Cold Memory

by Leslie A. Kelly

  Knowing it was utterly futile, since the poor old man’s entire head and one shoulder were probably already burned to bone inside the vat, she went over to him and reached for his dangling wrist to check his vital signs. None. Barry’s skin was slightly, greasy, sweaty and hot, though whether that was because he’d died minutes ago, or because steaming oil had spilled down his body, she didn’t know.

  “Somebody killed my Barry,” Sookie whispered from just a few feet away.

  Gypsy spun around, trying to block the sight from Barry’s widow, though, of course, she’d already witnessed the horrible scene.

  “Sookie, honey, it could have been an accident.” The more she thought about it, the more she liked the idea. “Barry could have had a heart attack or something, and fallen in. I’m sure he didn’t feel a….”

  “No.” The old woman lifted a quivering, tremulous hand and pointed toward the far wall of the trailer. Gypsy hadn’t even noticed it; she’d been entirely focused on the dreadful death tableau. Now she saw, and understood Sookie’s certainty.

  She studied the words written in a smear of what looked like melted chocolate combined with cherry topping—more vomit—or it could have been blood.

  Gypsy read the message, knowing Sookie was right. This had been no accident.

  “Get it together,” she murmured to herself, shaking off any lasting remnants of sadness and dismay, and putting her mind on the job. She might be the Chief of Police of a peaceful, quaint little town, with only seven other officers, but she’d earned her detective shield in very-violent Jacksonville when she was just twenty-five years old. She’d investigated murders before. She had to protect the scene, get backup, start being a cop instead of someone who used to sit on this man’s lap and squeal with laughter when he growled like a bear.

  “Gyp? What’s happening…oh, God!”

  Seeing Jersey, one of the old-timers of the carnival, pop his head in, Gypsy physically pushed Sookie into his arms. “Get her out of here. Have somebody call 911. Tell them I said to get on the radio and send everybody on duty over here right now.”

  All three of them. Jesus. But the off-duty officers would hear this over the radio and would come on the run, too. She didn’t doubt that.

  “What happened?” Jersey asked, sounding dazed even as he put an arm around Sookie and pulled her against his chest.

  “I don’t know yet. But please, just take her. And don’t let anybody else come in.”

  Jersey nodded, his face bloodless as he averted his eyes and pulled Sookie out. A crowd had begun to form, and she heard the man ordering everyone to stay back. He asked someone else to go place the 911 call, and, she suspected, planted himself in front of the door to keep everyone out. She appreciated the help—although in his seventies, Jersey was a big guy and could keep order out there.

  “Was he really murdered?” someone cried.

  “Let’s just let Gypsy do her job.”

  Jersey was ignored, a voice shouting, “Someone murdered Barry!”

  The phrase was repeated, over and over. The word murder gained mass, weighing on this big, extended family, who had immediately realized the truth: One of their own had been killed.

  No family was closer than this one. She should know—they’d welcomed her back into their fold sixteen years after she’d been taken from it. They would not stand for this. She was going to need help, both in securing the scene, and controlling the crowd, who would be out for blood. More blood.

  “Jersey, send a runner to get the officer at the south gate,” she barked, not entirely surprised Fluke hadn’t come racing over, too, since he was all the way across the carnival grounds. “And ask somebody to find my grandfather.”

  Slowly, she studied the entire scene—the body draped over the fryer, the head and shoulder inside, the blood on Barry’s hand, the strewn-about supplies, the spilled batter, a broken window. Some of those things had been apparent the moment she entered. Others hadn’t registered, not until she’d read that message scrawled on the well.

  Burn in hell, Brute.

  Oh, yes, a crime had definitely been committed here. The evidence told a story about a struggle, and a brutal death. And as painful as it was to leave the poor man where he was, she had to until the entire scene was catalogued, photographed and processed. The state crime lab would have to do it because Ocean Whispers had none of its own.

  There was something else Ocean Whispers hadn’t had in the two years since she’d been chief: Murder. Crime had come to the Winter Carnival. The worst of all crimes.

