by Ann Charles
Contents
Book Summary
Acknowledgments
About Ann Charles
Copyright
CHAPTERS
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10
To Gigi the Bird.
You make my heart sing and want crackers!
From the AC Silly Circus Co. comes the second story in a new series of paranormal mystery novellas chock-full of oddball shapeshifters, dangerous secrets, spicy steam, and loads of laughs.
Buffoonery abounds under the big top!
Someone slipped one of the monkey brothers a bad bunch of bananas. Now Madam Electra and Officer Bruno have to figure out who is behind the malarkey spreading throughout the circus. Unfortunately, Electra’s cryptic crystal ball makes finding answers no easy cakewalk.
Brimming with voodoo, gators, and crawfish pie, the bayou hasn’t seen this much fun and mayhem since the French circus came to town.
Come one, come all and enjoy A BUNCH OF MONKEY MALARKEY!
Dear Reader,
You know how some parents claim one of their children was a surprise baby who wasn’t planned? Often, it’s the first or last child, who took it upon itself to come into this world “ready or not.” Well, this AC Silly Circus Mystery Series is my version of a surprise baby.
I wrote the first novella, FERAL-LY FUNNY FREAKSHOW, after an invitation from an author friend to dabble in her universe. What came out with that first story was a whole new fun shapeshifter world that I loved, but I wasn’t planning on writing a series in that new world. As most of you know, I have my hands full with my other “children” in the Deadwood, Jackrabbit, and Dig Site series worlds. I published that first novella and walked away, sorry to say good-bye to the characters but knowing I had to leave.
For eight months I played along in my usual sandbox, keeping my head down, trying not to think of Nora and Bruno and the crazy adventures in their circus freakshow world. Then came my “surprise”—the rights to that first novella were going to be returned to me in full. Nora and Bruno were mine again, along with all of their circus shapeshifting friends. The series ideas I’d played with while writing that first story (and kept pushing away because there was no future in it) came flooding back. The underlying seeds of possibilities for more funny circus adventures that my right brain had sprinkled on the pages sprouted.
Now, one year after the release of that first novella, I’m sharing with you my surprise baby—the second novella in the AC Silly Circus Mystery Series: A BUNCH OF MONKEY MALARKEY.
I hope you enjoy reading this newest wacky mystery with Nora, Bruno, and the rest of the circus freaks as much as I did writing it!
~ Ann
www.anncharles.com
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my husband for helping me come up with some funny freakshow adventures in Louisiana, one of our favorite states to visit.
Thanks to my two kids who laughed at my ideas for were-characters and reminded me of swamp critters we’ve seen during our travels.
Super-sized thanks to my editing crew—first-draft die-hards, Eilis Flynn (my amazing editor), and superstar beta readers. I appreciate you all helping on short notice yet again.
Thank you to my brother, CS Kunkle, for drawing the perfect freakshow characters for the cover and illustrations.
Thank you to all of my readers for coming along to enjoy a romp in this strange yet amusing circus world.
And thank you to my dad and uncle, aka the monkey brothers, for being such wonderfully entertaining role models.
Also by Ann Charles
AC Silly Circus Mystery Series
FeralLY Funny Freakshow (Novella 1)
A Bunch of Monkey Malarkey (Novella 2)
Deadwood Mystery Series
Nearly Departed in Deadwood (Book 1)
Optical Delusions in Deadwood (Book 2)
Dead Case in Deadwood (Book 3)
Better Off Dead in Deadwood (Book 4)
An Ex to Grind in Deadwood (Book 5)
Meanwhile, Back in Deadwood (Book 6)
Wild Fright in Deadwood (Book 7)
Rattling the Heat in Deadwood (Book 8)
Gone Haunting in Deadwood (Book 9)
----------
Deadwood Shorts: Seeing Trouble (Book 1.5)
Deadwood Shorts: Boot Points (Book 4.5)
Deadwood Shorts: Cold Flame (Book 6.5)
Deadwood Shorts: Tequila & Time (Book 8.5)
Jackrabbit Junction Mystery Series
Dance of the Winnebagos (Book 1)
Jackrabbit Junction Jitters (Book 2)
The Great Jackalope Stampede (Book 3)
The Rowdy Coyote Rumble (Book 4)
Jackrabbit Junction Short: The Wild Turkey Tango (Book 4.5)
Dig Site Mystery Series
Look What the Wind Blew In (Book 1)
Make No Bones About It (Book 2)
Goldwash Mystery Series (a future series)
The Old Man’s Back in Town (Short Story)
Chapter One
Tippytoe, Louisiana
Madam Electra’s Fortune Teller Tent
One hour until showtime
“I’m thinking about taking up sword swallowing, Electra,” said the bear of a man sitting across my parlor table from me.
“Sword swallowing?” My palms hovered over Ol’ Blue, the crystal ball handed down through my family for generations. “Eugene, you just got over your fear of swallowing fire. Why do you want to mess with a good thing?”
Eugene had a popular act here at AC Silly Circus’s freakshow division. He started out as “The Giant Man,” making the crowd “oooh” and “ahhh” with his intimidating human size. Then he shapeshifted into his furry werebear self, lit the end of a torch on fire, and swallowed the flames, all without burning himself alive in the process.
