The Christmas Fair Killer

by Amy Patricia Meade

  ‘That’s OK. How much longer do you think he’ll be like this?’

  ‘Hard to say,’ Tish said honestly. ‘When we were at UVA, he once won the title of “Best Hair on Campus.” That was in January 1997. It took May’s heat, humidity, and subsequent frizz before he was remotely humble again.’

  ‘So maybe by Easter?’

  ‘Worst-case scenario. I suspect that when the internet finds a new darling – and it will – Jules will return to his senses.’

  ‘Is that what happened with the snowplow incident?’

  ‘No, that wasn’t quite as popular as this video, of course, but Jules lapped up the attention just the same – until he actually watched the video and realized how silly he looked. Then he wouldn’t talk about it for months.’

  ‘Should we ask him to watch this video?’ Schuyler suggested.

  ‘Nah, let him have some fun. He’ll get around to it eventually.’

  ‘Do you think that will happen before we spend Christmas with him?’

  ‘Maybe. It is the season of miracles, after all. And, if need be, interventions.’

  He laughed. ‘Good to know you have a back-up plan.’

  ‘Always.’

  He gave her a kiss goodbye. ‘See you tonight.’

  ‘Can’t wait.’ Tish waved to Schuyler as he drove off and then returned to the booth.

  ‘Romance at Christmastime. Nothing warms my heart more,’ Opal stated as she rubbed her hands together in front of the space heater. ‘Now, if it would only warm the rest of me.’

  ‘You need some fuel in that body of yours, girl,’ Celestine advised. ‘Did you eat breakfast this morning?’

  ‘I can’t remember. When I sit down at my desk to write, I lose all sense of time and space. I can tell you I had coffee, though, and a cigarette. Or was it two?’

  Having witnessed Opal’s chain-smoking first-hand, Tish was doubtful the writer had limited herself to just two.

  ‘No wonder you’re cold. Here, try this.’ Celestine pushed a paper-wrapped slice of golden fruitcake across the counter.

  Opal shook her head. ‘As good as your cakes look and smell, I can’t partake. I simply can’t do gluten.’

  ‘What I gave you is gluten-free.’

  ‘No!’ Opal protested. ‘It can’t be.’

  ‘It is. I used almond meal instead of flour. The rest is dried pears, dried apricots, golden raisins, and crystalized ginger.’

  Opal took a bite of the fruit-laden cake. ‘That is absolutely fabulous. I would never have believed that was gluten-free.’

  ‘I’ll fix you an awesome soy latte to accompany that cake once I finish signing these autographs,’ Jules proposed.

  Celestine glanced over at Jules. ‘Just how many pages are you plannin’ to sign?’

  ‘All of them.’

  ‘You’re signing the whole pad?’

  ‘Yes. I thought you wanted me to.’

  ‘No, I only wanted eight. How many grandkids do you think I have?’

  Jules avoided the question. ‘I was trying to be generous.’

  ‘That’s all well and good, but that’s the pad I use for my weekly grocery list.’

  ‘You can still use the backs of the pages. Or you can sell the extra autographs to your friends.’

  ‘Do I look like the kind of woman who would hawk autographs to her friends?’

  ‘Well, I, er …’ he stammered.

  Tish left Jules and Celestine to work out their issues. ‘Opal, what goodies have you brought me?’

  The writer took another bite of cake and, still chewing, unloaded a collection of beautiful winter vegetables from the canvas bags: three verdant leeks, a head each of curly and flat-leafed kale, a half dozen late carrots, and a dozen or so red potatoes. ‘No cabbages just yet, but next week looks sunny and mild, so they should have all they need to plump up before January.’

  ‘No worries. This will work quite well until then. I’ll add some beans, tomato puree I froze from the summer, and some pasta for a hearty minestrone.’

  ‘Yum, sounds delish.’

  ‘As usual, you’ll get the first batch.’

  ‘You know how I look forward to that.’ Opal glanced over her shoulder at Jules and Celestine, who were still bickering. ‘Are they OK?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. They go back and forth sometimes – usually when Jules’s head has gotten too big.’ She pulled Opal closer. ‘Speaking of which, you’re not really using Jules’s photo for a book, are you?’