  What it would mean for her grandfather, and all these people who thought they’d finally found a place to settle down for their golden years, she didn’t know. The only thing she knew was that the fears of the locals who’d fought to keep the carnival out appeared to be coming true.

  All hell was going to break loose over this. Meaning she had to solve this case, and catch the killer soon. Not only because she wanted justice for Barry…but because when the town found out what had happened, all of these people would find their homes and livelihoods at risk.

  Ocean Whispers would declare war on the Winter Carnival.

  Unless she caught a killer in record time.

  Chapter 2

  Although he had no set working schedule, and really didn’t need the money from a nine-to-five job, Mick Tanner still reported to the Extrasensory Agents office in Savannah every morning at eight. Or, well, eight-thirty at the latest.

  He glanced at the time on his phone as he got off the elevator outside the office suite. “Nine-fifteen,” he mumbled, swiping a gloved hand through his hair and wishing his head wasn’t throbbing with a not-undeserved hangover. Even a handful of aspirin hadn’t helped. “Shit.”

  Normally, he liked his early morning routine, which included a staff meeting with Julia Harrington, the owner of the company, and the other agents. Today, though, he was feeling the effects of the previous night. He’d been playing poker way too late, and drinking far more than normal, especially for a weeknight. Fortunately, two of his co-workers, Aidan McConnell and Derek Monahan, had been playing, too. He doubted they were in any better shape than he was, or had arrived much earlier.

  Their moods might be better, though, considering Mick had definitely been the one on the losing end of the table. That was okay. He could afford it and he didn’t mind losing to Derek. Mick and Aidan both had deep pockets—Mick from his inheritance, Aidan from his publishing career. As far as he knew, Derek had no other source of income than this job. His downtown apartment and old Harley seemed to confirm that. Mick was glad the guy had walked out with some extra cash. It had actually brought something resembling satisfaction to the other man’s usually scowling face.

  Entering the reception area, he forced a smile for the middle-aged administrative assistant, Monica, who smiled in return. Like many before her, Monica wasn’t sure whether she’d landed a job with a private investigation agency or a group of lunatics. But she appeared determined to stick it out, despite her misgivings.

  “Morning, Mr. Tanner,” she said, her voice overly bright and cheerful.

  He winced, lifting his fingers to his temple. “A little quieter, please?”

  She laughed. “You look just as bad as Mr. McConnell.” Taking pity, she lowered her voice. “All right, no more teasing. Somebody’s waiting for you. She didn’t have an appointment, so I put her in the conference room, rather than your office.” She leaned over the desk, lowering her voice to a whisper. “She’s a police chief.”

  “A cop, first thing on a Thursday morning?”

  Monica glanced at the clock on the wall and raised a brow.

  Point taken. “Why doesn’t she want to see Julia?”

  Although other members of the team sometimes brought in cases, Julia was the one who sorted through potential clients. She weeded out the ones they could genuinely help from the quacks or the skeptics who were setting up imaginary crimes in order to debunk the “fake” psychic detectives. Despite their successe
s, and their pretty good working relationship with the Savannah-Chatham Police Department—courtesy of his colleague Olivia’s significant other, a well-respected detective—they still had their naysayers.

  “I don’t know. But she specifically asked for you.”

  “Are you sure she’s legit?” he asked, immediately thinking of a reporter who had come in a few weeks ago to try to get some dirt on the agency.

  “I’ve learned my lesson. I don’t buy sob stories anymore.”

  Maybe not, but the guy from a few weeks ago had been pretty convincing. He’d posed as a grieving son looking for the spirit of his father. Julia had quickly figured out his scam.

  Besides, they didn’t do that—talk with random spirits. The only ghosts anybody here could communicate with were Julia’s late partner, and a dead cop who kept in touch with Olivia Wainwright, another agent.

  Mick sighed. He hadn’t known Ty Wallace well, but he’d liked the guy a hell of a lot. He still found it hard to believe the young detective had been murdered in his home just three months ago.

  “This woman is in uniform, and showed me her badge.”

