by Mona Marple
“That’s settled then,” Dusty said. “We leave tomorrow.”
And with that he stalked across the sawdust and out into the fresh air. Frances watched the furrowed brows around her.
“What just happened?” Glory asked.
“Dusty Windbanger just happened,” Old Man River explained with a laugh as he struggled back to his feet. “Never seen the man leave money on the table before. Something’s sure spooked him.”
“Murder will do that to you,” Cordelia sang out. All three Bearded Brothers gazed at her as if hypnotised.
“You’re not leaving, are you?” Glory asked. The two women had often competed over Rufus’ affections. Glory had a wildly jealous side and had, more than once, told Cordelia to back away and find her own family.
“I don’t have a choice,” Cordelia said. “If the circus leaves, I leave. It’s what Rufus would have wanted.”
“You don’t know a thing about what he would have wanted!” Glory exclaimed.
“Hey, now now, calm down,” Frances ordered. “This is just what he wants. He wants us all falling out. You know he likes it when he isn’t the common enemy.”
“She’s right,” Cordelia said.
“She might be,” Glory said. “But let’s remember that only one of us has lost a relative, and it isn’t you!”
“It’s not a competition! He was like a dad to me. That doesn’t stop him being your uncle.”
“So he was my uncle but your dad, so you were closer to him? Stop these head games! He was your boss! That’s all! Any kindness he showed you was just so you’d do your job!”
“That’s enough,” Old Man River commanded from the back of the tent. “Glory, your uncle loved you very much. He also loved Cordelia and everyone here. His whole life was this circus and the people who made it work.”
Glory’s cheeks were streaked with the silver trail of tears. She shook her head and ran out from the tent, almost knocking over Old Man River on her way.
Frances remained in her seat until long after everyone else had cleared out. She craved time alone with her thoughts. If Dusty moved on, she’d lose her job and her home. The van was circus property, hers while she was gainfully employed. Where would she and Zoey stay? She thought of the redhead from the coffee shop and wondered how she would react if Frances turned up with a small bag and a small dog. She sensed their friendship wasn’t at the stage for such a thing.
“You okay, lass?”
“Oh, hey,” Frances wiped her eyes and jumped up to her feet. Old Man River had returned to the tent. He stood behind her, his eyes watery with age. “Am I in the way?”
“Not in any way of mine,” he said with a wink. “I was walking by and heard Miss Zoey barking. Not like her, so I thought I’d see where you were.”
“Zoey!” Frances exclaimed. “What time is it?”
“Not lunch time yet,” Old Man River said with a grin. He sat on a bale of hay and Frances sat next to him. “I haven’t used a watch in years. The only time I need to think about is the time when my belly wakes up.”
“Zoey’s the same,” Frances murmured. To her shame, she realised she’d never spent much time speaking to the old man. He kept to himself mainly and if he was ever lonely, he didn’t show it.
Old Man River laughed. “All dogs are. You remember my Lucy? Remember her? Such a good girl.”
A distant memory of the man with a spaniel popped into Frances’ head. “I do! What happened to her?”
Old Man River made a noise like a growl. “He made me get rid of her. Said it was health and safety. Truth was, she discovered his little stash.”
“Huh?” Frances hadn’t understood a word.
“Dusty. You don’t know?”
Frances stared at him blankly.
“I wondered if Zoey had ever discovered it, but I guess different breeds have different talents. Well, my Lucy, she was a sniffer. Oh, boy! The things she could smell. She could follow a trail, alright. And she found his collection. Drugs, you know? Right there in his van. She’d go right up to the far corner of that van and bark non-stop! Dusty told me it was all medicinal, not legal of course, but for aches and pains. As if the man’s ever had an ache or a pain in his life! He thinks everyone was born yesterday. Anyway, Lucy got the scent and she was obsessed with it then, wouldn’t stop the barking. He got worried she’d alert the police. Told me she had to go.”
Frances clenched her fists, her body overtaken with an anger that scared her. “He made you get rid of your dog?”
Old Man River shook his head. “No, no. I had another choice. I could have gone with her. But then we’d both be homeless, and I’ve done that before. I’m no stranger to the streets, but it’s a young man’s game. I couldn’t have kept her safe. You see some strays who manage, but if you remember Lucy you know she was a bit of a princess! Nah, Dusty made the ultimatum but I made the choice. Found Lucy a good family. Here,” he reached into his pocket and pulled out an old photo. The spaniel from Frances’ memory gazed back at her from the image.
“She’s a beautiful girl,” Frances said. “And I’m sure she appreciated your selflessness.”
“I was lying earlier,” Old Man River said. “When I said I’d never seen him turn money down. He’s done it once before. Back when I got rid of Lucy, he was so paranoid the police were going to come and check that he cancelled the last show in that town, moved us all on out. Only time I’ve ever seen the man pace back and forth.”
