Cold Memory

by Leslie A. Kelly

  “It’s okay to admit you had a crush on me. I was quite the catch with those big ears and crooked teeth,” he said.

  “Sorry, Dumbo, I’d never have been caught dead with a younger boy.”

  “Doesn’t seem to be bothering you now,” he pointed out, his eyes gleaming. “Have you grown to appreciate younger boys?”

  “Shut up,” she said, rolling her eyes to avoid showing her embarrassment. Because she’d definitely grown to appreciate this one. “Or I’ll lock you in a port-a-potty again. This time, without your gloves.”

  He shuddered, and then they both turned to watch her grandfather approaching. People got out of the way for the barrel-chested, grey-haired man, his presence still potent, despite his age. Dramatic. That described her mother and her grandfather. And, to be honest, her sister.

  Despite her name, Gypsy was the only one who’d ever appreciated the art of flying beneath the radar, not to mention the value of hearth and home, and law and order. Oh, she had loved the carnival, and her crazy family, but now the idea of being a respectable cop, owning her own house, and staying in one place appealed to her as nothing else ever had. Someday she’d add a husband and kids to the picture, and would have a life so normal she’d be utterly boring.

  “Well, Mick Tanner, it’s about time!” Frank Bell said, his arms spread wide as he reached them. He grabbed Mick in a big bear hug. Again that tiny wince. Nobody seemed to notice except Gypsy, and she again wondered about it. Nobody was touching his hands, his gloves. But they were touching his clothes.

  Huh. That might make dressing difficult if everyone who grabbed his arm or insisted on a hug left something of themselves on the things he wore.

  God, what a curse his “gift” must be.

  “Why haven’t ya been around more?”

  “I wish I had. Work’s been kinda crazy.”

  Grandpa nodded. “Crazy workplace? Now that I understand. But you’re here now.”

  “Gypsy asked me to come down.” He lowered his voice. “I’m so sorry about Barry.”

  “Me too.” The sadness in the old man’s voice was audible. “He was with me since the old-old days. Picked him up in Raleigh and made him a star of the circuit. It’s horrible. Just horrible.” Then he glanced at Gypsy. “Speaking of that, I need to talk to you. Come with me to the office, would you?”

  “Is it about the case?” Gypsy asked, having wanted to go directly to the former site of the funnel cake stand. She didn’t know if Mick’s magic worked on bare ground, but it was worth a try. Of course, finding the week-old remnants of a murderer’s footprint was a long shot, and the booth itself was far more promising. But, to be honest, she would rather solve this thing without asking Mick to do that, despite his offer.

  “It is,” Grandpa said. “I really think you both should come.”

  “Meaning there might be something for Mick to touch? Something that could help?”

  “I don’t know yet. But it’s possible.”

  He was being cryptic, but Gypsy didn’t hesitate, and began walking toward the office trailer. Whatever he wanted to show them, she hoped it would be enough to give them a solid lead, without Mick’s further involvement.

  He had never talked a whole lot about his ability. She’d seen evidence of it, of course. He’d kept some of the bigger carnival kids—including her, on occasion—in line by displaying it when necessary. Like the thing with her fooling around on the trapeze.

  Grandpa had told her Mick had used his power in a successful act as a teenager, after she’d moved away. Holding a small item from an audience member, telling them who owned it, that sort of thing. She didn’t know any specifics—like how he did what he did. She had often wondered exactly how he experienced the things he saw. As memories? As current images? As visions?

  God, hopefully not as a participant who actually felt anything. If that were the case, she’d never let him go near that fryer, no matter how much she wanted to solve this case.

  Thursday, when she’d visited him at his office, he’d mentioned his coworkers, but hadn’t told her what they did at Extrasensory Agents. Well, except for one—a pretty, blond-haired woman named Olivia, who had come into the conference room while Gypsy was there. After she’d apologized for interrupting, and left, Mick described what the woman was able to do. Supposedly, if she touched a dead body, she shared the last couple of minutes of that person’s life. She experienced everything…including the pain.

  So, yeah. There was that.

  Good lord. What have you gotten yourself mixed up in?

  Ha-ha on her life being totally normal. She’d been desperately seeking a respectable, boring even, lifestyle. A respectable, slightly boring man, even, which was why her last few dates, admittedly several months before, had been with steady, totally average men.

  Yet now, she was now interacting with psychics while she sought a brutal murderer who’d drowned a carnival worker in a funnel cake fryer. It didn’t get much weirder than that. Frankly, she just wanted to get this thing solved and let Mick get back to the craziness of his world while she returned to the quiet sanity of her own. And got back to searching for that nice, average guy, and perfect home life that didn’t at all resemble the way she was raised.

  Mick and her grandfather had fallen into step beside her. They walked in silence until they’d exited the outer ring of the carnival, heading toward the office trailer. “What is it you want to show us?” Mick asked once they were out of earshot of anyone else.

  The elderly man cast a quick look around, keeping his voice low even though the nearest person was a good forty feet away. “I got an anonymous letter. I think it has something to do with the Carny Killer. You’re both gonna wanna take a look at it.”