  ‘I probably will, actually. I’ve been wanting to branch out into other sub-genres, and this is an excellent opportunity. But don’t worry, it will be some time before the book is released, so Jules’s head will have had some time to shrink by then.’

  ‘Thank goodness.’

  Opal removed her phone from her pocket and pulled open the photo gallery. ‘When I finally coaxed him to remove the sunglasses, hat, and hood, the photos turned out quite well.’

  She scrolled through several photos of Jules hunched earnestly over Celestine’s notepad, pen in hand. Always the ham, in each photo he tried a different facial expression.

  ‘Goofball,’ Tish chuckled.

  Opal laughed along and then stopped at the best of the lot. ‘This is the one I want to use.’

  ‘You’re right. Given the context of the story you described, it’s quite good.’

  ‘Yes, I think so too.’ Opal went back to scrolling, but none of the remaining photos compared with the one she and Tish had both approved. Suddenly, the image of Jules mid-autograph switched to a black-and-white close-up of a young person with a buzz cut, delicate features, and expressive doe eyes. Like Jules’s current disguise, the person was cloaked in a dark hood. ‘Sorry, scrolled too far.’

  ‘No, wait.’ Tish grabbed Opal’s hand just as she was about to scroll backward.

  ‘Yes, it is a striking photo, isn’t it? You can feel great sorrow coming from that face.’

  ‘When and where did you take this?’

  ‘Yesterday. Over there, by the games.’ Opal pointed across the green, toward the row of white tents assembled behind Sam Noble’s and the other food vendors. ‘She, or he – it is difficult to tell, isn’t it? – was running the shooting gallery. You know that game where you shoot at ducks with an air rifle? I watched this person help some children with their aim. Whoever they are, they’re a crack shot!’

  TWENTY-THREE

  After all three of her calls to Reade were sent directly to voicemail, Tish walked over to the department’s mobile headquarters, only to be told by a uniformed officer that the sheriff was out following a lead. Return time, unknown.

  With the fair drawing to a close in the evening and attendance anticipated to be lower than it had been the previous three days, Tish was fearful that Briony – or the person she suspected was Briony – might leave town early if her services were no longer needed. Leaving instructions for Celestine and Jules with the promise that she’d return shortly, Tish headed across the food court area and toward the fairground midway.

  The selection of family games present on the midway required very little in the way of set-up to be crowd-ready, so it was still a bit too early to expect the tent in question to be open, but Tish thought she’d take the chance.

  The chance paid off.

  A short, plump, balding man in a green jacket had pulled up by the front of the tent and was working on rolling up the sides. He was in his late sixties, with the leathery complexion of one who had spent his lifetime working outdoors.

  Tish approached. ‘Good morning.’

  The man turned around, startled by the interruption. ‘It is a good mornin’. Been a successful weekend and now we’re gettin’ outta here before the snow starts fallin’.’

  Tish reflected upon Jules’s forecast. ‘Snow? I don’t think anyone predicted that.’

  ‘They didn’t. I feel it in my bones. It’s this awful rheumatism. Hurts like hell, but I’m a fine barometer.’

  ‘Well, I don’t suffer from rheuma
tism, but I’m inclined to agree with you. There is a whiff of snow in the air.’

  The man nodded and picked up an insulated coffee mug from its spot on the ground. ‘I recognize you,’ he announced after taking a sip from the thermos. ‘You’re from that booth across the green. I remember that library lady pointin’ you out the other day while I was standing in line for a burger.’

  ‘Yes, that’s me. I’m Tish Tarragon.’

  ‘Hello, Trish. Bob Woodford.’

  Tish was tempted to correct Bob Woodford’s pronunciation of her name but decided to let it pass.

  ‘I’m not much into books,’ he went on, ‘but I tell my grandkids to keep up with their readin’. Sounds like it’s a good thing you’re doin’ for the people of this town.’

  ‘Are you from the area?’ Tish asked.

  ‘No, ma’am. Georgia born and bred. Live in a town called Thunderbolt, just outside Savannah. Lived there my whole life. Much as I like visiting this area, these northern climes disagree with me.’