  Impersonating a police officer. Would a journalist or a debunker go that far?

  “She was very convincing, and attractive.”

  That caught his attention.

  “Very attractive.”

  “You’re such a mother.” Monica was a born matchmaker. She liked Aidan’s and Olivia’s romantic partners and seemed determined to find them for him, Julia, and Derek.

  Yeah. Good luck with that. Julia was still in love with a ghost. Derek was a complete loner who swore he’d never settle down.

  As for Mick? Well, he carried a lot of baggage. He’d had a few relationships. They hadn’t lasted, though, because of his ability. As soon as real intimacy entered the picture, he’d invariably learn something way too private or unflattering. His gift didn’t work on people—thank God—so he could have sexual relationships. But genuine connection and trust were tough when you could learn every single thing about a person just by letting your bare fingers brush across their hairbrush or a set of sheets.

  Everybody had secrets, and Mick always found out about them. Few women could deal with that. Hell, Mick had a hard time dealing with it, and he’d had to for most of his life.

  “Did this police chief give you a name?”

  Monica glanced at her notes. “Chief Bell, from Ocean Whispers, Florida.”

  Mick’s mouth fell open. “Bell? Seriously?”

  Was it possible? Well, of course it was. His old childhood playmate was the granddaughter of Frank Bell. And Frank and his carnival now resided on a large piece of property Mick owned in Florida. It made some sense that Frank’s granddaughter would move there, too, and take a job as a cop. He was just surprised Frank hadn’t mentioned it.

  “Chief Bell. Imagine that,” he said softly.

  “You know her?”

  He nodded. “I did, once. Childhood friends. I can’t believe she became a cop, though.”

  He would never have imagined that kind of career for Esmerelda Bell—who everyone had called Esme. She’d been such a feminine, girly-girl as a kid, always prissy, playing with dolls and putting on shows in which she was the star. A year younger than Mick, she had worn her little girl crush on him on her sleeve. He’d put up with it as much as any eight or nine year old boy could—with stand-offish annoyance combined with secret pleasure.

  He’d also, however, looked out for her whenever she drew the nasty attention of outsiders. Carnival youngsters who travelled the circuit with their folks were often the targets of town kids, who liked to point out their scraggly clothes, dirty faces and their homes-on-wheels. More than once, he’d found Esme hiding behind the funhouse, tears streaming down her dirty cheeks. And, more than once, Mick had sought out those who’d tormented her. He’d either fought them, if they were his size, or touched their clothes and then threatened to reveal some secret they were trying to keep.

  He’d learned at a young age: Threats didn’t always have to be physical to work.

  Although he’d been enjoying the idea of reuniting with an old D’Onofrio Brothers friend, a dark possibility suddenly occurred to him. “Oh, God,” he whispered. “Shane.”

  He immediately swung around from the front desk and strode down the hallway toward the back offices, fearing the worst. Why else would Esme have driven the ninety miles from Ocean Whispers without calling, except to inform him something had happened to his uncle?

  Pushing the door open, he entered the conference room. He took about one second to appreciate the view of a very curvy woman. From behind she filled out that plain, khaki uniform like she was modelling for a police fashion magazine. But he quickly thrust off the thought as tension wired through him.

  “Esme? What’s wrong, is it Uncle Shane?”

  The black-haired woman, who’d been looking out the window down at the Savannah street below—providing that exceptional rear view—turned around slowly. Mick caught his breath, seeing the dark, flashing eyes, so brown they were almost as black as the severely twisted-up hair. They were framed by jet lashes, and her oval, olive-skinned face was made dramatic by the high cheekbones and the hollows beneath.

  Jesus, she’d grown up to be a beautiful woman. He’d never have imagined how beautiful. Probably because the last time he’d seen her, he was nine years old and she only eight.

  “Shane’s fine,” the woman said, her voice deep, sultry. “So’s Gil.”

  He breathed a sigh of relief, now that his number one—and two—fears had been erased. Shane and his partner were okay. He could handle just about anything else.

