Lara felt the room spin. Shit, she was going to faint again.
The thrower, upon securing her thigh back in its place, spun the wheel, letting it come to a halt on its own. He then turned his back to the woman and put his hand to his chin, like he was waiting for something to happen. Only then did the woman step off the platform entirely whole to take a deep bow.
The ringmaster entered the ring, his hand sweeping proudly toward the performers. “Louis et Marie.”
The delighted audience roared and jumped to their feet, the sound of their shoes hitting the stands like thunder echoing through the big top.
Lara looked around the arena, horrified. Guests were gripped, staring at the spectacle, pointing and laughing.
Next came a group of synchronized tumblers dressed in aqua-and-gold leotards and pink-and-gold leotards, all striped the same pattern with gold beading.
Through the tumblers came a white horse. The animal was magnificent with a flowing white mane. On the horse’s head was a plume of aqua feathers. From the description in the journal, Lara knew it could only be His Majesty.
Doing a backbend on the horse with her shins on His Majesty’s neck and her hands on the saddle was Margot Cabot of Le Cirque Margot. The entire floor of the circus turned into flames and His Majesty continued his steady gallop as Margot lifted her legs into a graceful handstand and then dipped under the horse, into the roaring flames. Both rider and horse seemed unfazed, but Lara could feel the heat rising from the floor. Like a graceful ballerina, Margot hung off the animal with one leg while swinging her other, then stood up on His Majesty’s back on one leg as he simultaneously leapt in the air. Finally, the flames engulfed both horse and rider until the pair broke through a wall of fire, completely unharmed. The horse made a bow of sorts as Margot jumped off his back to curtsy.
In a flash, the flames were gone and Althacazur was back announcing the next act—the Dance of Death. Twelve androgynous clowns began to waltz, their elaborately beaded costumes a muted color of blush and their hair white. They looked ghostly, but the dance was beautiful. Three elephants made their way onstage and lifted the clowns onto their backs in perfect unison. From the ceiling emerged three Spanish Webs.
While this spectacle was unfolding, the other clowns wheeled out guillotines. Lara began to get apprehensive about this act, ominously called the Dance of Death. In perfect unison, the guillotines lowered as the clowns leapt from the backs of the elephants… and it was revealed that the Spanish Web ropes were not ropes at all, but nooses. As the orchestra played on, heads rolled and necks snapped. Lara put her hand to her mouth. She heard one woman sigh and appear to faint. The entire circus was a macabre spectacle of death played out inside a ring. No wonder some of the artists in Montparnasse had thought it was performance art. And yet, Lara knew it was entirely a dance of the damned.
As the clowns dangled from the ropes, they began to wake and crawl back up, their legs swinging in perfect unison. In the same manner, the headless clowns picked up the waltz and resumed the dance, spinning and turning. The music picked up the pace until it crescendoed into a frenzied flurry.
The stage went dark. As the lights came back on and the clowns were back in their original positions, the waltz grew tame again until they circled out of the arena.
The drum began to beat, followed by a Gregorian chant.
From the group emerged a woman with platinum hair. Lara had seen her likeness hanging on the wall at Le Cirque de Fragonard.
It was Cecile Cabot, the one from the painting.
The Spanish Web she was using was a rope with a bell at the bottom. As she waited, it lowered from the center of the ring. Cecile leapt onto the bell and quickly began to contort herself around the object as it rose higher and higher above the audience. When she reached the top, the audience realized there was no net below her. Cecile began to spin on the golden rope faster and faster, finally slowing and lowering herself back down from the rope to the bell-shaped end. Hanging off the bell, she spun her legs under it like a propeller, her body spinning like a plate faster and faster—and then she let go of the bell.
The music was otherworldly. It reminded Lara of eastern European composers, as haunting and tragic as a Russian funeral march.
