bravery to face than most of us possess.”

  Chandler reveled in the warmth of Peter’s body, his lanky form curled up into a ball of boyish sweetness and tucked against her side. His hair was damp from sleep-sweat, curling at his temples. He snuggled under the wine-colored chenille blanket that also covered her lap. Chandler hugged the arm of the overstuffed sofa, her right hand clutching her coffee mug like a lifeline. Margie leaned over the coffee table and set a plate of sugar cookies on the glossy wood top.

  “Freshly baked.” She kissed the back of Peter’s head. Chandler caught a whiff of Margie’s perfume, mixed with the smell of warm cookies.

  “I can’t eat sugar,” Chandler whispered, apologetic.

  Margie waved off her comment. “I made them with a natural sweetener. And they’re gluten-free.”

  “And they taste good?” Chandler asked with a smile.

  Margie returned it with a bright one of her own. “Well, I would say ‘heck no,’ but when your diet consists of meat and vegetables and the minimal amount of carbs you consume, I’m gonna say they’re probably the best dessert you’ll have all year.” She snatched one off the plate and handed it to Chandler, who took it and bit off a section. The warmth and sweetness met her mouth. A slightly different sweet than real sugar, but Margie was right.

  “Wow.” Chandler’s celebration of taste was muffled by the mouthful of deliciousness.

  “I always wanted to own a bakery.” Margie squeezed Chandler’s shoulder. “But you know—men. They mess up a woman’s dreams.”

  Margie laughed, while Chandler tried to hide the pang inside of her. Sure, men could be piggish, but then women could be foolish too. Settle for less than they were worth. It’s what she had done. Allowed herself to feel valued, to be seen by the boys who merely toyed with her affections until they tired of her. None of them really cared about her, her life goals, who she was deep inside. But Chandler remembered a few of them. They weren’t horrible people either. They were just . . . stupid. Like she had been.

  Chandler looked down at Peter, his lashes against ruddy cheeks. She brushed his hair back from his forehead with her free hand. How could she raise him to be more than a fool? To be honorable, to respect a woman’s individuality while cherishing her femininity? How did a single mom teach her son to be a true man? She thought of her father. She’d not had a brother, but her memories of her father were that he was doting, and loving, and wanted to spend time with her—at least when she was a child and before she’d screwed up her life.

  Margie had left the room. The TV was playing a sitcom, but Chandler wasn’t interested. She was hurting, and hurting meant she dived into the darkness that was so hard to find her way out of. Everything about today had sent her spiraling. She dialed Nel’s number, avoiding video chat so she didn’t wake Peter.

  “Hola, chica!” Nel’s voice was chipper, stable, comforting.

  “Hey.” Chandler wasted no time in filling Nel in on the day. Nel’s rapt attention communicated through silence broke only when Chandler ended the story with, “Now I’m here, trying to be calm, and Peter’s asleep on my lap.”

  “You need to leave Bluff River. You need to go home and be done with this business.” Nel’s advice was based on protective emotion. When that came to the fore in Nel, it was the rare times that Chandler wasn’t certain she could trust Nel’s judgment. Nel wanted to protect, and if she sensed danger, logic took a backseat to flight.

  “I can’t leave.” Chandler could almost see Nel’s stern tilt of her head and the stormy brown eyes. “I can’t. Jackson will come and take my place, and for sure Uncle Neal won’t give me another big project like this in the future. It’s exactly the opportunity Jackson is just waiting to snatch up.”

  “Chandler . . .” Nel’s voice sounded patronizingly patient. “Let’s be real. Is this what you want in life? You want to travel like this all through Peter’s childhood? To work your behind off?”

  “What choice do I have?” Chandler was taken aback by Nel’s going straight for the jugular and not mincing her words. “I went to school for this. I’ve always intended to be in this very position, and people didn’t think I could do it, Nel. I can. I will. I’m not a quitter.”

  “But what do you really want out of life?”

  Nel’s question pierced Chandler’s turmoil. Chandler took a sip of her coffee to calm her nerves. Or at least to try.

