Cold Memory

by Leslie A. Kelly

  Then he’d overheard some other carnival kids snickering because Gypsy and Esmerelda were named after famous strippers. He hadn’t known what that meant. Eventually he’d heard of Gypsy Rose Lee, a well-known, scandalous-in-her-time performer, and this woman’s namesake. He’d also heard about the famous “Esmerelda”—the star of the D’Onofrio Brothers nastily-named “hooch show”, which had once been a feature in all such travelling carnivals. Photos of her in her glamorous, spangled showgirl outfits and boas—and less—still dotted the Internet on carnival history sites. After Esme’s birth, DonaBella had continued with the stripper theme and named her younger child in the dead woman’s honor.

  “So,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest and half-sitting on the edge of the heavy conference table. “You became a cop, huh? I guess that’s not so hard to believe.”

  “Yep.” She looked around the room, which reflected the success the agency was enjoying, and said, “And you became a spoiled rich guy. Also not so tough to swallow.”

  He shook his head. “Same old Gyp.”

  She smirked. “Same old Mick.”

  Their stares locked, and he found himself remembering the girl she’d been, her future hinted-at in ways he hadn’t understood then, but saw now. Gypsy, being three years older than Esme, and two older than Mick, had been tough and protective even then. A fierce fighter, a justice warrior. She’d looked out for every little kid in the carnival—other than him, who hadn’t really needed it—as protective as a mama lion. So no, he guessed her career choice wasn’t surprising.

  “Tell me, what is it you do here at this scam psychic detective agency?”

  Lifting a brow, he tsked. She knew damn well he wasn’t a fake. He’d proved that to her more than once in their childhood. It was, he remembered, the only leverage he’d had over her since she’d towered over him at one point.

  My, how times had changed. Now she was a head shorter…her mouth would tuck in very nicely against his throat if he held her in his arms.

  Where the hell did that come from? He was obviously hungover and not thinking straight if he was imagining those types of interaction with this woman.

  “I’m sorry,” she said before he could respond. “That was a shitty thing to say. I know you’re not a phony.”

  “No, I’m not. Neither is anybody else I work with.”

  She eyed his gloved hands. “Is it still…hard for you?”

  “Well, I still avoid touching things with my bare hands, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Money was the worst. It was handled so much, he was almost knocked out by the impressions and memories left on a single coin after it had been exchanged by hundreds of people. He sometimes felt like a computer overloaded with input, his hard drive ready to crash. All he could do after touching something so weighted with baggage was put on headphones and blare heavy metal music into his ears to drown out every other thought but his own.

  “Everyone you work with, do they do what you do?”

  “No. We all have very different talents.”

  She appeared interested, but didn’t probe. “I guess you probably know I didn’t come up here to chit-chat about old times and your co-workers.”

  “Of course not. Why are you here, Chief Bell?”

  Any sign of good humor faded, and she slowly sat down at the conference table, looking like the weight of the world had suddenly landed on her shoulders.

  “Wait, judging by your expression, I think I’m going to need some coffee for this conversation.” Badly.

  “Yeah, you look like shit. Hot time in sultry Savannah last night?”

  “Just a poker night with the guys.”

  “Did you cheat?”

  “Of course not.” He gave his head a rueful shake. “My friends don’t let me play without my gloves.” Because if he did, he would know every single card he dealt. “Do you want a cup?”

  She smiled a bit, but it quickly faded. “Okay, yes on the coffee. Cream no sugar.”

  He went to the coffeemaker on a counter in the corner of the room. Making them each a cup, he carried them over, placing Gypsy’s down in front of her.

  “Now, let’s get on with it,” he said, sitting across the table from her.

  She licked her lips, hesitated, and then got on with it. “I was doing some research, and I discovered that you own the land my grandfather and the others are living on.”

  His jaw tightened a bit. He hadn’t wanted that known. “So?”

  “Grandfather tells me you rented it to him and his heirs for a hundred years.”