  Gypsy’s heart tripped, not only because there might be new evidence in the frustrating case, but also at the thought that her grandfather had been drawn into it so directly.

  “Can we please not call him the Carny Killer?” she said, despite being anxious to learn more.

  “Sorry, honey. You’re right. It’s just that everybody’s saying it.”

  “Including everybody who lives here?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She cleared her throat. “Grandpa, do you—does everyone—think the killer is among you?”

  “I don’t want to think that,” he said, his filmy blue eyes growing moist. Then he shook his head, hard. “No. No, I really don’t believe so.”

  Neither did Gypsy.

  Oh, she wasn’t a fool. She knew it was possible. She’d consider it probable, even, in other circumstances. But many of these people had been together for decades. Barry was loved by all who knew him. An inside job made no sense. If someone connected with the carnival had wanted him gone, it would have been far easier to kill him while they were on the road, during a brief stop in another town. Here they lived under a microscope, and every one of them knew it.

  That left her with other theories, none of which made a whole lot of sense.

  Robbery.

  No. There was money in the register and even more in the unlocked box under the counter. His wallet, also containing cash, was still in his pocket. Easy pickings for anybody looking to score some quick bucks.

  The wife.

  No way. Barry was old and frail, but Sookie even more so. She was at least eight inches shorter than her once-massive husband. She couldn’t have lifted a heavy object and bashed Barry over the head with it, or staged his body in the fryer. She just physically wasn’t capable of it.

  A crime of passion.

  Doubtful. The “Brute” had supposedly enjoyed a reputation as a ladies man in the old days, but that was long ago. He’d been focused on fighting cancer and enjoying his remaining years with Sookie, who he appeared to be crazy about. He didn’t flirt with women that she’d ever seen—so she couldn’t imagine him angering a husband or boyfriend. His only passion in recent years had been to make the perfect funnel cake.

  Revenge.

  For what? Barry had a clean r
ecord, as far as she could tell. He was peaceful, kind, and jovial, known for being honest, and for being willing to lend a hand to anyone in need. He was always respectful, so he wouldn’t have angered some unstable customer like the two jackasses she’d just confronted at the big slide.

  Crazed serial killer with a thing against funnel cake?

  Stupid.

  So who would want to kill him? Nobody she could come up with right now.

  Except, she thought again, someone who wanted to drive the carnival out.

  She only prayed this communication Grandpa wanted to show them, whatever it was, hadn’t come directly from the murderer. If it had, that would mean whoever it was now had an eye on Franklin Bell. If, indeed, someone was trying to drive the carnival out of town, her grandfather would be a prime target. He was the one who held the entire community together, and the one who owned most of the booths and attractions. Without him, there would be no Winter Carnival.

  She couldn’t help thinking about Monty Tanner, Mick’s grandfather, and what Mick had told her about the man. He hadn’t revealed a lot of details, but she got the feeling Mick’s years living with him had been pretty bad, and that they had no relationship now. It didn’t seem impossible that the man would do whatever he could to shut the carnival down.

  Including murder?

  It sounded crazy, especially since they were talking about a successful, powerful millionaire. Then again, successful, powerful millionaires were used to getting their way. No matter how they had to get it. Monty Tanner had been flat-out furious when he hadn’t been able to get rid of D’Onofrio Brothers through legal channels. So maybe he had resorted to illegal ones.

  When they arrived at the trailer Grandpa used as his office, Gypsy nodded in approval as the old man pulled out a key to unlock the door. Oftentimes, he didn’t bother, except at night when there was cash in the safe. But with a murderer on the loose, no time was right for taking chances. She intended to go over to his small home and check every window and lock there, too. Better yet, maybe she could get him to come stay with her in her place until this investigation was over and the killer caught. She made a mental note to bring it up later.

  “Watch your step,” Grandpa said as he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

  Gypsy and Mick walked up the two outside steps—just wooden planks, really—and followed him in. On alert, as she had been for the past eight days, Gypsy couldn’t resist taking a quick look around. That was another reason she wanted to solve this murder soon. She hated feeling so tense, especially in Ocean Whispers. Even when she was in her own small house, or just walking in the quaint downtown area, she was mindful of every face, wondering which one’s pleasant smile was hiding a ruthless killer.

  She wasn’t alone. Everybody looked around a little more carefully these days. She’d heard from the local gun shop owner that he’d had more customers in the past week than he’d had in a year. She couldn’t really blame anyone who wanted to defend their homes and lives, but the cop within her was less than thrilled. Armed vigilantes, who might shoot somebody who stumbled onto their property, and ask questions later, were a potential nightmare she already feared.

  “That was here when I got in this morning. Somebody had shoved it under the door.”

  Grandpa gestured toward his desk. Usually it was cluttered, covered with invoices, contracts and paperwork. But he’d shoved all those things away, and now, right in the center of a stained blotter, sat an envelope and a single sheet of unfolded paper.

  “Sorry honey, I opened it without thinking it might be important. But once I realized what it was, I put it down and didn’t touch it again. Guess you’ll have to rule out my fingerprints on the envelope and the corners of the paper. I think those are the only places I touched.”