The crowd, realizing that Cecile was suspended entirely on her own, leaned forward, expecting her to fall at any moment, but she didn’t. Instead she slowed her rotations so the crowd could see that she was, indeed, hovering in the air. She gathered herself and spun horizontally, picking up speed like a figure skater, moving through the air as if she were a human drill bit. Cecile had the grace of a rhythmic gymnast or ballet dancer, her moves fluid. As the rotations ended, she rolled slowly to the floor and landed softly before she lowered herself and bowed.
It was hard to describe the corkscrew. Certainly the journals didn’t do the move justice. To watch a woman fly so gracefully across the stage like a spiraling bird was one of the most stunning performances she’d ever seen.
The crowd jumped to their feet, giving Cecile Cabot a standing ovation.
With a swipe of her arm, Cecile Cabot made everything—the audience and the entire spectacle—disappear.
Turning to Lara, she bowed. “That, my dear, is Le Cirque Secret—where nothing is as it seems.” This woman in front of her seemed so different from the shy, sheltered girl from her journals. As she walked toward Lara, she commanded the room, confident and sure, but wasn’t she dead? Lara couldn’t understand how a woman long dead could be standing in front of her.
Cecile smiled, apparently knowing Lara’s thoughts. “I’m not the naive girl I once was. True, I have been dead a long time, but this circus is primarily performed by the dead.”
Lara kept forgetting anything she thought here was basically broadcast on a goddamned Jumbotron. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”
But Cecile shook her head. “Lara Barnes. I’ve been waiting for you a long, long time.”
Kerrigan Falls, Virginia
July 5, 2005
Ben had been through most of the notes in Peter Beaumont’s file and hadn’t turned up anything he hadn’t seen before. From a stack of photos held together by a paper clip, he took one out and studied it. Whoever had taken the picture seemed to cause Peter’s face to light up, so Ben assumed it was taken by someone he’d loved, and yet his mother had said there had been no one special.
The only person Peter’s mother mentioned was Jason Barnes, who had been interviewed twice and said it was inconceivable that Peter had just up and left. The two had been planning to go to LA that November and try their luck. Yet Jason Barnes had not gone to LA after his best friend disappeared. Ben wondered about this detail. Why? Surely Jason could have made it on his own—eventually, he did succeed as a musician. Looking at the date, Ben did the math and realized that part of the reason Jason probably never went to LA was due to the fact that Audrey had been pregnant with Lara at the time. Jason and Audrey were married two months after Peter died. As much as he hated to do it, he would need to talk to Lara’s father.
He turned the photo of Peter over, and there was on old note attached to it. Well, attached wasn’t quite the word; the tape had almost melted into the photo paper from years of being stored in humidity. Nothing here was preserved in storage, and the photos looked like they were beginning to warp. While he’d spent hours studying his father’s notes, he hadn’t looked at the photos. There it was. The little detail he’d missed.
Other case connected? 1944.
No one had ever mentioned another case. He searched his father’s drawer, where he’d kept Peter Beaumont’s file. There was no other case. Ben inspected the writing more closely. This wasn’t his father’s penmanship. Given that it was stuck on the back of a photo, he wondered if his father had even gotten this message. The police files from the 1940s were all archived in the courthouse basement, and he wasn’t sure what he should look for. None of the archives were online. There had been no murders since the 1930s, so it was safe to limit hi
s search to missing persons cases. He could call Kim and see if it was easier for her to check the newspaper archives on microfilm from that year for any missing persons case. He lifted the receiver to call over to the newspaper and then, remembering their lunch Sunday, thought better of it. He grabbed his keys and walked the block to the courthouse.
On the way, he stopped in for a black coffee at the Feed Supply. He wasn’t sleeping well these days, and he found it hard to stay awake in the early afternoon. A coffee might be exactly what he needed. Caren Jackson was restocking pastries after the morning rush.
“Moving from croissants to cupcakes, I see.” Looking around the coffee bar, he was impressed with what Caren had done with the old hardware store. Every business in Kerrigan Falls was housed in a building that “used to be” something else. The old floor still had that heavy sound as your feet moved over the solid planks. He’d once come here with his dad, poring through the drawers and drawers of screws and nails. Now they housed tea bags and coffee beans. The rich jewel tones of the velvet sofas and chairs mixed well with the weathered leather Chesterfield chairs and sofas Caren and Lara had found.
