The Christmas Fair Killer

by Amy Patricia Meade

  As Jules whined to Celestine and Mary Jo, Reade addressed Tish. ‘I wanted to give you an update. You have a minute?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ She led Reade away from the booth and out of earshot of the others. ‘I owe you an update as well.’

  She filled him in on the details of her dinner deliveries.

  ‘So Justin Dange has some violent tendencies,’ Reade remarked.

  ‘And more than just a soft spot for Lucinda,’ she replied. ‘Lucinda Gilcrease.’

  ‘Ah, so she is the mother of the girl in Pensacola.’

  ‘Yep. Were you able to reach the baby’s adopted family?’

  ‘No, we called a few times and got voicemail. We left a message, but we’ll try again in the morning. However, I received some news this evening that might make that communication a bit less urgent.’

  ‘What kind of news?’

  ‘We have a lead on that photo we distributed, courtesy of Jules. After more troll calls than I can possibly count, a woman named Bonnie Broussard – from Baton Rouge, Louisiana – reached us. She claims the photo is of her niece, Genevieve.’

  ‘Jenny,’ Tish whispered.

  ‘Yeah, one of the few names we didn’t check,’ Reade admitted.

  ‘Well, it’s not exactly common, is it? At least not in this part of the country. What did Ms Broussard have to say?’

  ‘Her story fits. Genevieve’s mother – Bonnie’s sister – died when the girl was eleven years old. She was then left to be raised by her stepfather. Genevieve was theatrical, dramatic, artistic. She loved her dance classes, old movies, and acting in school plays. She was also given to telling tales. Genevieve ran away from home – not at eighteen, as Jenny told Justin, but at sixteen. That was six years ago. Ms Broussard hasn’t seen her since.’

  ‘Do you think Genevieve and Jenny are one and the same?’

  ‘I need more proof, but, yes, I do. Same age. Same physical description. Same likes. Same temperament. Only difference is the age at which each girl hit the streets. I checked out Broussard’s story and she filed a missing person’s report with the police in Mobile, Alabama, for a missing sixteen-year-old.’

  ‘Mobile? I thought she lived in Baton Rouge.’

  ‘She did. She does. But Genevieve lived in Mobile.’

  ‘Why didn’t Genevieve’s stepfather file the report?’

  ‘That’s a story for another day.’

  ‘Hmm, so assuming Jenny is Genevieve, she lied to Justin about the age she left home.’

  ‘Yep, seems plausible to me. Most people leave home at eighteen for college, military, one thing or another. Sixteen is another matter entirely.’

  Tish agreed. ‘Telling someone you left home when you were that young opens up a whole bunch of questions. Questions she obviously didn’t want to answer. Did Ms Broussard mention if Genevieve had any siblings?’

  ‘Trying to explain the recent Jenny sightings?’ Reade guessed.

  Tish nodded.

  ‘Ms Broussard didn’t say and I didn’t ask. She was in quite a state on the phone. We’re putting her on a flight to Richmond tonight. She’ll be here to identify the body first thing in the morning.’

  Tish grimaced. ‘As much as I’d like to talk to Ms Broussard, I’m glad I won’t be there to witness her reaction.’

  ‘Yeah, it promises to be a difficult morning,’ Reade remarked. ‘And you? What are you up to in the morning? Still delivering breakfast?’

  ‘Yes, last delivery of the weekend. Unless the group wants me to provide them with dinner, but I think they’ll have had their fill of my limited menu by then.’

  ‘Well, I’m not going to tell you what to do.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Tish was genuinely appreciative.

  ‘But—’

  ‘Oh, here we go.’ She gave a playful sigh.

  ‘Can someone go with you on your deliveries? Mary Jo? Celestine?’

  ‘No one in the group will talk to me if I’m not on my own. You know that. I’m like the friendly neighborhood bartender and hairdresser all in one. People eat my food, feel comforted, gossip, tell me things they would never, ever admit in polite conversation, and trust that I won’t repeat it. Bringing someone else along would ruin that sense of privacy.’

  It was Reade’s turn to sigh. ‘You’re right. I know. I even let Ted Fenton eat your sandwich in my makeshift office in the hope it might act as a truth serum.’

  Tish laughed out loud. ‘Really? Did it work?’