  “I want—I want people to believe in me. I want them to believe that I am not a failure. I don’t want them to blame Peter for my inability to succeed.”

  “No one would do that, Chandler.”

  Nel couldn’t understand.

  “My parents would.”

  “Would they?” Nel countered.

  “Yes!” Chandler gripped the phone tighter and glanced at Peter to make sure her raised voice hadn’t stirred him.

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because. Because I’m here in Wisconsin, raising a seven-year-old boy by myself. If they cared, they wouldn’t keep saying they’d take Peter and raise him, they would offer to help me. I don’t want them to take Peter. He’s mine. My kid, not theirs. And just because I’ve chosen to raise him myself . . . well, they didn’t need to abandon me. What happened to helping? They just want to take control and fix my mistakes.”

  “Maybe they don’t mean it that way.” Nel sounded tentative and a bit cautious about contradicting Chandler. She obviously heard the vehemence in Chandler’s voice.

  “What are you talking about?” Chandler wasn’t sure she could handle this conversation. Not now. Not after today.

  “It’s like me and my chair. A lot of people just avoid me. It feels like they do it because I’m not normal or they can’t relate to me, so why try? But sometimes they avoid me because they just don’t know what to say. They’re afraid to just be honest and ask me questions. Why are you in a chair? What’s spina bifida? I don’t mind if they’re asking genuinely, but people just—they just don’t feel comfortable. I can either interpret it as they don’t care, or I can choose to interpret it as though they’re afraid and fumbling. And I can have grace for that.”

  “So, you believe my parents are fumbling?” Chandler scowled at the TV.

  Nel’s voice filled her ear. “I’m just not sure any of you really came together after you got pregnant with Peter. You all just drew your own conclusions. Sometimes . . . well, I know your parents—they’re good people, Chandler. I think sometimes they don’t want to take control so much as they just want to help. And they’re bumbling their way through it.”

  “I will not give them custody of Peter. I will not.”

  “No one asked you to—not even your parents. That’s your fear.” Nel sounded timid. She’d overstepped and could sense it. Still, Chandler knew that Nel didn’t know why. She didn’t know she’d hit a sore spot. An infected, oozing sore spot of absolute terror. Terror that was entirely different from that of stumbling into a dead body. It was the terror of losing. Of losing her health, and then losing her son, and then maybe . . . losing altogether, everything. If she asked for help, or took help, then not only would she be recognized but she’d also be thought of as a fraud. That was worse than staying hidden in the shadows, flying just under everyone’s radar, and maintaining a level of success that kept people from asking too many questions.

  Maybe she was shutting people out, even while she ached to be seen.

  It was a wicked oxymoron. But wasn’t that what life was?

  Chapter twenty-six

  Chandler woke with renewed energy, and a little b
oy nestled into the crook of her back. She rolled over and dislodged Peter’s arm from her waist. Studying his face, his rounded cheeks that would one day chisel out into a man’s features, she wondered when the right time was to insist he sleep in his own room. What was healthy for a young boy? The safety and bond of his mother or the courage and boldness of his own room? It was probably way past time, but for now Chandler dismissed the thought. It was disconcerting enough to wake to the gray skies outside her window and the autumn rain that pelted against the glass panes. Ominous, and it didn’t bode well for a good day.

  There would be the update call with Jackson and Uncle Neal, when she would inform them the project had been stalled, with the police holding the depot hostage as a crime scene. She could work in her office at the costume house or maybe transfer her investment of time into that small building and what they could potentially do with it instead. But it was residential-sized, nothing that would yield much profit for Uncle Neal. Not to mention, it was haunted by a box-throwing spirit—if Lottie was to be believed.

  Chandler felt someone looking at her and transferred her attention from the window to taking in the large brown eyes of her son.

  “Momma!” He was always so wide awake the moment he opened his eyes. Even if they were still heavy with sleep and had the leftovers in the corners the Sandman had disposed of before taking his leave.