“Fire is boring these days, not to mention the heartburn is a killer. You wouldn’t believe how many antacid pills I’ve gone through already this week.”
“That’s because we’re in Cajun country. You’ve been eating spicy jambalaya and garlic seafood gumbo since we hit the state line. Plus, all those deep-fried boudin balls you keep popping in your mouth like candy can’t be helping your gut. I thought you were off pork, anyway.” His doctor had recently told him that too much pork fat in his diet made him more flammable.
“Oh, those aren’t the pork boudin. They’re alligator with rice and peppers mixed in and deep fried to a crispy brown perfection.” He licked his chops at the mention of them.
I grimaced. His stomach acid had to be nearing a Chernobyl meltdown. “And you want to stick a sword down into that fiery smelter you call a stomach?”
He shrugged. “I need to mix up my act a little. It’s starting to feel like yesterday’s news.” He pointed a hairy-knuckled finger at Ol’ Blue. “What does your magic ball say about my crowd tonight? Am I going to fill the seats?”
Fill the seats? I lowered my hands to the table on each side of my crystal ball. Eugene usually wasn’t concerned about his show’s attendance, more about his act going off without a hitch—or an inferno. It didn’t take a psychic to figure out that something else was spurring this change for him.
“Eugene, why did you really come here today? And don’t tell me it was for a prediction about the size of your crowd this evening, because I call bullshit on that. You’ve never cared about how many folks showed up before.” I leaned closer, watching his round eyes and whiskered cheeks for telltale signs of lying. “Are the monkey brothers pressuring you into swallowing swords to bring in more money?”
&nb
sp; Donatello and Marco, aka the monkey brothers, were middle-aged wereapes currently acting as the freakshow’s co-ringmasters. Known throughout the circus world for their business acumen, they had built their stellar reputation on their food stand enterprise, which had grown more popular than the Mad Monkey magic act that they had debuted decades ago. However, since they’d been asked to stand in after the last ringmaster had an emotional breakdown, they’d been working on “improving” several others’ freakshow acts for one reason or another. They claimed their intentions were to help the circus staff members up their games, but I saw through their smoke and mirrors. It was all about a healthy bottom line.
Eugene shifted in my parlor chair, scratching his hulking shoulder against the seatback. The wood creaked under his weight. “Well, Donatello might have suggested that if I doubled my crowd size, he could swing an assistant for me.”
Of the two brothers, Donatello was the bigger penny-pincher. He was often seen rushing around the circus, howling out orders, while insisting he had no time to deal with whatever problem was at hand.
“Why do you need an assistant?” I asked.
Eugene’s act was pretty basic. Like my fortune-teller routine, he’d been running his show on his own since he started in the circus business. Maybe he was getting lonely, though. I certainly had been until the head of security started sharing my bed every night.
Eugene held up his large right hand, stretching out his fingers. “The older I get, the harder it is to use lighters or strike matches with my big bear hands.”
“You mean bear paws or bare paws.” When he just frowned at me in response, I said, “Never mind. Aren’t you wearing your special torch-glove during the show?” He’d had a special metal glove with a built-in torch made for his right paw to alleviate his grip problem.
“No. I kept burning myself with it.” He held his left hand up for me to see. Sure enough, his knuckles were hair-free, singed clear to the skin. “Last night, I dropped two matches and ended up calling for a volunteer from the crowd to light the last torch.”
“Crowd participation is a good thing.” I tried to come at this with a positive attitude. Eugene had enough insecurities without Donatello picking apart his act.
He wrinkled his long nose. “Not when it comes to fire. Somehow word got to Donatello about what happened. He stopped by early this morning and read me the riot act. Apparently, a customer messing with fire is an insurance no-no. If anything happens and we have to file a claim, the insurance company will either triple our rates or drop us entirely.”
I sighed. Of course, the almighty dollar played a role in all of this. Ever since the monkey brothers took over, we’d had what they called “troop scrums”—aka early-morning meetings from hell. During these bleary-eyed rallies under the big top, the brothers went from one shifter to the next, citing the current tasks on our individual project lists, demanding each of us report what we accomplished the night before. They didn’t seem to understand that this circus was about so much more than productivity percentages and revenue streams; that there were living and breathing folks involved who had big hearts and fragile egos.
Damn. I missed the days when all I had to do was give psychic readings without worrying about my return-on-investment profitability ratio.
“And here I always thought bonobo apes were more interested in romance than financial gain,” I muttered.
“The monkey brothers are only half bonobo on their mother’s side. The other half is busybody chimpanzee blood.”
Right. Someone had mentioned their mother was the idealist who’d given them their Italian names.
“I just wish I had an assistant,” Eugene continued with slumped shoulders. “Someone to help me with my act each night and make sure my net profits exceed my next pen dentures.”
His next what? Oh, wait. I grinned. “You mean expenditures.”
He grunted. “Did I tell you that Donatello wants me to keep track of how many matches I go through each night? He’s keeping an inventory list on his clipboard for all of us.”
“Oh, jeez!” I crossed my arms. “What a bunch of monkey malarkey.”
