Death of A Clown Read online

  Death of a Clown

  ALSO BY HEATHER HAVEN

  The Alvarez Family Murder Mystery Series

  •Murder is a Family Business – Book One

  •A Wedding to Die For – Book Two

  •Death Runs in the Family – Book Three

  The Persephone Cole Vintage Mystery Series

  •The Dagger Before Me* - Book One

  •Iced Diamonds** - Book Two

  *Formerly Persephone Cole and the Halloween Curse

  **Formerly Persephone Cole and the Christmas Killings Conundrum

  Death of a Clown

  Heather Haven

  The Wives of Bath Press

  www.thewivesofbath.com

  Death of a Clown © 2012 by Heather Haven

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The Wives of Bath Press

  223 Vincent Drive

  Mountain View, CA 94041

  http:// www.thewivesofbath.com

  Cover Art © 2013 by Dawné Dominique

  Edited by Baird Nuckolls

  Layout and book production by

  Heather Haven and Baird Nuckolls

  Print ISBN 13: 978-0-9884086-3-0

  eBook ISBN 13: 978-0-9884086-4-7

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my mother, Mary Lee, known as Jerull Dean during her stint as a performer at Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey Circus. While many exciting things happened to her in her youth, murder was never one of them! I thank her for letting me borrow her persona as a springboard for this story. She is, frankly, a wonderful person.

  Acknowledgments

  Along the lines of it takes a village to write a book, I would like to thank all the people who have helped bring this work to life. That would be Baird Nuckolls, my literary partner, for all her wise words, hard work, and strong support; Ellen Sussman, author and teacher; and the writer friends I am fortunate to know, including Elizabeth, Katy, Tracy, Maggie, Ginger, Sid, and many others my wanting mind cannot remember. Finally, thanks to my husband, Norman, for making the effort possible. You are all wonderful.

  Death of a Clown

  A Noir Mystery

  Chapter One

  7:30 a.m., Sunday, July 5th 1942

  I didn't wake up this morning thinking about my past or a little boy's face that sometimes makes me cry in my sleep. No, it's a typical day and all I'm thinking about is the act.

  I push out into space and up toward the canvas sky, the trapeze and I as one. It’s exhilarating, the closest thing to flying I’d ever known. The fatigue from yesterday’s Fourth of July parade and two shows turn into wings. I am more than an eagle. I am free.

  The trapeze begins its arc back to the center of the ring and I throw myself over backward, catching either side of the bar with flexed feet. I swing like that for several moments, my long, blue-black curls falling loose from the snood and sweeping the air. I arch my back, reaching up from behind to grab the bar with my hands, then release my feet. The momentum swings me up and over. I land straddling the thin metal bar with my abdomen and find my balance.

  Then comes the pose; legs straight out, ankles crossed, toes pointed, arms outstretched. I have a well toned body, and I know it looks good. Back and forth I go, smiling the grand, Big Top smile. Tin Foot, my web sitter and friend, applauds from forty feet below for a trick that goes perfectly.

  The air, so silent you can hear the rub of rigging on metal, is pierced by a discordant, blood-curdling scream. It goes on and on, like an air raid siren. Only a siren has no pathos behind it, just sheer pitch and volume. This sound is one of the basest of human agonies, pure horror that comes from the soul.

  Shock vibrates through my body and I topple over the thin bar, losing concentration, out of control, falling. Even

  with the safety net sixty-feet below, if I land wrong I could break my neck. I snatch at the bar with my left hand and hang beneath, swaying from side to side. The shrill scream stops as suddenly as it starts, shrouding the Big Top in a split second of uncanny silence. A low, anguished wail rises again into its long siren of death. I let go of the bar and lay horizontally on the air, my body speeding toward the ground. With practiced timing, I reach palm down for the webbing just as I hit the net. While my walk to the edge is fast and efficient, there is no styling for the audience, just a dead run toward the screeching voice.