  He repeated his previous response. “So?”

  “So…why would you do that?”

  He smiled slightly. “Would you believe it’s because I need the tax break?” That wasn’t entirely untrue, but it hadn’t been the reason he’d made that deal with Franklin Bell.

  “No, I don’t think I would.”

  “My reasons are my own,” he said, ending the subject. “Why are you here, Gypsy?”

  She let it go. “I need your help. Since you own the property, I was wondering if you know of anyone who might not be happy about what you chose to do with it. Do you know of somebody who might be interested in driving D’Onofrio Brothers out of Ocean Whispers?”

  Somehow, Mick managed to avoid spitting out the sip of coffee he’d just taken in. Because she had just hammered that nail flat. “You might say that.”

  “Who?”

  He didn’t reply at first, thinking about it. Monty Tanner, his grandfather, was now seventy-four years old, and as mean as he’d ever been. He’d tried over the years to get back into Mick’s life—sometimes by extending an obviously rotted olive branch, sometimes by force and threat. But ever since the day a judge had pulled him from Grandfather’s grasp, Mick hadn’t looked back. He didn’t communicate with the man, unless it was through their attorneys.

  The latest communication had been because of a threatened lawsuit. Monty had desperately wanted to stop the land rent deal, but his lawyers must have told him he wouldn’t win because the suit never happened. So yes, the old reprobate would probably have an interest in driving the carnival out. Not only because it offended him personally to have family land used for a carnival and a retirement village, but also because his estate was just a few miles away.

  The Winter Carnival might also be might be hurting his bottom line. He was developing an exclusive golf course community for the wealthy on other land that had been in the family for generations. Grandfather had built a resort that catered to the rich and kept the lower forms out. Mick had donated his parcel to some needy retirees.

  That pretty much illustrated the difference between them.

  He had to admit, though: It hasn’t just been altruism. His primary reason for making the deal had been out of loyalty and affection for the people—including his uncle—who’d sheltered him, and made him one of their own during his childhood and teenage years. But sticking it to his grandfather hadn’t hurt.

  “Mick? Please tell me who it is,” she said, leaning over the table, visibly tense.

  Mick shook his head slowly while keeping a small smile on his mouth. That was a chore, considering whenever he thought about his father’s father, he wanted to punch something. “First tell me why you want to know.”

  Their stares met and locked, a battle of wills ensuing. Her dark eyes sparkled—nobody had ever enjoyed a challenge more than Gypsy Bell. She didn’t like not being in charge, that he remembered well. But he was no longer a two-years-younger, skinny kid. Even if she was wearing a police chief’s uniform, he didn’t owe her a damn thing. He wasn’t going to give her what she wanted until he got a little quid pro quo.

  Finally, realizing he wasn’t going to say another word, she sat back in her chair, her shoulders slumped. She didn’t look annoyed that she’d lost the staring contest. Instead, her mouth twisted and she lowered her gaze, blinking a few times. Sad—dejected—not angry.

  “I have some bad news.”

  But
not about Shane, or his other “uncle”—Gil, who’d been a part of his life since he’d gone to live with the carnival as a sad five-year-old. Thank heaven. Something else came to mind, though. “Oh, hell, Gyp. Is it your grandfather? Did something happen to Frank?”

  “He’s fine. It’s actually about Barry Spencer.”

  “Barry…the Brute?”

  “Yes. He’s dead.”

  “Damn,” he muttered. “The cancer finally got him, huh?”

  Mick knew about the carnival veteran’s condition: He’d covered the medical bills that Medicaid hadn’t. Nobody knew that, though. The only one who really knew how much Mick did to help the carnival, and its people, was Gypsy’s grandfather. Even his too-proud-to-accept-anything-from-him uncle wasn’t aware.

  “No, it wasn’t cancer.” She swallowed, her slender throat vibrating. “He was murdered last Friday night, right in his food stand.”

  Mick’s heart tripped a little. “Murdered? A sick old man?”