Caren laughed. “Can I interest you in an almond croissant? It only has about an hour of good life left in it. I usually order them for our mutual friend, who is probably enjoying the real thing in Paris.”
“Sure,” said Ben. “I usually only see her for dinner, so I wasn’t aware of her croissant habit.”
“Have you talked to her?” There was a hint to Caren’s voice that she had inside knowledge of his budding relationship with Lara. If you could call it that.
“I talked to her a few days ago,” he said. “She should be home today, shouldn’t she?”
Caren smirked as if this only reaffirmed her suspicions.
“Have you talked to her?”
“I got an email,” said Caren. “They extended their trip a few days. Something about an art expert.”
“Did she tell you she was chased by some woman down through the streets of Paris?”
“What?” Caren’s voice rose. “She did not.” He’d wanted a to-go cup, but she poured his coffee into a porcelain mug and placed the warmed croissant on a matching plate. After sliding both across the counter, she leaned on the glass display. “Does Audrey know this?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I told Lara to call the police. She’s got a valuable painting. Someone could be trying to steal it or kidnap her to get it. If you talk to her before I do, make sure she calls the police.” He took a sip and was pleasantly surprised that it was a fresh pot—something that usually didn’t happen in the afternoon. He carried the mug over to the nearest seating area.
Caren came around with the warm croissant on a plate. “I worry about her.” She leaned on the back of a low leather chair. “I’ve seen that painting hanging across the hall from the guest bathroom all my life. Who would have thought it was valuable.”
“So it was the across-from-the-guest-bathroom painting?”
“Exactly,” said Caren, laughing. “Usually it’s some Parisian champagne advertisement poster or dogs playing poker. It’s the most disrespected wall space in any home.”
Ben laughed. “And Audrey gave the painting to Lara?”
“Yeah,” said Caren, folding her arms. “Lara wasn’t really a fan of it. The thought that it might be valuable was a real shock to her.” She paused.
“You look like you want to ask me something?” He took a bite of the almond croissant, realizing he’d never had one before. The flowery, vanilla taste of the center was a surprise.
“Is it that obvious?” she hesitated.
He was wondering if she was going to ask him his intentions toward her best friend. “What do you think really happened to Todd?” Caren looked down, her long spiral curls bouncing anytime her head moved.
He was uncomfortable with this question. Michelle Hixson had asked the same thing, and he hadn’t had a good answer then. In the interest of the case, he couldn’t get into the specifics with Caren any more than he could with the reporter—especially not Caren, who out of friendship would feel some obligation to tell Lara whether advertently or inadvertently. Carefully, he weighed his response. “What I can say is that I don’t think Todd abandoned Lara.”
She actually looked relieved at his answer. “There are just so many theories out there—some of them crazy. I heard there is a coven.”
“I’ve heard most of them, but the coven is a new one,” said Ben, amused, sipping his coffee. “The Dulles Airport thing was wrong. I saw the guy on the security tape, definitely not Todd Sutton.”
“Seriously,” said Caren, sounding a little surprised. “You need to get a phone line for tips.” Just then the bell rang and a customer came through the door. Caren excused herself and went back behind the counter.
Placing his cup on the coffee table, Ben noticed there was a Ouija board—an old one. He touched the curved edges. It doubled as a tray. It was vintage, but the wood on it was pretty and it had been well kept. He pushed the planchette with his finger, causing it to move a little. It seemed to move a bit farther than his effort implied, and he jerked back a little. “What the—”
Smoothly, as if it were skating, the planchette began to slide across the wood. Instinctively Ben looked up to see if it was hooked to a wire. He looked under the table to see if there was a remote. That would be a funny gag, he thought. The planchette stopped, like it was idling, waiting for him to focus on it. Then, slowly it began to move again, stopping on the letter D.
“Okay,” said Ben nervously, still glancing around to see if anyone was watching him, playing a trick on him. This would be the kind of prank his college buddy would play… then he realized that Walker was dead.
