Calamity at the Carnival

by London Lovett

  "How about any of your coworkers? Were they hanging out around the tent when they should have been elsewhere?"

  The first rings missed. Sarah handed them back to the kids for another try.

  She walked closer to where I was standing. "I know Calvin was working on her generator earlier in the day, but he was supposed to be there. He's the person in charge of that kind of stuff. I saw Ivonne go into the tent at one point, but I think Cherise was with a customer because she came out pretty fast. I didn't see her after that."

  "Woo hoo! You just won a prize," she cheered to her customers.

  "Thanks for talking to me, Sarah. I'll let you get on with your work."

  "Sure thing. I just hope they find the person soon. It's kind of, you know—" her eyes shifted quickly toward the ring throwers. She mouthed the word scary to me. Or at least that was my best guess.

  "I'm sure they will. Thanks again."

  Chapter 23

  I wasn't sure what kind of reception I'd get from either Stockton, but I headed toward their RV. It was the same motorhome that Ivonne had stomped out of the day before red with anger about something, and the same place where I found Carson upset and no longer willing to sit for an interview.

  The door was closed as I climbed the three steps. I peered through the rectangular window, a small one, but large enough to get a good view inside. The interior was dark except for the thin streams of light coming through two side windows. I peered through and caught movement on the right side of the space. Ivonne Stockton was standing next to Carson's desk ripping up some paper. She dropped it in the trash can next to the desk and then leaned over to churn around the papers and paper cups already in the can. It was easy to deduce that she was throwing away something and she didn't want anyone to see it.

  Ivonne's expression was hard, and her mouth was pulled firmly from side to side. I spent a moment talking myself out of knocking. I was sure she wouldn't be pleased to see me. Then I remembered that I'd just pleaded for this assignment, and a vision of Chase, with his slicked back hair and expensive shirt, gloating and smirking, slipped through my mind. Without another second of hesitation, I lifted my hand and knocked confidently on the door.

  Ivonne startled. She accidentally knocked over the can. Some of the contents spilled out. It was my opportunity. The door was unlocked. I opened it.

  "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Stockton, I hadn't meant to startle you." I hurried toward her and stooped down. "Here, let me help you with that."

  Ivonne waved me away. "No, please, there is sticky stuff and leftover food wrappers in here. My husband is always eating at his desk," she said with disgust. "I've got it." She quickly brushed all the debris into the can and set it upright. "What are you doing here? Surely, you can't expect us to take time out today for interviews?" Her tone had instantly grown snippy. "With circumstances the way they are," she added, "maybe it would be best to skip the article altogether. After all, we've been traveling here for the last twelve years. Everyone in town already knows all there is to know about the carnival."

  That's because it never changes, I wanted to add but didn't. Naturally. "I'll have to let my editor decide that. I'm just the reporter."

  "Then we'll just have to talk to your editor. I don't see how any article can put a positive light on this disastrous week in Firefly Junction." She shook her head and mumbled something about selling the whole darn outfit.

  "I'm sorry?" I asked to clarify what she said.

  "Not important. I've got to head out on site." She waved toward the door, letting me know it was time to go. She walked out behind me, shut the door and rushed past me once I was down the steps. I trailed behind slowly and waited for her to disappear into the activity.

  I spun back around and climbed the steps. I hadn't noticed her make any effort to lock the door. I reached the top step and glanced around. With the carnival in full swing, no one was hanging around the employee trailers, except me.

  My hand trembled a little as I reached for the door handle. This plan was sneakier and perhaps more illegal than most of my other plans, but I desperately wanted to see the paper Ivonne had gone out of her way to destroy and hide in the trash. It was in pieces and jumbled in with a good deal of other rubbish, but something told me it would be worth the risk and the effort.

  The handle clicked. My conscience made me hesitate for just a second but then I reminded myself that I needed to get to the bottom of the murder or I'd have no story to write. I was only digging through trash. It wasn't as if I was going to steal or search through the Stockton's private things. After appeasing my conscience, I glanced around once more. The coast was clear, so I opened the door and slipped inside of the RV.