  “I’m surprised it didn’t make the news here in Savannah.”

  “It might have, but I didn’t see it.” He got enough bad news at work; he didn’t seek it out from other sources.

  Her hand trembling, she lifted her coffee cup. She sipped, and took a breath. “It was brutal, Mick. Horrific.” Rubbing a hand over her face, she added, “I can’t get the images out of my mind.”

  “I’m sorry.” He didn’t prod her, knowing she had to work up to telling him everything. That was why she’d delayed when she’d first arrived.

  Finally, though, she did it. She told him. Every ugly detail, from the sound of the first scream to the condition of Barry’s body. In a firm voice, dead of emotion, she explained exactly what had been done to the old man.

  Mick sat in shock after she’d finished, a dark silence filling the room as they both allowed the details to invade and assault their minds. He’d seen ugly things. Horrible things. Both in person, and through his strange ability—sharing a killer’s thoughts, long after he’d committed a crime, was something he would never get used to. But he didn’t think he’d seen anything that could compare to what she had witnessed last Friday night.

  “Damn, Gyp. I’m so sorry.”

  “Me, too. Barry was a sweet old man.”

  Well, yes, he was. But he’d also been referring to what she was going through, being the one who would have to solve the horrific murder of someone she’d cared about. The weight of the entire carnival’s expectations would be on her shoulders every step of the way.

  She cleared her throat. “Can I, uh....” She glanced around the room, her gaze landing on the water cooler.

  Mick stood up without a word, walked over to it and poured two paper cups full. Returning, he gave her one, which she took gratefully and gulped down. Mick did the same, wishing he could just as easily swallow the truth that someone he’d loved as a kid had been murdered. But it was difficult…because he didn’t want to believe.

  How could anyone do such a thing? Barry might have been able to defend himself in the old days, when he’d lived up to his billing as a “Brute.” But now? Jesus, the wasted old man couldn’t have weighted more than a hundred-and-thirty pounds.

  “There were deep fractures in his skull that indicated he’d been struck over the head, and there was no oil in his lungs that would indicate he’d been breathing when he went in. Of course, that doesn’t prove for sure that he was dead before…”

  “I get it.” God, he hoped the old man had been dead, or at least unconscious. “That’s beyond murder. That’s fucking torture.”

  “I know. The whole community is still in shock. Nobody can understand why. Barry was old and harmless, and loved by everyone.”

  “Including us as kids.”

  “Exactly.”

  A memory suddenly filled his mind: the way Barry had reacted to the sight of Mick’s bare hands when he’d first come back to the carnival as a newly freed fourteen-year-old. The “brute” had caught him changing gloves in Uncle Shane’s trailer one night. When he’d seen the scars, the twisted flesh, he’d taken Mick’s hands, kissed the palms, and wept.

  There wasn’t a kinder, gentler man. And someone had killed him.

  “Who did it?” he asked, his jaw clenched and his hands curling into fists at his side.

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Was it a robbery?”

  “No. There was cash in the register, plus another wad in a cigar box under the counter.”

  Suddenly realizing why she had sought him out, he said, “What did you find? Did you bring it with you?”

  Her brow furrowed in confusion.

  “You obviously want me to touch something—to see if I can help solve this, don’t you?”

  Gypsy’s mouth fell open, and then slowly closed. “Damn,” she mumbled, shaking her head. “I am so stupid.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s an excellent idea…but it’s not why I came to see you.”

  “Oh.” He supposed it wasn’t too surprising. Even the local police, with whom the Extrasensory Agents had worked more than once, had a hard time getting involved with the paranormal stuff. Gypsy appeared to be a straight-and-narrow kind of cop.

  “Obviously we dusted everything for prints and found nothing. I suspect the guy wore gloves. But your way might be worth a shot,” she said, her words a relief as he realized she would never be totally straight-and-narrow. Not with her upbringing.

  “Anything I can do. Count on me.”

