Chandler, sitting in a chair at the small kitchen table, looked up from where she’d been resting her chin in her hands. “I’ll be fine.” But she didn’t bother to lift her head. She didn’t have the energy. Every cell in her body was rebelling against the recent surges of adrenaline and the companionship of nervous energy.
Margie frowned and reached over to smooth back Chandler’s hair in a motherly fashion. “Okay, then. But you call me if you need anything.”
Chandler tossed her a reassuring smile. One that promised a phone call only in an extreme emergency. She’d no intentions of bothering Margie more than she already did. Her nanny had turned into friend and housekeeper. Chandler owed her a bonus at the end of the month.
With Margie gone and Peter’s feet pounding on the floor overhead, Chandler lowered her arms and laid her head on them. Relishing the feel of her olive-green chunky sweater and buttery-soft leggings, the only thing she needed now was someone to come carry her to the couch and tuck her in with a movie and a bowl of popcorn. North and South, maybe, to satiate her need for period dramas. Or John Wick. Not particularly relaxing, but the violent extremism might make her own recent activities seem paltry and less frightening by comparison.
A knock on the back door startled Chandler. Her head shot up off its lazy position on her arms, and her vision collided with Hank’s. He stood just outside, an odd smirk on his face. He dangled a key from his finger but spoke through the closed door, his baritone loud enough to wake the dead without even raising his voice.
“Uncle Denny sent me over to check on you.”
Chandler pushed away from the table and stood, her sweater falling over her hips in a tunic style. Flipping the lock, she opened the door.
“Decided not to use your key?” was all she could think to say.
Hank shrugged. His hair was pulled back into one of those ridiculous man-buns at the back of his neck, but a strand of curly hair touched his brow. He was too rugged to be remotely pretty. Maybe one of the few men who could still successfully pull off the whole bearded-bun look.
When he offered no explanation for having a second key, Chandler stepped aside. “Come in.”
He did and handed her the key. “Uncle Denny thought you might want my spare to give you peace of mind that I won’t just let myself in.”
“Oh.” Chandler snatched the proffered key with a sheepish smile. She set it on the counter. “I didn’t mean to—well, sorry I assumed that.”
“I’m used to it.” Hank must be. He was a felon. He wasn’t a good guy. He wasn’t the clean-cut, trustworthy male that came with high standards and deep values.
Or was he?
The window over the sink captured her attention. Like it was an escape, Chandler stared out at the fall foliage that made the evening seem brighter than usual, the warmth of the oranges and yellows with green undertones on leaves yet to give in to their inevitable death.
“Going out in a blaze of glory,” Chandler muttered.
“What’s that?” Hank stood beside her.
She could feel the heat from his body. Not the seductive type, but comforting. The kind that gave Chandler the sudden vision that Hank would be a good one to pick her up and tuck her in on the couch. She could even envision herself laying her head on a pillow propped against his lap while she fell asleep to the sounds of John Wick killing his ninja opponent, and maybe even the deep rumbling chuckle of Hank as he laughed appreciatively at the needless violence.
It was too domestic.
It was too close to the secret dream in her heart. The one that imitated the happy life of a married couple with a vibrant little boy. The one where proving herself wasn’t necessary, where looking over her shoulder to be aware and alert was needless, and where—frankly—she could have a behemoth hero rescue her. Just once. And not forever. She could stand on her own. Really, she could.
“Heyyy.” Hank caught her as Chandler swayed.
Her body was rebelling. Even the taco seasoning in the air from supper waiting on the stove made her stomach turn.
Chandler pushed off Hank. “I’m fine.”
“Like heck you are.”
He didn’t pick her up like a hero, but he did take her by the elbow and walk her into the living room. Hank sat down on the couch and pulled her down next to him. Chandler avoided letting her exhausted impulse allow her to lean into him. But she could smell the spicy scent of his cologne, or deodorant, or whatever it was that was so inviting.
Chandler swayed again.