  She nodded, not reaching for the letter herself, either. Instead, she stood beside the desk and looked down at it. The writing was old school criminal—words cut out of magazines or newspapers. Do bad guys really do that anymore? Apparently they did. But there was nothing funny or old school about the message. It read: “Barry fried…guess why.”

  Below the words, a black and white digital image had been printed on the white page.

  “Is that what I think it is?” she whispered, peering at the image, bending over to get a better look.

  “I think so. It looks like Barry’s foot beside the base of the deep fryer,” her grandfather said, his voice choked with emotion.

  Yeah. That’s exactly what it was. Now she could recognize the black smears on the floor as bloody red grease, and the pale shoe as the sneaker Barry had been wearing. She had to swallow hard and close her eyes briefly in an effort to shove away the mental images.

  “This monster…he stopped to take pictures after he did his filthy business,” Grandpa said, on the verge of tears.

  Gypsy put a steadying hand on Grandpa’s shoulder and squeezed.

  “There’s something on the floor beside his foot, that I think is what we’re supposed to be focusing on,” said Mick, who had leaned over, too, also not touching the paper. “Does that look like a feather to you?”

  It did. Not a greasy, straight bird’s feather, it was soft-looking, fluffy and curly. A dark color, maybe black, though it was hard to tell with the greyscale image. It could be purple.

  And Mick was right. The way the picture was zoned in on it, the foot being off-center, the person who’d sent this letter obviously considered it important. So important, it could offer a clue to Barry’s murder.

  It seemed crazy. What the hell would a feather have to do with anything?

  One thing Gypsy knew: There had been no feather recovered at the scene. She had looked at the evidence over and over again. The interior of the trailer had been photographed from every possible angle, both before Barry’s body had been removed, and after.

  “I don’t remember seeing this when I went in to investigate,” she insisted.

  “Maybe you just didn’t notice it?” Grandpa asked. “You were obviously focused on Barry’s…on the victim.”

  She searched her memory, and realized he might be right, at least as far as her initial entry into the trailer went. She’d been looking only at Barry’s body, and then at the bloody message on the wall before she’d gone into cop mode and ordered everyone out. So it was at least possible this small piece of evidence had wafted away on a breeze, either when Sookie had gone in alone, or when Gypsy had.

  “Damn,” she whispered, wondering if she’d been responsible for the loss of an important piece of evidence. If she’d damaged the case, she would never forgive herself. The other cops of Ocean Whispers would be proved right in their criticisms of her.

  Mick, apparently reading her response, shook his head and frowned. “I know what you’re thinking. Don’t do that to yourself. We’ll figure this out.”

  She nodded, acknowledging her appreciation of his words. It had been a long time since anybody other than her family had let her know in one way or another that he was there for her. He’d done it earlier, when she’d confronted the angry fathers, and again now.

  He’d certainly changed. In so many ways.

  “Pretty flimsy piece of evidence,” Mick said, his hand staying where it was, and his voice low. “It could have gone right out on somebody’s shoe. If the killer really wanted it found, he should’ve made sure it couldn’t blow away.”

  “Maybe,” she said, still feeling awful about the missing evidence.

  “Are you certain it wasn’t picked up by the crime lab?” Mick asked.

  She shook her head. “I’ve gone over their report so many times I could recite it by memory. There was no mention of any feather.”

  It was gone. Blown away, or, as he said, carried off on somebody’s shoe.

  There was no excuse for it. The murderer had left them something important that might indicate why Barry had been killed, or who had done the killing. And the damn thing had been lost.

  “Maybe you could ask Sookie?” said Grandpa. “It
mighta blown away even before she got there to check on Barry.”

  “I will.” She shook her head, trying to think of the meaning. “I just don’t get it. Why a feather?”

  “As far as I know, there are no endangered bird habitats on this land,” Mick said, his brow furrowed, as he, too, considered the meaning. “So I don’t think it’s any kind of environmental thing.”

  “Good point.” It was a strange angle, but then so was everything else about this, from the fryer to the feather. But there was no use crying over it now. There were other ways to solve Barry’s murder. Not exactly nice ways, but she’d have to use whatever advantage she could get.

  “Mick, uh….”

  “You want me to see what impressions I can get from the letter?”

  “Well, yes, that too. But not yet. Let me take it in to the station first and see if we can find anything on it—prints or DNA other than Grandpa’s. I’d prefer that it not be handled by anybody else for now.” Including herself, which was why she was waiting until she had tweezers and an evidence bag to touch the items. “In the meantime, though…

  “I guess this means visiting the trailer in the impound lot.”

  She swallowed, staring at him, still curious about what it might cost him to visit that scene of brutal death. “Let me call somebody over to collect this, then we can go ahead and walk the carnival, check out the lot before we decide for sure.”

  He managed a tight smile. “Well, unless your killer was an acrobat who walked on his bare hands outside the trailer, it’s very doubtful I’ll get anything useful.”

  “I wasn’t sure how it, umm…works.”

  “It has to be hand to hand contact. My hands…and the ghosts of somebody else’s hands.”

  Ghost hands. Eerie. But she immediately understood what he was getting at. He wouldn’t get anything from a footprint—even if the person hadn’t been wearing shoes or socks. It had to involve hands.