  “The food truck is in the police impound lot and nobody’s been in it except investigators since the night of the murder, I’d love to hear anything you can find out.”

  “Of course. Just say when.” He didn’t like the idea of touching that deep fryer and seeing images of what the old man had gone through, God knew, but Barry deserved justice.

  “This weekend?”

  “Fine.” Remembering what she’d said, he asked, “But if you didn’t come to ask me to try it my way, why did you come to see me?”

  “Because I have a possible theory.”

  “That being?”

  “Barry might not have been the actual target.”

  He stiffened, his mind racing to all the other people he knew and cared about who were now living on that piece of property in north Florida. “Who do you think was?”

  “D’Onofrio Brothers itself,” she said, her voice firm.

  He remained silent, not getting it.

  “The crime has everybody in Ocean Whispers all stirred up about the carnival again, like they were when it was first proposed. The local paper is already calling this the ‘Crazed Carny Killing’ case.”

  “Great. That plays right into the hands of those who want the place shut down.”

  “Most definitely. It’s not just saying there was a murder at the carnival, the stupid name they keep putting in the headlines hints that the killer, himself, is somebody from the carnival. There’s talk of getting them out.” She huffed a breath. “That town definitely deserves its name; the whispering is getting worse by the day.”

  “They can’t just drive them away like villagers holding torches. Your grandfather has a signed lease, and my attorneys made sure it was airtight.”

  To keep his grandfather from meddling.

  “I know. They can’t make them,” she admitted. “But they can revoke the permit to operate the carnival. Once that’s done, they can require that the rides and attractions be removed from the grounds as a blight.”

  He understood. “Which means your grandfather and his group would leave, too.”

  “Precisely.”

  Semi-retired or not, those people lived for the carnival. It wasn’t a job for them; it was a way of life they’d cling to until the end of their days. Just look at poor old Barry, still working his booth, despite his age and poor health.

  “Damn,” he muttered, wishing he had something stronger to drink than water. A shot of hair of the dog sounded very appealing right now.

 
“I’ve questioned dozens of people.” She leaned over the table, dropping her elbows onto its surface. “I can’t find a personal motive, which is why this larger one to destroy the carnival seems at least possible. Lots of folks would like the whole place shuttered.” She sneered. “Including a church that regularly pickets, waving signs that call the carnival a den of iniquity, run by evil whoremaster Franklin Bell.”

  “Such religious tolerance and charity,” he said, rolling his eyes, not terribly surprised. He’d known there might be some pushback to having the large expanse of land—that wasn’t too far from exclusive Amelia Island—used for a tourist attraction. But whenever he’d talked to Frank, which admittedly wasn’t often, it had sounded like everybody was profiting and happy.

  “I have thought of a few people or groups that might be behind it. But since you own the land, and gave it to my grandfather at such a low price—“

  “He told you that?”

  She nodded, her expression softening. “That was a hell of a nice thing to do, Tanner.”

  “Huh. A compliment from bad-ass Gypsy Bell. Who’dve ever imagined.”

  “Don’t let it go to your head. Now, can you help me, or not? Was there anybody who was trying to stop you from leasing or selling the land from you before you essentially gave it away?”

  Of course there was someone who’d tried to stop him. And while he didn’t imagine Montgomery Tanner had committed murder with his own hands, he wouldn’t put it past the old bastard to make trouble for the carnival, or to hire someone to rough-up a worker. Maybe he hadn’t known how far his hired hand would go.

  God, Mick hoped not. He already hated being descended from that man. Being a murderer would make his father’s father so much worse.

  “Mick?”

  “I think I need to have a conversation with my grandfather,” he admitted.

  Her eyes widened. Since she lived and worked in Ocean Whispers, he imagined she’d crossed paths with Monty Tanner. His estate—the mansion in which Mick had spent the worst five years of his life—stood on ten acres just south of Ocean Whispers. Plus, the exclusive golf community his grandfather was developing nearby was bringing in other millionaires.