I could see now why an assistant appealed to Eugene. If the monkey brothers didn’t back off, none of us were going to have time to practice our acts, let alone perform them. Maybe I needed to have a talk with Donatello to try to convince him to loosen up a little on the bookkeeping front. Not all of us lived and breathed debits and credits.
“Listen, Eugene,” I started.
The sound of footfalls in my waiting room on the other side of my parlor’s red velvet curtains made me pause. I could hear someone huffing. I sniffed, picking up a hint of cigar smoke.
“Madam Electra?” Marco, the taller of the two monkey brothers, called out from the other room. His voice was a notch higher than usual. “I need your help.”
Eugene and I exchanged a raised-brow look. Normally, Marco and Donatello insisted on not being interrupted so close to showtime while they performed their last rehearsals alone in their tent. Why they would need my assistance at this point was beyond me.
I draped a velvet shroud edged with beads over Ol’ Blue. My werecoyote instincts were skittish about letting the bean-counting businessman see my crystal ball for some reason. “Come in, Marco.”
He rushed through the curtain, wearing his red and black ringmaster getup, magician’s hat and all. His face was a roadmap of frown lines that doubled at the sight of Eugene sitting there. “I need you to come with me.”
Eugene’s eyes widened. “Me?” he croaked, sounding like a kid busted with his hand in the cookie jar.
“No, not you. I need Madam Electra.”
“Why did you look at me when you said it, then?” he asked.
Marco growled. “It was an accident.” He turned to me, his gaze intense. “Electra, could you please follow me to my tent?”
I stood, yet hesitated, wary. The anxiety rippling off of Marco was almost palpable. “What’s going on?”
He shot a scowl toward Eugene. “I’d rather not discuss it in mixed company.”
“I’m not mixed,” Eugene said, his chin jutting. “I’m a purebred Ursus arctos horribilis, otherwise known as a North American brown bear to the science folks, but you can just call me a grizzly.”
I did a double take. “If you’re a purebred grizzly, what are you doing at a freakshow?”
Most of the shapeshifters who worked at this division of the circus were hybrids, mixed in a manner that made them freaks among the regular shapeshifting population. I had thought I was the exception, since I was a purebred werecoyote. Fortunately, my abilities as a psychic allowed me to blend with the rest of the circus folks, although it did take many of them some time to accept me due to my non-hybrid pedigree.
“My tail is a few inches longer than normal, my snout is fatter, and my ears are too pointy. My mother always claimed it was advanced engineering on her part, but short of a red glowing nose, I stick out like a bear version of Rudolph the Reindeer amongst my contemporaries.”
Marco snorted. “Listen, we don’t have time to discuss Eugene’s lineage and genetic abominations.”
“Abominations?” Eugene sat up tall. “That’s hitting a little below the belt, apeman.”
“I told you before, we’re monkeys.”
“I may be a bit slow in the morning and colder months, but even I know that chimps and bonobos are apes, not monkeys.”
The monkey brothers shunned the A-word in public. According to rumor, their mother was a shapeshifting bonobo who’d been mated with a chimpanzee while locked away in some scientific laboratory. She’d escaped while pregnant, finding her way to the circus. When the babies were born, she’d insisted on calling them “monkeys” rather than “apes” in order to shield the fraternal twins from possible capture because she feared they’d be locked away and experimented upon for the rest of their lives. Their mother was long gone, but the brothers continued to use the “monkey” moniker out of fear of being caugh
t and imprisoned.
“Fine, I take it back,” Marco told Eugene and then turned to me again. “Come with me, please. We need to hurry. The show starts soon.”
“Do I need any of my tools of the trade?”
“No.” He glanced around my tent, his focus moving from the jeweled lamps, to the velvet- and silk-draped chests covered with various marketing fliers listing my services, to the smoke from my jasmine incense, to the padded chair I sat in behind my parlor table, before settling on Ol’ Blue, which was still under wraps. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
Without another word, he raced out of the tent.
I followed empty-handed. Eugene lumbered along behind me.
We zigzagged through the red and white striped tents, rushing to keep up with Marco. He held open the flap of the large private tent he shared with his brother, leading us through a small sitting room with plush furniture to a side room where the walls were lined with what I figured were magicians’ trunks. The back room wasn’t nearly as lavish and smelled musty with a hint of cigar smoke.
“I need you both to promise you’ll keep this a secret.” He eyed us in turn.
Was this part of their magic act? Was Marco using us as test subjects? If so, it was working well. My heart was pounding while my legs were ready to pull a “coyote” and run.
I nodded. Eugene followed my lead.
Marco walked over to a red trunk standing on end with several small holes drilled into the lid. Two white rabbits were painted on the top. He unfastened the lid. It creaked open, giving me goose bumps. Marco stepped aside and held out his arm in a grand gesture to reveal what was waiting inside …
Which turned out to be his brother, Donatello, in his wereape form. His black magician ensemble lay in a wrinkled pile at the bottom of the trunk. Inside the box, Donatello sat on his haunches and stared at us with an empty expression.
I had a sudden urge to hand him a banana. What was this? Some kind of new thought manipulation the brothers were working on for the show?