  ‘Somewhat, but I’m not you.’ Reade sighed again. ‘I’m sorry for trying to cramp your style, but something doesn’t feel right, for lack of a better word.’

  ‘I know. I feel it too. All the better that you’re getting to the bottom of Jenny’s identity.’

  ‘Yeah. Since I’ll be in town tomorrow morning, I’ve instructed my officers to keep an eye on you. Should anything seem strange, creepy, or suspicious to you – anything at all – just send up a flare to them.’

  ‘I will. I’ll be fine, Clemson.’

  ‘OK, but …’ Reade gave a long pause. ‘Be careful.’

  ‘I will,’ she reassured him. ‘Now, I’d best get back. The show’s ended.’

  Reade accompanied her to the booth and was about to bid the Cookin’ gang goodnight when a metallic clang rang through the air.

  ‘What’s that?’ Tish asked in alarm.

  ‘Sam Noble.’ Reade gestured across the grassy area where the audience had been assembled. Noble was leaning over the corner guy ropes of his tent. His daughter, Lily, was nearby, waving a sparkler in the air. ‘He’s over there with a sledgehammer. This might be a temporary fairground, but we’re still in a residential area. He’s lived here long enough to know there’s a noise ordinance. If someone complains, he’ll be fined.’

  ‘Sam’s just tamping down the stakes on his tent,’ Jules explained. ‘A northwesterly wind is whipping through the region tonight and he wanted to make sure everything’s secure before he closes. Because’ – his eyes darted toward Tish – ‘unlike someone else I know, Sam watched and listened to my weekend forecast.’

  ‘Is this the same forecast that said we could see unseasonably warm temperatures today?’ Reade asked as he pulled the collar of his coat up around his neck.

  Jules blushed crimson and fidgeted with the zipper on his jacket. ‘I said “could.” It could be warm.’

  ‘And Sam still believes you?’ The sheriff teased, ‘I could fine him on that count alone.’

  NINETEEN

  It was just past ten thirty p.m. when Tish met Schuyler at the town council tent, where, after adding a bell-ringing concert and the purchase of some candles to their holiday-themed date, she bestowed upon him a passionate goodnight kiss and drove back to the café.

  Using the flashlight on her phone to illuminate the back door, she slipped her key into the lock, let herself inside, and switched on the kitchen light. Upon a brief inspection of the premises, she determined everything was in order and bolted the door behind her. Then, with Sheriff Reade’s words of warning echoing in her ears, she checked the front door and windows, threw on all the café lights, including those on the Christmas tree and in the parking lot, and closed the blinds.

  Unless Jenny’s killer was a vampire, Tish was uncertain how the light might ward off a potential evildoer. However, given that the last case Tish worked on had led to her being assaulted in a darkened café parking lot and the windows of her car smashed with a tire iron, she saw no harm in taking the added precaution.

  With the café both bright and secure, Tish contemplated her next move. Although bone-weary, she was in no mood to sleep. She was chilled and achy – byproducts of both fatigue and lack of food. Despite feeding hundreds, the only food she had consumed all day was a slice of avocado toast at six thirty in the morning and part of a peppermint candy cane given to her by one of Santa’s firemen, who’d also asked, albeit unsuccessfully, for her phone number.

  Retrieving a pot of leftover chili from the refrigerator, she placed it on the
front burner of her industrial Vulcan range and turned on the gas. She then moved to the cupboard nearest the stove, extracted a bottle of Pinot Noir and a wine glass, and poured herself a drink.

  Still dressed in her hat and coat, she plopped on to a counter stool and took a sizable sip, breathing in as the jewel-colored liquid warmed her digestive tract and then, slowly, her extremities.

  Unbuttoning her coat and removing her hat, she checked on the chili and gave it a stir before lowering the heat. Allowing the chili to come to a slow simmer, Tish hung her coat by the back door and trudged upstairs to her bedroom where she changed into a red T-shirt, plaid flannel pajama pants, and fuzzy slippers. Her night-time shower would have to wait until morning.

  Descending the staircase to examine the pot of chili on the stove, she was startled by what sounded like gunfire in the distance. Moving to the café window, she peered through the blinds to see red and green flashes of light in the night sky above the recreation park.