  My heart was pounding so I wasted no time. I raced to the trash can and dumped it out on the ground. I had no choice except to touch the trash, which, just as Ivonne had complained, was filled with leftover garbage from food and drink. There were also various crumpled papers, the typical kind one might find in an office wastebasket, printer mishaps, notes started and not finished, lists of items needed. Fortunately, Carson seemed to have the habit of just balling his paper trash up before tossing it. Ivonne had ripped hers into six or seven strips. I began pulling the strips free of the other trash. The note was handwritten in ink, but this wasn't the time or place for me to put the puzzle together and decipher it. I jammed each piece into my pocket. My fingers were sticky from spilled drips of soda and candy wrappers.

  The last two pieces, significant ones that seemed to be from the center of the note and contained a lot of writing, were stuck to a paper plate that, from all clues, including boysenberry syrup, grease stains and dusts of powdered sugar, once held a funnel cake. I carefully peeled each strip free, working hard not to rip them.

  Footsteps sounded on the metal stairs leading to the trailer. I shoved the syrupy strips into my pockets with the others and stooped down to shove the trash back into the can.

  The door opened. Carson's expression turned hard like marble. "What on earth are you doing in here? And why are you digging in the garbage? Boy, you reporters stop at nothing."

  I finished scooping up the last bits of trash and set the can upright. "I apologize. I came in here hoping to get that interview you promised yesterday, and clumsy me—I tripped over the can." My heart was beating fast, but I managed to give what I thought was a perfectly reasonable response.

  "I wonder what your boyfriend, Detective Jackson, will think if he hears you've been breaking and entering."

  "The door was unlocked," I said calmly, deciding getting frantic was only going to hurt my case. "I believe breaking and entering requires some kind of actual breaking." My attempt at humor wasn't working. "Yes, you've caught me, Mr. Stockton." I held up my sticky hands. "You've caught me trying to do my job. I was told to write a glowing review of the Stockton Carnival, and I was hoping to get information straight from the person who knows every aspect of how this place runs. An article is always stronger if the source of the information is quality and trustworthy. So naturally, I came to you." Where humor had missed, flattery seemed to work.

  His mouth bubbled as if he was trying to stick to his guns but he was feeling bad about berating me. "Yes, all right. I understand you are just trying to do your job, but you shouldn't have just walked into this trailer."

  I nodded. "Agreed. And again, I apologize profusely." I was silently congratulating myself and breathing a sigh of relief for diffusing the situation. "If you have a few minutes—"

  "I don't," he said abruptly. "As you well know, yesterday's calamity has me fending off all sorts of problems. Frankly, you aren't the first reporter I've dealt with today. But I can tell you, the reporters from the nearby city are far more cutthroat. They are ready to run with one of those horror stories about a murderer lurking in the shadows of the tents and rides. It's the last thing we need. I just don't have time to talk to you or any reporter." His face drooped into sadness. "You people have to understand that Cherise was like a family member. We need
time to grieve and absorb the loss."

  When a phrase started with you people, you people being journalists, it rarely ended with a kind, heartfelt sentiment. I was relieved. The man looked genuinely distressed and rightly so, or maybe even more so since it seemed Cherise might have been more than just a family member.

  My journalist's instinct told me to dig a little deeper into his feelings. I was dying to ask how Mrs. Stockton was doing, just to see his reaction. Would he be stunned by the question? Would there be any indication that he worried his wife might have been the culprit? But I decided not to bring her up, considering she was standing in the same spot, just seconds earlier, chewing me out for nosing around. With any luck, I would not come up in any conversation between them, otherwise my innocent explanation of wandering into the trailer to look for Carson would be blown. Carson had casually threatened to let Jackson know that I was in his trailer, breaking and entering was how he'd phrased it. I didn't need a lecture from Jackson on staying out of trouble and away from the investigation. So I left Mrs. Stockton's reaction out of our chat. A chat, it seemed, that was coming to an abrupt end.