  “Morning, Peter Pan.” She tweaked his nose and hopped out of bed, fully clothed in her joggers, sports bra, and T-shirt.

  Peter stretched his lanky arms and legs, his basketball shorts riding up and revealing the white skin and a dark tan line. He’d not inherited his naturally olive skin from her genes. Chandler pushed away the thought. She had accepted seven years ago that her transgressions meant she would never know Peter’s father unless she asked for paternity tests. There were only two real possibilities. Maybe someday—if Peter asked. But she’d lost track of both. The college football player and the other guy who was destined for medical school. Truth be told, regardless of the athletic and intelligence prowess, Chandler knew her parents would never have truly approved of either guy anyway. Neither man had cared much about faith or character or even the welfare of others. Well, the future doctor did to a degree, but Chandler even then had realized his motives were based in the financial figure associated with a surgeon’s salary more than the human soul that would be held at the tips of his fingers. Chandler had her strong suspicions, though, and that was why it knifed her every time Peter picked up a football.

  It didn’t matter. He was hers. All hers.

  “Forever and always.” Chandler dropped onto the edge of the bed, making it bounce and causing Peter to flop. He laughed.

  “Do it again, Momma.”

  She obliged.

  He laughed.

  Chandler launched herself over her son and dug her fingers into his rib cage while blowing zoobers into his neck. The peals of laughter and shrieks drowned out her own personal angst for the moment, as well as the terrifying images of the skeleton and killer’s lair that had taunted her the entire sleepless night.

  “Okay, okay, Dude-face,” she said and pulled back. Peter held his belly and made exaggerated gasping noises as he caught his breath. Delight twinkled in his eyes, and he gave her a toothless grin, his top two teeth missing.

  “Tongue-tooter!” he shouted. They each made a game of coming up with silly names to inspire the other to laugh.

  Chandler cast him a mock motherly glare. “Flame-fodder!” she countered.

  “Bird-butt!” he yelled.

  “Ooooooooookay, that’s enough.” Chandler urged the boy up and shooed him off to the bathroom.

  She slipped her arms into a boyfriend-style cardigan and jogged down the stairs to the kitchen. She rounded the corner and—

  “God have mercy!” Chandler yelped as she slipped to a halt, her bare feet sticking to the wood floor.

  “You and Peter sure are loud in the morning.”

  Hank Titus sat at her table. Coffee was brewing. Leaning forward, elbows on the table, he glanced up at her. A newspaper was spread open before him, all of it looking as though he lived here and this was their morning ritual.

  Chandler was aware that her mouth hung open and her eyes were bulging in stupefied bewilderment. “What? How?” She looked at the back door. It was locked and bolted shut, just as it had been when she’d gone to bed last night. “Did you break in?” Her voice rose an octave. She might kill him. Or worse. She wasn’t sure.

  “No.” Hank rested his scruff-covered chin in his hand and ignored her as his eyes skimmed the paper. He held up his other hand, a key dangling from a ring looped over his index finger. “My uncle owns the place.”

  Incredulous, Chandler shot a glance up the stairs to make sure Peter wasn’t coming down yet, and then she stalked over to the table. “So, you just let yourself in? How long have you been here?”

  Hank dropped his hand with the key and turned the page of the paper. “Long enough to get through the sports section.”

  Chandler surged forward and snatched the paper out from under him, sending the black-and-white pages floating to the floor. “How dare you!”

  Tongue in cheek, Hank eyed her with not much expression on his face. Then he picked up the key and chucked it at her. “Here. Have it. I won’t break in again.” He stood, the chair scraping on the floor as he pushed it back.

  Chandler bent and retrieved the key from the floor where it’d fallen. “Good.” She curled her lip at him.

  A laugh pealed behind her, and Margie entered the kitchen, her arms full with a box of doughnuts and a jug of milk. “Go easy on him!” She deposited the doughnuts onto the table. “He’s just teasing. When I got here a few minutes ago, he was outside on his bike. I let him in.”