“He was pacing today,” Frances said.
“He must be really spooked by Rufus’ death,” Old Man River said. “Especially since he was there that night.”
“What?”
“The night Rufus was killed. Dusty was in the van. I heard the two of them going at it, some kind of argument. Poor guy’s probably racked with guilt if his last words to Rufus were angry ones.”
“You’re sure it was Dusty in there?” Frances asked.
The old man looked at her, his eyes bright. “Oh, man! You know, I never got out the habit of a bedtime walk. After losing Lucy I mean. I do a lap around the vans every night, nice and steady, keeps the bones working. That night I’d heard the bickering and I hoped it didn’t last too long, I wanted to get to bed. Then I went for my stroll right as Dusty came out of Rufus’ van.”
“So he knows you saw him?”
“Sure does,” Old Man River said. “We said good night.”
14
If there was one thing that Violet Warren couldn’t stand, it was an unexpected visitor after dark. The firm knock at her door came out of nowhere - rap, rap, rap - and almost made her spill some of the white wine she was pouring on the counter instead of in the glass.
She stood there and took a deep, slow drink of the amber liquid. Whoever it was, they could wait for her to answer in her own good time. Violet liked to keep the occasional act of rebellion going even though she’d mainly allowed herself to sink into suburban life.
The liquid was cool and tart and she wondered, as she always did when she drank, why she didn’t partake more. The truth was, Violet had been raised in a feast or famine kind of way. There was too much drama, too little stability, too much vulgar spending and too little food in the fridge. Moderation was key. And so Violet allowed herself a single glass of wine on no more than four nights a month. She logged them in her planner.
She prided herself on being able to keep a well stocked wine rack and resist the call of the bottles.
Rap, rap, rap came a further flurry of thuds against her door.
If asked later, Violet would struggle to explain why the interruption annoyed her quite as much as it did. She heard the knocks, every last one of them, but instead of answering the door, she downed the rest of the glass of wine, turned up the music, and then began to take gulps of wine direct from the bottle!
Violet had never behaved in such a way before in her life, and the act felt so brazen and naughty that she was tempted to throw out the collection of crystal wine glasses without delay. The bottle
itself was a perfectly good vessel! Whoever had invented it had surely congratulated themselves for creating an item that was both holder and drinking vessel. Who was Violet Warren to imagine she could improve on that system by introducing a delicate flute of a glass to the process? No, to heck with them all. She could toss them all out and, in future, drink straight from the bottle.
She wondered for a moment if one glass was really her maximum, but the idea appeared off out in the distance, separate from her, and she gave a hiccup of laughter in response.
Only when the bottle was empty did Violet decide to answer the door. Perhaps an hour had passed, perhaps fifteen minutes. Only the most determined of callers would still be there. The plan seemed a stroke of genius to Violet’s drunken mind. And if the guest was Ellie Bean, with her plans for Violet to become involved in Rufus’ murder, Violet might just give the woman a piece of her mind. Rufus was history and good riddance to him.
She opened the door, but there was nobody there. Her plan had worked. A midweek victory, if discovered a little late in life.
She was about to close the door when a shadow in front of the front window caught her eye.
“Who’s there?” She called.
There came the rustle of her rose bushes and before the person could reveal themselves, Violet pushed a burst of air from her fingers. She watched as the air gathered force and became a swirl of high-octane wind aimed right for the person whose shadow she could see. She heard the thud of them being knocked to the ground, then leaned out of the door.
Sheriff Morton lay on his back, winded quite literally. He groaned and Violet did the same, then dashed to him and helped him up.
“Did you see that?” Sheriff Morton asked as he staggered into the house. “It was this crazy burst of wind, came right out of nowhere.”
“Global warming,” Violet said with a shrug, pleased she hadn’t turned him into a toad. “Sit down. Let me get you a drink.”
“Tea would be great, thanks.”
“What were you doing out there, anyway? Loitering around in my rose bushes at this time of night!”
“Its only eight.”
Violet frowned as she clicked the kettle on. “What time do your babies go to bed? You should be at home with them. And Connie.”
“I’m on duty,” he explained.
“I gathered that from the uniform. What’s this about?” Violet forced herself to focus on each action as she performed it. Open the cupboard door, get the teabag tin, take out one teabag and place it carefully in the cup.
“Are you okay?” Sheriff Morton asked.
“Mm-hmm, why?”
“You seem to be acting strange. You’re moving slowly. You’re not having a stroke, are you?”
Violet guffawed, perhaps a little louder than she normally would have. “Certainly not, I’m not!”
Sheriff Morton narrowed his eyes a little and watched closely as she finished making the drink. At the last moment, she decided to make herself a drink too. Perhaps it would sober her up.
“We can do this tomorrow, if you prefer?”