  Tin Foot, even with his limp, is right behind me. We throw aside the tent flap and run out, ignoring the light rainfall. I struggle to stay on my feet in the ever-deepening ruts and potholes of the muddy, narrow pathway.

  Sandwiched in between the main and dressing tents, dozens of iron-barred wagons are kept, pulled in and out daily for the shows. Against the darkened sky and glossy wet from the rain, the six-by-eight foot cages seem to jump out at us as Tin and I dart by. Flashes of color - red, blue, yellow, purple, and orange – sparkle with the circus name in flourishes of gold.

  Inside the cages exotic animals react to the screams. Gargantua the Gorilla grunts and pounds on his bars, big cats growl, bears rumble low and threateningly. The shrill laughter of hyenas slice through the air. The screams grow louder as we near the only green and gold wagon which houses Old Kirby, an ancient but beloved lion. There we stop, transfixed by the sight of the lion, silent and huddled in a corner, staring at the shrieking woman. The young girl lies sprawled on the steps directly outside Old Kirby’s wide-open cage door, a figure grasped in her arms.

  I recognize the wailing sixteen-year old assistant knife thrower but not the man, whose face is hidden in the shadows. I look for signs of a struggle, clawing, blood,

  something. There’s nothing. In confusion, I reach out for the girl’s shoulder.

  “Catalena, what happened?”

  She slaps at me so savagely, I stumble backwards.

  “Go away,” Catalena hisses.

  I turn to Tin Foot, who comes forward. “Come on now, girl,” he says. “Let go. Let me see how bad it is.”

  “He’s dead! That’s how bad it is.” Her voice is hoarse and worn out. She begins to rock him gently, crooning to him in her native Romanian.

  I grab her shoulder again but this time hold fast. “Catalena, listen to me. He may not be dead. Maybe we can help. But we won’t know unless we can get to him. Now don’t fight us.”

  We lock eyes. I see a flicker of hope come into hers then die. With a mute nod, she releases her hold and sits up, laying a thin hand on the man’s breast. Her body sways in an unsung lament.

  Tin Foot reaches out and lifts the girl in his massive arms. As he steps away, I get a clearer view of the man lying on the steps. His face is turned to the side, obscured by a fall of light brown hair and broken pieces of straw. I reach with trembling fingers for pulse points at both his wrist and neck and find none.

  I brush away the hair to reveal the swollen and lifeless features of Eddie Connors, the youngest of the clowns. Vacant, bulging eyes stare back at me. A protruding tongue along with mottled purple and white skin, create a grotesque image, much like something from a Lon Chaney horror movie.

  Breathing hard, I lean against the bars, flashes of a living Eddie running through my mind. He was about twenty, two years younger than I, and only with the circus a short time. He called it his new home.

  Above the body, the lio
n’s cage door gapes open. I pull myself together knowing I have to shut it. Old Kirby might be

  the most gentle and sweet-natured of the big cats, but he is still a wild animal and could be unpredictable, especially in times of stress. More to the point, if Old Kirby wanders out, a panicky townsperson might shoot him.

  I move carefully to the other side of the steps and give the barred door a small shove. It swings closed easily on well-oiled hinges, the round staples of the door and cage aligning perfectly. That’s when I see the padlock is missing. If I can’t find the lock, I’ll have to use rope, anything I can get my hands on, to keep the door closed.

  Searching in the mud below the steps, I spot it lying on a patch of grass under the shadow of the top step. The heavy lock feels as cold as a block of ice. I look down into its polished surface and see the reflection of my own brown eyes, large and darkened by death. It has tracked me down again. Sometimes you can never be free.

  Stretching up, I pass the hinged shackle through the door and iron frame and snap it closed. I pull on the lock several times to make sure it’s secure. Whatever happened here, the lock did not come off of its own accord. Backing away from the stairs, I fold my arms about me, trembling not just from the rain and cold but the violent death of a sweet, sweet kid.