  More fireworks. She closed the blind and went back to her glass of wine. Since when had the Yuletide holidays become synonymous with Fourth-of-July-style pyrotechnics? Even little Lily Noble had been waving a sparkler outside her father’s tent.

  Tish took a sip of wine and wandered over to the stove. The chili was heated through and bubbly. She turned off the gas, moved the pot from the burner, and plunged into it with a spoon. The chili was warm, comforting, and richly seasoned.

  Picking up the pot, she walked back to her spot at the counter, plopped the pot on to a trivet, and tucked into her late-night repast.

  Fireworks, she thought to herself again. Had there not been rockets going off the night of the murder, someone might have heard the fatal gunshot and seen the killer leave Jenny’s trailer. Lucky for the killer, the shot was lost in the noise of the fireworks. Or was it luck? Was it possible the killer had set off some of those rockets him or herself to divert attention from the one loud bang that actually mattered?

  Tish put her spoon down and took a sip of wine. The stress of the day began to melt away, and her mind, frazzled from keeping a litany of suspect and catering details in check, relaxed before once again leaping into high gear.

  The gunshot wasn’t the only sound that needed to be disguised, she suddenly realized.

  There would have been a God-awful racket when the killer broke into the equipment shed to steal the rifle. According to Reade, the chained padlock was broken off and the door ripped from its hinges. Such a clatter would most certainly have woken the residents of the campground. Indeed, the metallic clanging of Sam Noble as he hammered his tent stakes further into the ground resonated throughout the fairgrounds, garnering questioning stares from visitors hundreds of yards away. The din created when smashing a padlock and hinges into oblivion would have been deafening, unless concealed by the sound of rockets firing in succession.

  Tish exhaled sharply and slurped another spoonful of chili. Her theory was absurd. The killer would have needed strength, agility, speed, and two sets of hands in order to break down the shed door, steal the rifle, shoot Jenny, and simultaneously light enough fireworks to conceal any audible traces of the crime.

  Unless … she reasoned as she leaned her elbows on the counter and drank her glass of wine. Unless he or she had an accomplice.

  Bonnie Broussard snatched a tissue from the box on Reade’s desk and blew her nose noisily.

  ‘I’m so very sorry, Ms Broussard.’ Reade expressed his condolences as he presented the grieving woman with a cup of tea.

  ‘I don’t know why I should feel like cryin’ so. I ain’t seen Genevieve in six years. I always hoped she’d come back to us, but in my heart I always knew it might end up like this,’ she said with a shiver.

  In her mid-fifties, Bonnie Broussard was neatly turned-out with freshly trimmed, shoulder-length bleached blonde hair, but her cable-knit sweater, although clean, was pilled and worn, the knees of her jeans were bordering on threadbare, and her waterproof navy-blue jacket was better suited to spring than the heart of winter.

  Reade took the woman’s shiver as his cue to drape an emergency services blanket over the woman’s shoulders.

  ‘Thank you. Helluva lot colder here than in Baton Rouge,’ she laughed through chattering teeth.

  ‘Welcome to Virginia. Where the heat, humidity, and mosquitoes of a Deep South summer meet the damp, cold, and ice of an East Coast winter,’ he quipped and sat back down at his desk. ‘I need to ask you some questions about Genevieve, but before we start, did you, um, did you eat anything on the plane?’

  ‘No, couldn’t find anything that flew direct to Richmond, so I got two shorter flights without food service. I connected in Atlanta and nearly missed my flight, too. Ice and rainstorms moving up the coast.’

  ‘Let’s get you something, then.’

  ‘Oh, no, that’s mighty kind of you, but I couldn’t. I’m not even sure I could eat it.’

  ‘You’ve been through an ordeal. You need some food in your stomach. Do you like eggs?’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, I do, but you don’t have to—’

  Reade held up a silencing hand and called out of his office door to one of the fresh-faced desk officers on duty. ‘Clayton, could you get some eggs and toast for Ms Broussard? Scrambled or fried?’ he asked over his shoulder.

  ‘Scrambled is good,’ Bonnie Broussard replied.

  ‘Scrambled eggs and toast,’ Reade amended his instructions to Clayton.

  ‘Scrambled eggs and toast, sir?’

  ‘Yes, Ms Broussard has traveled a long way.’