  Tish nearly jumped out of her skin. Another connection to Savannah. ‘It does get much colder here, doesn’t it? You know, I have a soup-and-sandwich special you might like for lunch as well as plenty of hot beverages to refill that canteen of yours. And since you’re a fair vendor, your meal is on the house.’

  ‘Free?’ Bob was skeptical. ‘Ain’t nothing free in this world.’

  ‘You’re right. This isn’t entirely free. I need to speak with your employee, Briony.’ Tish extracted a café business card from the back pocket of her dark-blue jeans and wrote ‘Free lunch as per TT’ on the back, just in case Bob visited the booth when she wasn’t there.

  Bob did a double take. ‘That’s all? That’s the only catch?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘That’s mighty kind of you, Trish, but I don’t feel right taking that lunch. You didn’t need my permission. I don’t keep tabs on my workers,’ he insisted. Then asked, ‘So why do you want to talk to Brian?’

  Brian? The name gave momentary pause, but Tish assumed she’d either misheard or Bob had misspoke. ‘A friend of mine is looking to sign her grandchildren up for shooting lessons. She was here yesterday taking photos of Briony’s technique and was greatly impressed.’

  ‘Ain’t surprised. Brian’s the best employee I’ve ever had. Conscientious, polite to the customers, good with the little ones, and don’t mind putting up with my old, cranky ass. Don’t make a half bad cup of coffee either.’ He raised his mug.

  Again, Bob had called his employee Brian. He must have spotted the question flash across Tish’s face, for he immediately added, ‘I know he don’t look much like a Brian, but that’s his name. Don’t bother me none. You work with carnies, you see all sorts of things. They’re good folk, though, and, as I said, Brian’s the best of the bunch.’

  Tish nodded. ‘I understand. So may I speak with Brian?’

  ‘Tent behind this one. He’ll be drinkin’ coffee. He ain’t a mornin’ person.’

  Following Bob’s instructions, Tish entered the tent to find Brian seated on an old camp stool, drinking coffee in front of an electric heater.

  Brian looked up, wild-eyed and startled. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Tish Tarragon, owner of Cookin’ the Books Café. I’m running a food booth over by the stage.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I’d like to speak with you, if I may.’

  ‘You already are.’

  Tish fell silent. So intent had she been on finding Jenny’s doppelgänger that she hadn’t given a single thought to what she might say once she found them. She decided to be completely open. ‘I need to ask you about your sister.’

  ‘I have no sister,’ was Brian’s immediate reaction.

  ‘No, you don’t any longer, do you? Not now that she’s dead.’

  ‘Dead?’ Brian laughed uncomfortably. ‘Look, I don’t know who you are and what you’re doing here, but I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.’

  Tish wondered for a moment if she had made a mistake. Was it possible this person wasn’t Jenny’s sister? No, talking to Brian was like talking to Jenny’s ghost. The face, the expressions, the mannerisms were all the same. ‘Your sister was Jenny Inkpen.’

  ‘Inkpen? Who the … oh, that actress who was murdered. OK, now I know you’re insane.’ Brian rose from the campstool and shook his head.

  ‘Jenny Inkpen wasn’t her real name. It was Genevieve. Genevieve Savernake.’

  At the name ‘Savernake,’ Brian’s face blanched.

  Tish went on, ‘Genevieve had a sister, Briony Savernake. Briony bore a striking resemblance to her older sister. Just as you do, even with your buzz cut and shiny new nametag.’

  ‘What do you want from me?’ Brian demanded.

  ‘To help me and the police find your sister’s killer.’

  ‘I’m not talking to any cops.’

  ‘You don’t need to. You can talk to me.’

  ‘Why should I do that? Look, I don’t care who murdered my sister. My sister ran away and left me behind just so she could become some famous actress. I figure she got what was coming to her.’

  ‘You’re angry,’ Tish noted.

  ‘Damn right, I’m angry. You’d be angry too if—’

  ‘If what?’

  ‘Nice try, but I’m not answering your questions. All I want is to survive the day and then get the hell out of this goddamn town.’

  ‘Survive? Are you in some kind of danger?’