  Carson stuck his arm forward to point out the exit door, in case I missed it. "Now, I've got a lot of work to do, Miss Taylor, so please, if you wouldn't mind—"

  "Yes, of course. I'll head out to the carnival and try and capture the essence and ambience of the festivities in my words." I was piling it on, but I was suddenly extremely thankful that the whole scene had gone so smoothly.

  If only I'd gotten in a few more prying questions.

  Chapter 24

  Ten minutes of strolling around the teenager packed carnival led me to the conclusion that the terms essence and ambience were better attributed to an expensive Italian restaurant or a posh French bakery. Unless, of course, overused cooking oil and greasy popcorn odors could be considered an essence. Then there was plenty of that floating around.

  I headed back to the office with my sticky pocket of paper strips. With any luck, the discarded note would point me in the right direction. I was slowly running out of ideas for the next steps in my investigation.

  Myrna had left for lunch, and Parker was in his office making calls. I thought I'd gotten lucky enough to avoid Chase for the rest of the day, but the second I sat behind my desk, the door swung open and Chase strolled in with a burger and soda.

  There was no usual greeting as he swept past me and clunked down hard on his chair. It seemed he wanted me to know he was still angry. I was too busy to worry about his little tantrum. I only wished that he had eaten the burger at the restaurant so that I would have the office to myself when I pulled the sticky strips of paper from my pocket.

  It was silly to fret about. I cleared a spot on my desk, pushing the stapler and my plastic apple filled with paperclips out to the corner. I pulled off my coat, dug into the pocket and carefully dragged out the strips of paper. There were seven in all, including the two that were dotted with boysenberry syrup and powdered sugar. Ivonne had ripped the paper lengthwise, the reason why it was so hard to read in strips. Horizontal would have left words and sentences intact. I started with the two edges and, without too much effort, was able to fill in the rest of the puzzle.

  Chase, in the meantime, had somehow found a way to make eating a burger a noisy affair. Normally, the scent of grilled onions and ketchup would have made my mouth water, but the disgusting sounds he made while eating turned my stomach instead. He chomped loudly, smacked his lips and took long, angry sips of his soda. He even made sure to rattle the crisp paper wrapper and smack his cup down hard on the desk. The entire barrage of sound effects was enough to send my shoulders up around my ears. But I refused to let him know that his chomping and slurping were bothering me.

  I ran a piece of tape across the top and bottom of the paper just to keep the slivers from twittering in the ruffle of air fluttering through the overhead vent.

  My puzzle was complete. In the meantime, my office coworker had reached the bottom of his soda cup. It seemed he was determined to drink every drop of liquid the second it melted off the remaining ice. He followed one long, particularly discordant draw of his straw with a noise I could only describe as slurp-cious.

  I pushed off my desk. The wheels on my chair spun around, dragging the seat with it. "Seriously, Chase, how can a man wearing a fifty dollar Ralph Lauren dress shirt make this much noise eating lunch? If I didn't already know you were back there, I'd swear four hungry pigs were sitting at the back of the newsroom eating a trough full of mashed potatoes and gravy."

  He shrugged and stared at me over his cup as he sucked loudly on the straw.

  I spun back to my desk. I had no choice except to block him out.

  Some of the blue ink had smeared from the grease and other moisture in the trash can, but I could still read it. There was no letterhead or logo or date, and there was no name, greeting or, for that matter, a closing. I silently read the note.

  Consider this your final warning. I know what is going on and I won't stand for it. You will leave Carson alone or I'll make sure you leave this carnival for good. I'll make sure you never work again. I'm sure it would be easy enough to find another fortune teller to take your place. Someone with actual talent. You've been warned.