  Chapter Two

  7:45 a.m., Sunday

  With such close proximity to the sleeping cars, it’s only a matter of time before others show up. Surprisingly, Vince is the first. A short, lumpy man with large ears and a pockmarked face, the general manager of the circus races around a corner, still buttoning his shirt. He’s followed closely by three half-dressed roustabouts, the men who erect and dismantle tents, care for the grounds, and handle animals and equipment. One of the many nameless kids who travel with the circus tagged behind.

  “What’s going on here?” Vince holds his side, gasping for breath. “What’s happened? Who’s been screaming?” His gaze jerks from Tin Foot to Catalena and then back.

  I answer before Tin Foot can speak. “It’s Eddie Connors. There’s been an accident.” Vince looks beyond Tin Foot, and sees me for the first time.

  I point at the clown's body on the steps. “He’s dead.”

  His eyes follow my gesture and he comes around to my side of the wagon.

  “Holy Toledo.” Vince stands gaping, unable to move. Then he rouses himself and begins to pace, looking from one shaken roustabout to the other. “What do we do? This has never happened before. What do we do?”

  “Send for the police, Vince,” I say, but either he doesn’t hear or is ignoring me.

  I decide to keep my mouth shut, at least for the moment. I know a thing or two about what to do at times like this, having previously been a private investigator for a short

  time with the Brinks Detective Agency, but it’s something I keep a low profile on around here.

  I look past Vince and watch Tin Foot carry Catalena's limp body under the awning of the nearby panther’s wagon to get out of the rain. She lies against my giant friend’s chest, eyes looking at nothing, breathing rapid and shallow. She needs to be brought to the First Aid Tent as soon as possible. I go over, take off my thin sweater and drape what little there is of it around her.

  A stunned and shivering group of people still in their nightwear begin to gather in the rain, uncertain of what to do. One of the First of Mays lets out a small scream and weeps uncontrollably, clasping at her face. I hear soothing murmurs directed at this girl, still among the living. No one is murmuring much to Eddie.

  I know Catalena needs help, but I was the one to find Eddie and I feel responsible for carrying through; that’s my style. I don’t want to leave the crime scene in Vince’s useless hands. Then I notice Margie pressing her way through the crowd. Six-feet tall in bare feet, with henna-dyed golden hair, she tends to stand out.

  “Margie,” I call out. “Over here.”

  “What’s the skinny, Jeri? What gives?” Margie asks, a bit bleary-eyed from sleep or maybe her current lover, a newly hired trumpet player. “Somebody hurt?”

  I grab her hand and pull her closer to me.

  “That young clown, Eddie, is dead,” I whisper. I throw a glance over to Catalena but she is beyond hearing my voice or anyone else’s.

  “Dead?” Margie stutters. “What happened?”

  “Will you help Tin take Catalena to the First Aid Tent? She found Eddie.”

  “Poor kid,” Margie looks in sympathy at the young girl curled up in Tin Foot’s arms. When her large green eyes come back at me, they’re filled with questions.

  “Listen,” I say before she can speak, “I’ll tell you about it later.”

  “You’d better spill like a milk jug when I see you.”

  “I promise. And throw your robe over her while you’re at it,” I say. “I think she’s gone into shock. We need to keep her warm.”

  “Sure, sure. But jeesh, I don’t have much on under this,” Margie murmurs.

  “Take it off, anyway. Give the guys a thrill.”

  “I usually charge for this,” Margie quips but strips off her heavy, chenille bathrobe, revealing a sheer, black-lace nightgown underneath. Margie throws the robe over the girl.

  I touch Tin Foot on the shoulder and bring him back from wherever he’s gone in his mind. “Take her to Doc’s tent, so he can look at her. Margie will go with you.”

  “Whatever you say, Jeri.”

  “It’s going to be okay, sweetheart,” I hear Margie say to Catalena as I stroke her cheek.