  ‘Yes, of losing my temper. Now, would you leave me alone? I already told you my sister can rot in hell for all I care.’

  ‘And what about your Aunt Bonnie?’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘She’s here in town to identify Genevieve’s body.’

  Brian was silent for several seconds. ‘She can rot in hell, too.’

  ‘I thought you and your sister were close to your aunt.’

  ‘We were until she bailed on us. Never called, wrote, or texted. She just disappeared off the face of the planet.’

  ‘Your aunt didn’t bail on you and Genevieve. Your stepfather barred her from contacting the family,’ Tish explained.

  ‘Is that what she told you?’

  ‘That’s what she told the sheriff.’

  ‘Well, she still could have tried.’

  ‘She did, Brian. Your stepfather took out a court order prohibiting her and her sons from visiting, calling, or contacting you in any way. She wanted to fight the court order, but she didn’t have the money to hire an attorney. That’s why you didn’t hear from your cousins either.’

  Brian sat back down on the campstool, looking completely devastated.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Just go,’ Brian pleaded.

  ‘I will, but if you decide to talk, here’s my number.’ She took out a business card. ‘And my booth is just on the other side of the green.’

  As Tish turned around to exit the tent, she heard Brian’s voice call her back. ‘Tish?’

  She turned around.

  ‘You did say that was your name, right?’ Brian clarified.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you might as well know mine. My name is Briony. Not Brian. I’m not transgender, bi, gay … I’m not anything actually. I shaved my head, put on boys’ clothes, and took the “y” off my name so that men would stop looking at me and touching me and making their disgusting comments. So they’d leave me alone.’

  Tish stood in the tent opening for several seconds while she thought about what to say. ‘I’m sorry you felt the need to do that.’

  Briony wiped away a tear. ‘I am, too,’ she whispered. ‘I am, too.’

  Tish left the tent and the shooting gallery behind and, after giving Sheriff Reade another call, marched straight to Justin Dange’s Travato.

  Within moments, the actor, in full makeup as the younger Scrooge, opened the door. ‘Tish, what brings you here?’

  She didn’t mince words. ‘You once said that Jenny was broken
and damaged. I need to know why you called her that and I need to know it now.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  It was late afternoon and at the tail end of the group’s final performance of Twelfth Night when an anxious Reade appeared at Tish’s booth. ‘There’s less than two hours until the fair closes. Are you still certain Briony will contact you?’

  ‘One hundred per cent certain? No. That’s why you have a member of your team posted in the tent across from the shooting gallery. So if she and Bob pull up stakes, he can stop them. However, I don’t think it will come to that.’

  ‘I wish I shared your optimism.’

  ‘I’m nervous, too, Clemson,’ she confessed. ‘I don’t want to let Briony go, but I also think she’d be more likely to open up to me.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s why I went along with your plan. It’s the waiting that’s killing me.’

  ‘Me, too, but your guy on the scene said it’s been a busy afternoon. Briony is an excellent employee. She wouldn’t leave Bob alone to face the crowds while she talked to me. She knows far too well what it feels like to be abandoned to do it to someone else.’

  As if summoned by magic, the phone in Tish’s back jeans pocket chimed. ‘Oh,’ she exclaimed as she retrieved the device. ‘It’s a text message. It’s from Briony. She wants me to meet her in the tent where I met her this morning.’

  Reade pulled his phone out of his pocket and began to dial.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

  ‘Putting an extra body on the shooting gallery surveillance.’

  ‘You obviously believe Briony’s the killer.’

  ‘And you obviously believe she isn’t.’

  ‘I think it’s possible, but I’m not entirely convinced.’

  ‘You yourself said Briony was angry.’

  ‘Yes, I did. I’m just not sure she was angry enough to kill her sister.’

  ‘According to Bonnie Broussard and now Justin Dange, Jenny claimed to have been sexually abused as a child. If true, when Jenny ran away, she left her sister with an abuser. If that’s not motive for murder, I’m not sure what is. When you factor in Briony’s shooting skills and that she got some traveling carnival gig based in Savannah, the story becomes even clearer. She followed her sister here and took revenge.’