Hank’s eyes widened a bit, then narrowed. “Do I need to call a doctor?”
Reason returned, and Chandler jerked away from practically initiating the realization of her imaginary wishes. “No. No, I just need some sleep.”
“Denny figured you’d be a wreck. You’ve had one heck of a welcome to Bluff River,” Hank muttered. He adjusted his position on the couch and then tugged Chandler into him. It was platonic, or it was meant to be, but Chandler suddenly didn’t care what the definition was. She didn’t care that Hank had a criminal record. She didn’t care that not long ago she’d been snuggling with the dead skeleton of Linda Pike. She didn’t even care that supper was growing cold.
Chandler swore she felt Hank press a kiss to the top of her head. A gentle, calming one. The sort that wasn’t so much romantic as it was simply comforting.
“Go to sleep,” he commanded in a deep-chested rumble.
“Peter . . .” Chandler mumbled but didn’t fight the way her body was collapsing into Hank’s.
“I’ve got him. He’ll be fine.”
They were small words. Six really. Yet they relieved Chandler of the necessity of being a 24/7 guardian. Her eyes closed, and she sensed her body giving in to the strains of bullying through her disease.
“Hank?” Chandler whispered into his shirt.
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry.” A tear escaped the corner of her eye, tracing a hot trail down her cheek and onto her neck.
“What for?”
“You shouldn’t have to be here—helping me.” She closed her eyes. “I-I usually don’t need this much help.”
Hank’s hand settled on her shoulder and pulled her a bit closer as he shifted on the couch. The television snapped on, and Chandler sensed he had picked up the remote in his other hand, casual, unaffected. The strains of a sportscaster garbled in the background.
“I really am sorry,” Chandler said as another tear escaped.
“Shut up.” They were two words every Kindergarten teacher would reprimand their student for, but Hank’s muttered words were so endearing, so dismissive of her guilt that Chandler allowed her tears to come unfettered. Allowed herself to feel. Allowed herself to believe that sometimes God brought peace in the most unusual and outside-the-norm ways.
Chapter thirty
She couldn’t blame it on morbid curiosity. Something inside of Chandler wanted closure. Fast. Every piece of her had shifted this morning. This morning, when she’d awakened in her snuggled position on the couch, a blanket tucked around her. When the smell of coffee and bacon had reached her nose. When she’d risen and shuffled to the kitchen to witness Hank pouring Peter a cup of coffee. When she’d watched Hank toss a red grape into Peter’s waiting mouth and then laugh when it bounced off Peter’s nose instead. When she’d seen the hero worship on her son’s face.
Chandler was no longer jealous of Hank. Instead, she longed. She longed for normalcy. That concept that she didn’t have to fly solo. She even entertained Nel’s admonition that maybe her parents were genuine in their desire to help, but just awkward in how they offered.
Hope. She’d awakened with hope, which spiraled all too quickly into resolution. The mystery of Linda Pike’s murder, the ghostly activity at the costume house, the spirt of the Watchman, who hovered over every corner of Chandler’s life since she’d arrived in Bluff River . . . it all needed to end.
Somehow, as Chandler watched the father-son-type domestic scene play out before her at breakfast,
she sensed a renewed energy to fight. To monopolize on the lore around the old circus town. To move on and restore that crazy old train depot. To help Denny find closure surrounding his sister’s disappearance and now confirmed death.
There was something inside of Chandler’s soul that told her the equation was simpler than it should be. As she watched Hank chug his coffee and ruffle Peter’s hair, she wondered if the problem of trouble plus conflict plus heartache could be solved by dividing it with the acceptance of help. Trusting that people—that God—didn’t expect nearly as much of her as she did of herself. That people like Jackson were small blips on the road of her life.
Whatever it was, Chandler had allowed herself to feel this morning. To really feel. To feel the peaceful calm of the little mock family as they ate bacon, threw grapes, and drank coffee. She’d relished the curl of Peter’s lanky frame on her lap and his endearing “Momma” as he buried his face in her neck. She’d let herself enjoy watching Hank as the burly Sasquatch washed the breakfast dishes like he belonged here. A part of them. He didn’t. But she could pretend, couldn’t she? Just this once?