  It wasn't difficult to figure out that the stern and threatening letter was meant for Cherise, since, as far as I knew, she was the carnival's only fortune teller. It was equally easy to deduce that Ivonne had written it. Aside from the fact that I witnessed her shredding the paper and hiding it in the trash, it mentioned Carson. That ruled him out as the author of the letter. Ivonne was the only other person with the authority to threaten someone with losing their job.

  I read it over once more. This was a letter written by a very angry person.

  "That's what passes for journalism, eh?" Chase asked. He was still sitting at his desk, but thankfully, he had finished lunch. "Looks like your source is a trash can. Good work, Taylor."

  I peered back at him over my shoulder. "Any good reporter looks for evidence in unlikely places. And, tell me, Mr. Evans, are you ever going to get over this tantrum? Or am I stuck with you gobbling your lunch and lobbing snide remarks over my shoulder for the rest of the year?"

  He picked up his phone and keys. "You don't have to listen to either. I'm out of here. I've got work to do, real work, not trash digging and taping shredded paper back together." He stood up as if ready to make a dramatic exit but curiosity got the best of him. He slowed as he passed my desk. His green eyes shifted sideways as he tried to read what I had in front of me.

  I threw both my arms over the paper to cover it, like I was covering my math test to hide the answers.

  I smiled up at him. "I guess we've both reverted back to high school antics this afternoon. Good luck with your real work."

  Continuing with the high school act, he shrugged and muttered the obligatory 'whatever' before walking out the door.

  I stared back at the letter and quickly tapped myself on the temple. There was something even more important about the letter than the words. The handwriting was fast, and it seemed the author, most likely Ivonne, was pressing down extra hard on the pen. But what stood out the most was her handwriting style. She wrote the small letter f in the same way most of us had learned to write it in grammar school. There was no fancy finish or long tail at the bottom. It put a wrench in my theory that Ivonne was the killer.

  But it wasn't enough to kill it dead, so to speak.

  Chapter 25

  After piecing together a note that was somewhat incriminating, I decided to head back to the carnival. When Jackson and I visited the carnival on Sunday, before any murder and before I knew I was writing a story about it, he'd introduced me to both Carson and Ivonne Stockton. In fact, Carson had been joyfully stumbling out of Cherise's tent when we met. Ivonne had been at the cotton candy booth. The usual girl was out on maternity leave and Ivonne was apparently one of the few people who knew how to make cotton candy. Jackson had promised to
buy me some, one of my favorites, and we'd found Ivonne standing in the booth surrounded by wisps of sweet cotton. It didn't take a scientist to know that she walked away from the task with sticky shoes . . . and sticky everything, for that matter. It could easily have been Ivonne's shoes that left the sticky substance on the rug beneath Cherise's table. But I was jumping to conclusions. I needed much more evidence to zero in on a solid suspect.

  On my way to the carnival, I'd even toyed with the notion that Carson, himself, was the killer. It was entirely possible he'd set up the dramatic exit from the tent, calling for help, and looking properly distressed, just to throw the police off seeing him as a possible suspect. He was the first person in the tent after she was killed. Was it coincidence or was he angry at Cherise for putting a wedge in his marriage? It would hardly seem fair if he blamed her, but what if she had threatened to expose the affair to everyone, even to the papers to ruin his reputation? What if she was blackmailing him in some way? Ugh, my mind was going off into all kinds of tabloid style tangents. I needed to focus on what I had so far, and so far, that wasn't much.

  The crowd was lighter than it had been in the morning. It was well after lunch, and chances were, the early visitors had run out of money for games, ride tickets and goodies. A late afternoon lull seemed predictable. I was sure once parents got off work for the day, the place would once again fill up with people.

  I headed straight to the cotton candy booth. A woman with her hair tied up in a tight bun, to keep it out of the way of the floating sticky cotton, was leaned over the hot metal basin swirling a paper cone around to collect sky blue strands of sugar. I waited for her to finish the cone. There were no customers at the stand. It seemed she was trying to get ahead for the night. A wise decision considering each cone took a few minutes to make.