  Hank went to the coffeepot and pulled it out, pouring the fresh brew into the empty mug that sat waiting.

  Chandler stared at his broad back that tapered in at the waist, and then she turned to Margie. “Oh.” Her paltry acknowledgment was accompanied by a clank as she dropped Hank’s key on the table. He’d goaded her. She’d succumbed.

  Margie broke the seal on the box of pastries. “They’re from the gas station, but boy are these things good!” She whipped one out and took a bite, her finger stuck through the hole in the middle of the sugar-glazed doughnut.

  Chandler reached for one, and Margie batted her hand away with a stern but caring glare. “No. Not for you. You don’t need this poison in your body. The doughnuts are for me and Peter—and, well, Hank.”

  “Do you always spoil your kids?” Chandler asked.

  Hank shot her a quick look she couldn’t interpret.

  Margie chewed and nodded, her eyes widening. “Always.” She mumbled around the mouthful, “Now. You survived the night. Both of you. Any word from the police on what happened yesterday?”

  “I just woke up.” Chandler now regretted not checking her phone. Although it wasn’t as if the police would be calling her with regular updates.

  “No word,” Hank growled. He had stuffed an entire doughnut in his mouth.

  Gross.

  Chandler pulled out a kitchen table chair and sat down. Thumping from upstairs told her Peter was already running paces with his Nitro Steel persona, chasing down imaginary bad guys like Rustman.

  “Do they think it’s Linda Pike?” Margie also pulled out a chair and plopped herself down.

  “They’ll have to do a DNA analysis.” Chandler spoke authoritatively. She’d seen enough Criminal Minds to know that.

  “It’s her.” Hank sniffed and ran his hand over his mouth, dislodging a crumb of sugar glaze.

  Chandler jerked her head up to stare at him.

  Margie paled. “It is?”

  Hank nodded. He pushed off the table and stood, speaking as he did so. “There was a necklace hanging on the wall, along with some of the others. Denny ID’d it as Linda’s.”

  “So the Watchman killed her?” Margie looked breathless, almost in awe.
>
  Hank shook his head. “They think maybe he kept his souvenirs there, but whoever killed Linda was very much alive. And”—he glanced at Chandler—“whoever it was also knew more about the Watchman than anyone else in Bluff River. They knew where he hid his mementos.”

  “Someone quite devious and quite alive in 1983,” Margie mumbled. Her body gave an inadvertent shiver. “Why would someone want to kill Linda? Because she was too close to the Watchman’s things? She was always so intent on proving it wasn’t their grandfather who killed all those women on the circus train route.”

  Hank shrugged. “Maybe. But then why would someone want to protect the truth about a serial killer long after he’s dead?”

  Chandler cleared her throat and eyed the tempting doughnuts. “It’s really creepy that Linda was hidden in that boarded-up wall in the closet. How come no one ever found that place before?”

  “So many questions,” Margie breathed.

  Hank moved to the coffeemaker and refilled his mug. The pot clattered as he slid it back onto its heating pad. Chandler almost asked him to pour her a cup, then frowned as a question raced through her mind.

  “So, why were you outside my house this morning when Margie got here?”

  Hank shot her a glance over his shoulder. He poured cream into his coffee. Chandler hadn’t pegged him for froufrou in his joe, but there he was, stirring it like a gentleman in a men’s-only club.

  “Someone was outside last night.”

  “What?” Chandler stiffened. “Outside where?”

  “Here.” Hank took a slurp from the coffee, noisy and rattling as he sucked the liquid in through his lips. He tipped his chin up toward the window that overlooked the backyard. “They were hanging out there. Underneath the window on the west side.”

  Chandler froze. Her breath caught. It was the second bedroom window. The window to the room Peter would have been sleeping in had she not continued the habit of letting him curl up next to her. The habit she told no one about.

  Hank turned. His green eyes slammed into hers. “I couldn’t sleep. I was out for a run and came by just to check on the place. That’s when I saw the guy. Or woman. Who knows?” He shrugged.