Now, having left Peter with a doting Margie, and sending Hank on his way with a casual and underwhelming “Thanks,” she had gone to work. Returned to the costume house. To the silence of its empty rooms that seemed to inhale every other second with the breath of some secret, unseen life. Today, more than usual, Chandler thought she could feel a presence here. It was her imagination, she believed, but still. It was living, breathing history that demanded to be resolved. Except she didn’t know how to help it—how to help Patty Luchent’s life be put to rest. How to exonerate Denny Pike’s grandfather from the label of killer and inmate who deserved death row. She didn’t even know if she agreed with Hank’s assessment that he should be exonerated. There was much evidence to show the killer existed, and history might be murky, but it didn’t often lie.
Stepping out onto the porch of the costume house, Chandler gave the neighborhood a quick scan. The depot to the west, the animal houses in a row on the same side of the street as the costume house. The river behind them. Beyond the animal houses and menagerie barn stood a more modern brick structure. The circus itself—or at least the memorial to it.
She hurried down the porch steps and made her way to the museum. Across the river, she saw the massive wagon barn where many of the circus wagons were still stored. Being repaired and restored and then put on display. A Big Top tent was still erected, but the grounds were empty of the summer tourists, and she guessed the tent would be coming down soon, releasing its red-and-white-striped folds and leaving instead a gaping emptiness on the circus grounds. Up the hill, she noted several of the old Victorian houses that had kept watch over the circus since its early days, and the farmers’ old feed mill that had been erected on railroad property back in the fifties, which was now its own vacant building. The city on this side was run down. No wonder tourists were beginning to forget about the circus of old, even the museum in its stead. The history was there, but the beauty outside the leftover circus structures had waned.
Could she truly hope that reviving the depot into a center for cute shops and specialty boutiques would even be possible? There had to be enough draw for tourists, even if it was a modified and dumbed-down version of the circus that existed during the summer. A few elephants, dogs, ponies were at least a memorial to the magnificence of the days of old. Zebras, camels, lions, tigers, pythons . . . none of those animals graced the grounds any longer, but the memory of them? It lingered and haunted every nuance. An empty shell filled with photographs behind displays, miniature models of the circus, and a few costumes propped behind plexiglass.
Chandler pulled on the modern glass door of the museum’s main entrance. A wave of cool air from the A/C blasted in her face. Unnecessary with the temperatures comfortable in the low sixties. Still, it was Wisconsin, and the sixties brought with it humidity. A gift shop was set up to Chandler’s right. Books and souvenirs greeted her. Clown masks, stuffed elephants, big red foam noses, and vintage reprinted circus postcards.
“Hello!” A rotund man poked his head out of an office tucked behind the ticket counter. His glasses perched on the tip of his nose, and his brown eyes were barely discernible between his bushy eyebrows and rather plump cheeks. “What can I help you with, miss?”
He clapped his hands on the counter, folding his fingers and leaning on his elbows.
Chandler wasn’t sure. Not really. She needed to understand the circus. The circus past and the circus present. Its lure and its lore.
“I’d like to see the museum.” She moved to the counter, tugging her wallet from her bag.
“You’re Chandler Faulk, aren’t you? Gal who’s trying to restore the depot?”
“Umm, yes.” She didn’t know she was known by people around Bluff River.
“I’m Barry Sides. I’ve been working here since I was a kid. My dad used to be the ringmaster till he retired in ’84.”
Chandler smiled politely.
Barry waved her on. “You go ahead. I’m just glad you’re here to help liven up this side of town. We sure need it.” His expression fell. “Nowadays, people don’t appreciate the circus.”
“What do you mean?” She had to ask.