  ‘Um, OK.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Reade passed the officer a ten-dollar bill and attempted to shut the door.

  ‘Um, sir?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Where am I supposed to get eggs and toast? All we have in the break room is a microwave and a Keurig.’

  ‘Where else? The café.’ Reade shook his head and shut his office door.

  ‘My eldest boy is like that. Heart of gold, but if he threw himself to the ground, he’d probably miss,’ she chuckled.

  ‘Yeah, Clayton is a good policeman. He’s just slow to connect the dots at times.’ Reade sat down again.

  She drank her tea and smiled. ‘Thank you, again, Sheriff. I wasn’t looking for a hand-out, but truth be told, what with Christmas coming and having to take today off from work, my bank account’s a little lean.’

  ‘We’ve all been there,’ he sympathized. ‘So, tell me about Genevieve.’

  ‘Genevieve was all about the drama. From the time she could walk and talk, she was repeatin’ movie lines and dancin’ with her hands on her hips. When her mama – my sister, Sally – passed, Genevieve got lost in her own little world. Nothing mattered to her other than play-acting. Nothing. Her grades dropped, she lost friends, and she stayed in the house when she wasn’t at school or actin’.

  ‘I did my best to keep up with Genevieve after Sally passed. I really did.’ Bonnie blinked back her tears. ‘But between raisin’ two boys of my own, workin’ two jobs, and livin’ almost three hours away, it was hard. Damn hard. I couldn’t afford to visit as much as I would have liked, but I called twice a week and made sure the girls spent a few weekends a year with me and their cousins.’

  ‘The girls?’ Reade asked.

  ‘Genevieve and her little sister, Briony. Sally always did have a thing for those exotic names. She got it from her husband, the girls’ father. Thomas Savernake. Talk about a name. He was a nice fella, though. Was good to my sister and the girls. Probably why God took him. He always takes the good ones.’

  ‘What happened to Mr Savernake?’

  ‘Brain tumor. Died before the girls were even in school. Sally was devastated, but she kept goin’ for the girls’ sake. They were her reason, you know? If she were alive today, she’d have been heartbroken to lose Genevieve. That’s the only saving grace in all of this – that Genevieve is back with her mama.’ Bonnie choked out the words before breaking into sobs.

  Reade pushed th
e tissue box closer and waited in deferential silence until the woman could regain her composure.

  ‘Sally,’ she eventually went on, ‘found someone new less than a year after Tom’s death. He was attentive to Sally and adored the girls. They married just three months later. It was a private ceremony. No one else was invited to the wedding. At least, no one from Sally’s family. I admit, my nose was out of joint about Sally not wantin’ me there. After all, we were sisters. Blood. But I was happy things were lookin’ up for her – or at least I thought they were.’

  ‘What happened to change your mind?’

  ‘Little things. Sally and Armand – that was her husband’s name – kept themselves to themselves, which was fine. They’d just become a family, so I respected their privacy. Pretty quick, though, it became clear that things weren’t quite right between my sister and her husband. If I was on the phone with Sally and Armand came home, she’d hang up. When Sally would bring the girls for a visit, she’d come alone. Armand was always busy, yet the entire time Sally was with me he would be on the phone, checkin’ in. Not just once or twice a day like most men would, but five, six times a day. Sally would get upset that Armand was callin’ so much and they’d argue, but then they’d make up before Sally went back home. I’d hear her cryin’ and apologizin’ and tellin’ him how much she loved him. Happened every time.’

  Bonnie clicked her tongue. ‘My husband ran off on me and my boys over eighteen years ago, so I’m not one to judge marriages, but the whole thing just seemed odd to me. Still does.’

  ‘What about the girls? Were things fine between Armand and them?’ Reade asked.

  ‘More than fine. They were happy. Briony spent her time drawin’ and sketchin’. Genevieve acted in plays and made up stories and bossed my boys around. I think that’s why Sally put up with Armand’s strange behavior. With him around, those girls didn’t want for a thing. Singin’ lessons, dance classes, art camp. Then Sally got sick,’ Bonnie explained. ‘Ovarian cancer. She went for chemo and radiation, but six months later, she was gone.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ms Broussard. You’ve had a great deal of loss in your family.’