  “Seriously, Mick? You honestly believe Esme could have grown up to be a cop?”

  Oh, shit.

  This wasn’t Esme. It was her sister. The one he hadn’t even considered, since she’d tried so hard to pretend he didn’t exist when they were young, and who he’d never imagined would seek him out as an adult. But, on reflection, it made sense. Esme, the wannabe starlet, would never have gone into law enforcement. Her bad-ass, tough older sister was exactly the type who would.

  “Gypsy Rose Bell,” he muttered.

  “Only my grandfather calls me Gypsy Rose.”

  “What should I call you then?”

  Her smile was undeniably snarky. “Chief Bell.”

  “Of course. The queen bee of the kids’ carnival kingdom rules the police department. I should have known.”

  “Yeah, you should’ve. You thought I might be Esme? Really?” She laughed, a laugh that was almost as throaty as her voice, and which held genuine amusement. “She wouldn’t have made it one day in the academy if she found out she couldn’t have Internet. Her fifty-thousand Twitter followers would just be too heartbroken.”

  “How did you survive?”

  “I’m not a tweeter,” she said, her tone dry.

  He didn’t doubt that. “Ditto. I don’t have much use for social media of any type.” Being an Extrasensory Agent made him too much an object of curiosity, and he valued his privacy. “So where is Esme these days? She of the fifty-thousand Twitter followers.”

  “New York. Designing fashions that can only be afforded by the ultra-rich.”

  That didn’t completely surprise him.

  “She’s also one of those ultra-rich.”

  That did surprise him.

  His confusion must have shown on his face because she explained, “She found her daddy when she was sixteen. Or, well, he found her.”

  Nice. He’d never known Gypsy to give a damn either way that she was another travelling-show baby who didn’t know her own father. She’d made it clear she didn’t like her name, not just because of the stripper thing, but because it was derogatory to a whole group of people. But she’d liked her middle name even less, so eventually, she’d given up bitching about the first.

  The carnival baby, and the stripper name, had, however, always bothered her sibling.

  “It turned out Esme’s daddy
was from a rich Cape Cod family. He met mama when the carnival hit New England twenty-seven summers ago. He followed her around the circuit, but when she told him she was knocked up, he disappeared.”

  “I’ve heard that one before.”

  It was standard carnival lore, and happened all the time, even to this day, he supposed.

  “Yeah. Typical moke.”

  Any man would have followed DonaBella Bell all over the northeast. She had been a stunner—possibly even more attractive than her daughter—and men in every town had fallen over themselves to be with her. Even he, at age nine, had been in awe of her. By the time he came back to the carnival at fourteen, DonaBella and her daughters were gone. She’d married some dentist from Ohio and moved away to raise her teenage girls in respectability. They hadn’t visited their grandfather at the carnival once after Mick returned, although Frank did occasionally go to see them.

  “Apparently his wife couldn’t have kids, so he wanted to see if he really had one with mama. DNA test said he did. So Esme became a rich, spoiled, daddy’s girl overnight.”

  Leave it to Esme. She had always seemed destined to step-in-shit-and-emerge-to-find-her-new-pony. “Good for her.”

  Gypsy nodded. “Yeah. She’s doing well—engaged to some Wall Street dude who’s not too much of an asshole.”

  “You’re happy for her.”

  “Of course,” she said, sounding surprised.

  Gypsy might have been a pain in his ass, but her loyalty to her family was unshakeable. She would never be jealous of her sister. The older Bell girl had always been fiercely loyal to her grandfather, mother and sister. Although he imagined she sometimes wondered about her paternity, he doubted she spent time worrying about it. She had, by necessity, played overprotective mother to her sister, solid and grounded despite her unusual name.

  That name. It had been a mystery to him as a kid, since he’d never heard of any girl called Gypsy. He’d once thought it meant the Bell girls were real gypsies, like on the Hunchback of Notre Dame cartoon he’d liked so much as a little boy. Especially given the fact that Gypsy looked a lot like the main female character, and that Esme shared that character’s name.