Barry tapped his temple with his finger. “Kids don’t use this anymore. Their brains. Let them turn to mush with all those video games, and then the circus doesn’t seem all that daring, you know? What’s the big deal about a gal swinging from a trapeze when they can practically experience a real-life war zone on the TV?”
Chandler gave him a muted smile of empathy. He was right, after all. Physical phenomena were becoming less interesting in the wake of technology.
“And then there’s the animal-rights people.” Barry swore softly. “Been around since the turn of the century, but man, have they gotten loud. I’m not standing here saying every circus is innocent of animal abuse, but I can vouch for our trainers. They’ve always given the best care. Still, so many circuses are shutting down completely. Like the end of an era.”
“Some would argue it’s best for the animal to be in the wild.”
Barry eyed her, assessing where Chandler stood on the issue. “It’d be better for the world to be perfect too,” he retorted.
That was for sure. Chandler was careful to offer him a friendly expression. She adjusted her bag on her shoulder. “Well, I’m anxious to learn more about this amazing place.”
Her statement seemed to win him over. Barry waved her through. “Go on ahead. There’s another visitor in there, but for the most part, the place is yours. Always gets quiet around here after school starts back up.”
Chandler nodded and gave Barry a little wave.
“Stop back and grab something from the gift shop on your way out!” he called after her. “If you got kids, there’s some fun little trinkets.”
“I will,” she tossed over her shoulder. Peter would like something.
The double doors into the main part of the museum were shut. Chandler pushed on them and was instantly entranced by the room beyond. Its walls and floors and ceiling were all dark. Strategic lights hovered over display after display. The sound of lions roaring played subtly over the speakers, then shifted to the old metallic notes of the calliope.
She trailed down the path to the first display. Clowns. Chandler never really had an opinion on clowns. She wasn’t terrified of them, but she was never particularly excited by them either. Still, the display was fascinating. A mannequin sat facing a makeup table. He was decked out in full hobo-clown garb and red wig, his face half painted and reflected in the mirror. Antique containers of face paints scattered across the tabletop. There was a red button to push outside the display, and Chandler did so. A man’s booming voice began reciting facts about clowns, their history with the circus, the slapstick comedy that was the fashion back in the day, and even some interesting facts about modern-day clown colleges that still trained men and women in the art of clowning.
> “Who knew,” Chandler muttered. The thought crossed her mind that a clown made a great front for the Watchman. Who was Denny Pike’s grandfather really? In her mind, he was the elusive Watchman, a killer who’d preyed on women. But he’d been a man too, whether disguised behind makeup, beneath a ringmaster’s top hat, or maybe—
“I hate clowns.”
Chandler spun and slapped her palm against Hank’s arm in one frantic move. She glared at him. “If you sneak up on me one more time . . .”
The look he gave her was one of feigned innocence. “Hey, I’m just here to see the circus.”
Chandler eyed him. “Mm-hmm.”
“Come here.” Hank grabbed her hand, and Chandler allowed it. She was still emotionally intoxicated from the night before.
She followed him to a display of black-and-white pictures, blown up and posted on foam backing. Cards beneath them were filled with text. They showed various scenes of the circus grounds, mud caked halfway up wagon wheels, with elephants hitched to the fronts and trying to pull them from the mire. Another of camels, and another with two zebras pulling a circus wagon with a few men in trousers and suspenders posing in front of it.
“Right there.” Hank pointed to the photo and the men in the group.
Chandler leaned forward, squinting to make out a bearded man’s features, blurry from the lack of camera quality. A cigar hung lazily from the corner of his mouth. His arms were crossed over his chest, muscular and corded. “He sort of resembles you,” she observed.
“No connection.” Hank shook his head. “I’ve no clue who that guy is.”
“So why show me this picture?” Chandler tried to understand the importance.
“Notice the canvas sign in the background?”
It was faded. Hard to see. Chandler leaned forward and forgot about the plexiglass, bumping her forehead. “St. Louis?” she managed to make out.
The Haunting at Bonaventure Circus Page 25