The planchette traveled across the board, landing on E.
Ben picked up his coffee and sniffed it. It smelled like coffee and it didn’t seem to be spiked. “Okay.”
As though it was waiting for his affirmation, the pointer moved again, settling on the letter Z.
Z? Ben looked confused and waited for another letter. A minute went by and nothing. “Dez?”
Nothing.
Caren appeared behind him and Ben jumped. “Oh my God, you scared me.” He put his hand on his chest.
“Are you okay?” Her brown eyes were wide. He noticed how long her eyelashes were and that one eye was actually green. Heterochromia, they called it.
“Is this some trick board?” He pointed to the Ouija with the planchette still resting on the Z.
“No,” said Caren. “Why?”
“I swear it moved.”
“Oh God,” said Caren. “Not you, too.”
“Huh?” Ben looked confused.
“Lara hates Ouija boards. In all fairness, years ago, at my sister’s slumber party, one went nuts in front of us. There was a house full of screaming girls. Lara thought it was her mind that had done it. To this day, she still thinks it was her doing. My dad said it was likely static electricity.”
“Static electricity?” Ben was a huge skeptic, but even he wasn’t buying that answer. But then what was the alternative? He picked up the coffee cup and empty plate.
“Just leave those,” said Caren. “I’ve got them.”
He stood up, surprisingly a little dizzy. Ben didn’t see things. The world had order as far as he was concerned. “Thanks, Caren.”
Once outside, he realized how shaken he was. It had to be lack of sleep.
At the courthouse, Ben had offered to let himself into the file room, but Esther Hurston assured him it was her job to open the door. She led him down the hallway… well, led was a strong word because Esther waddled very slowly on her bad hips. After she got him to the door, Ben could do what he wanted.
Esther opened the old-fashioned door with a large frosted-glass panel adorning the upper half. It reminded Ben of those old ones from Philip Marlowe. PRIVATE DETECTIVE could be etched on the glass. Ben felt a little like one today. It was tough being a police chief in a town wher
e nothing happened. This mystery held more excitement than he’d had in a long while.
Something about the endless stack of 1944 cases made Ben a little discouraged. The place wasn’t air-conditioned, so he cracked a few windows and a nice breeze made its way in. Dust particles swirled as they hit the sunlight. The files were in chronological order by the date the case was opened, starting with December 1944 and working backward. Opening the first file, he had a hunch and found the October batch. About ten files in, he found what he was looking for. He didn’t even have to go through the pile any further. This was it. “Ah shit.”
Desmond “Dez” Bennett, 19. Missing on Duvall Road on October 10, 1944.
Bennett’s car was found abandoned with the engine running and the driver’s-side door open the morning of October tenth. There were no photos of the scene in the file, but Ben didn’t need any; he’d witnessed the same crime scene twice and bet the car was found at an angle. Yet, he’d never heard of Duvall Road. What was it about this date that was so important? Was there some type of ritual killing happening every thirty years? That had to be it. He even had to admit that Caren’s coven theory was beginning to have merit.
And the Ouija board. As much as he wanted to write it off as lack of sleep, it had spelled out Dez on its own.
God, he wished his father were still alive. He was in over his head with three cases. These disappearances went back sixty years now. Assuming the same person was responsible for all three incidents, that person would have to be eighty years old. Not that it was impossible, but it wasn’t likely. So what did that mean? There was always the supernatural theory, but he still couldn’t accept it. So were these ritual killings or serial killings committed by multiple people? Those ideas frightened the hell out of him.
He closed the file and tucked it under his arm, shutting the file room door behind him. As he walked down the same hall where he’d danced with Lara the other night, Ben realized that if some miracle happened and Todd Sutton returned to Kerrigan Falls, he would take his chances and fight for Lara. He glanced down at the file in his hand; Desmond Bennett’s case was still open, which meant that Bennett had not returned as of 1965 when the file was sent to archives. Given the history, it was unlikely that Todd would come back, either.
The Ladies of the Secret Circus Page 27