  “Go on.” Margie waves me off. “Don’t get a case of Italian Catholic guilt, Toots. We’ve got her. She’ll be all right.”

  I shoot her a grateful look and turn back to Old Kirby’s wagon. Roustabouts wander around almost tripping over one another while Vince swipes at his face with a bulky, wrinkled handkerchief. Whether the moisture is due to the light rain or nervous sweat, I can’t tell; probably a little of both. He might be good at the every day running of the circus but he’s often thrown by an unexpected situation or crisis. I’ve wondered more than once how he got the job. I guess it’s slim pickings, what with the war.

  I feel anger boiling up inside me as I watch him. He needs to do something, take charge. I step up, about to let him have it, when Vince shouts for quiet. The restless crowd settles down and looks at him expectantly. He turns to the boy trailing behind him, eager to be useful.

  “You! With the red hair. Go wake up Boss Man. You know his sleeper car?” The boy nods, cheeks red from excitement. “Tell him there’s been a terrible accident and he’s got to come to the big cat wagons right away.”

  “Yes, sir.” The boy turns to run.

  “Wait a minute, kid.” Vince hesitates. The boy stops in his tracks, awaiting further instructions.

  “Don’t say a terrible accident. That might scare him. Just say, ‘there’s been an accident.’ Got that?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m to tell Mr. Tony that there’s been an accident and he’s to come to the big cat wagons right away,” the boy repeats.

  “Yes, that’s it,” Vince says, wiping at his face again with the soggy cloth. “Hurry up now.”

  The boy takes off, with Vince and the roustabouts watching him, unwilling or unable to turn their eyes back to the lifeless man on the steps of the wooden carriage.

  I go to the edge of Old Kirby’s wagon directly behind Vince. Out of his line of vision, I scrutinize the clown’s body.

  Judging from Eddie’s face, I’m pretty sure he’d been strangled but with the shirt collar, tie and jacket, I can’t see much of his neck. I lean in, almost touching his face with my nose, and get a whiff of Old Spice After Shave Lotion. I twist, straining to see down inside his shirt. There lies a half-inch, flat wire, pulled so tightly it’s imbedded in the skin, all except below his right ear. Small, random driblets of dried blood blotch his skin, but not enough to have bled through the shirt.

  “Move out of the way, Jeri, so I can see what’s happened.”

  I straighten up and tur
n to find Doc Williams standing directly behind me. In one hand he carries his medical bag. Though there is a steady sprinkling of rain, the other hand clutches a closed, thin black umbrella, emphasizing the doctor’s own bony frame.

  I step aside and let him take my place, realizing I never once considered calling the circus doctor for Eddie. No one had. We knew he was dead from the first moment we saw him.

  “What a shame. So young,” Doc says. “Hmm. His skin is cold to the touch,” he mutters, “but it’s chilly this morning.

  It’s going to be hard to know how long he’s been dead until there’s an autopsy.” He pulls back the shirt collar staring at the bit of wire revealed below the clown’s ear.

  “Looks like he was strangled. Too bad it happened in Old Kirby’s wagon. Circus folks are already superstitious about the color green.”

  I don’t say anything. He seems to be talking more to himself than to me.

  “Jeri, did you know this boy?” Doc asks, suddenly aware of me. “He never came to see me, but I heard good things about him. He seemed like a nice young man.”

  I finally speak. “He was.” I feel my throat constrict and take a deep breath. It will be less painful to concentrate on what's happened rather than the boy himself.

  “Doc, I don’t think it happened here. I mean, not here at Old Kirby’s cage,” I say. “And by the way, Catalena Baboescu found him and she’s pretty broken up. Margie and Tin Foot have taken her to your tent.”

  “As soon as I finish, I’ll go look at her.” Doc shakes his head. “Although, I don’t see that I can do much here.” He turns to me. “Why did you say that? About it not happening here?” Doc’s hand rakes his unshaved chin.