“No, no!” Violet exclaimed. Her voice was altogether too loud. Why had she lost the ability to be quiet? She reached for another cup and wondered what a mess it would make if she dropped it. No sooner had she had the thought than the item leapt from her hand and smashed on the floor. “Oh, golly.”
“Here, let me,” Sheriff Morton was up off his chair in a flash. He picked the biggest pieces up and cupped them in his hand, then tipped them into the trash. Violet gazed at him. Realising she would be no help, he scanned the kitchen - perhaps he spotted the empty wine bottle - and found the dustpan and brush. “You sit down. Mind your feet.”
Violet saw no sense in arguing. She had knocked the Sheriff off his feet with her magic and then been discovered to be a complete lush. A slight thrill ran through her body at that thought.
With the Sheriff busy sweeping, she pointed her finger towards him and sent the remaining pieces of shattered cup moving around the floor. Each time he spotted a fragment and moved towards it with the brush, she made it move out of reach.
It was the most fun Violet had had in years, and her attempts to stifle her laughter were entirely unsuccessful, right up to the point where Sheriff Morton sat up straight and rubbed his eyes.
“Violet, I don’t mean to alarm you, but I wonder if I might have a small concussion. I’m imagining things moving on your floor here.”
She swallowed and lightly tapped her one hand with the other. She’d always liked a little hand slap to tell herself off when she was misbehaving. “Oh, right, well, no, I’m sure you’ll be fine is what you’ll be.”
“You think?”
“I, uh-huh,” Violet said. Perfectly clear sentences were just out of her grasp. Perhaps the less she said, the better.
“I’ll be going then,” Sheriff Morton said. “Thanks for the tea.”
He hadn’t drank any.
“Was that all?” Violet asked. The Sheriff had got up from the floor. Tiny shards of her favourite cup remained dotted around down there. “I’m not quite sure why you came.”
“Oh!” Sheriff Morton exclaimed. “Why I came! Yes, yes. Probably nothing. The thing is, we’re investigating the murder of a Rufus Wellington. He’s with the circus that’s in town. Or, rather, he was.”
“I heard about that,” Violet felt a sinking feeling invade her stomach.
“You have any information for us?”
“Well, like what?” Violet asked. She didn’t like that question. She didn’t like it one bit. It was open ended in a way that suggested there was a correct answer already laid out. It was like being tested, and Violet had always liked being tested as long as she was given the materials to learn beforehand and knew when and where the test would be. But a surprise test? A test on a subject she’d never signed up to be tested on? What kind of person would like such a test?
“The usual,” Sheriff Morton had sat back down and took a sip of his tea. He hadn’t even pulled out a notebook or pen. Clearly, he was doing the awful rounds that he had to do when he was clueless about a case. When any lead would be better than the zero he had managed to gather. “Did you know him?”
Violet swallowed. That question shouldn’t be a surprise, but her mind was altogether too foggy to remember which answer was best. Honesty is the best policy, said people who had nothing to hide.
“No,” she said. Her voice crackled as she spoke. Her fingers tingled. Lying made her magic energy hard to control.
“You didn’t meet him at all? Maybe go to him for circus tickets? Anything like that?”
“I’m not a fan of the circus,” Violet sneered.
“You’re not?”
“Why would I be? It’s all slight of hand and showmanship. That’s not my taste, Sheriff.”
“So let me make sure I’m understanding. You didn’t know Rufus Wellington at all, never met him? Do you want me to show you a picture of him? Make sure you know who I mean?”
“Absolutely not,” Violet said this with far too much emotion, she knew that even as she was forming the words and before she allowed them to escape from her mouth. She knew it and yet couldn’t stop it. Because she never wanted to see an image of that man again as long as she lived, and she didn’t really care if the Sheriff knew it. She found that her brain was rather less able to strategise and realise that showing such emotion about an apparent stranger wasn’t normal.
“You disliked him?” Sheriff Morton asked. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a photo of Rufus, completely against her wishes. Violet wished she’d never offered him a drink.
“Yes, that’s him,” Violet sidestepped the question. “I saw the photos in the newspaper.”
“Of course,” Sheriff Morton said. “And, to clarify, you didn’t see him the day he died?”
Violet pinched the bridge of her nose. The tingling was really growing quite unbearable. “Sheriff, I can’t remember everyone who I cross paths with. I see plenty of people
out and about. I walk by people, I stand in line with people, I beep at people who take too long pulling away at traffic lights! Am I meant to remember every single two of them?”
Sheriff Morton blinked at her.
“One of them!” She corrected with a self-effacing laugh. “Every single one of the darn people!”
“What if I’d had a report from someone saying you were seen coming out of Rufus’ caravan the night of his murder?”
Violet’s skin ran cold and she found herself quite lost for words. She simply gazed, mouth open, at the Sheriff, who sat back and sipped his tea and looked all too comfortable in the role of interrogator for her liking.
“Well,” Violet began, but she couldn’t think of a single direction in which to take the sentence.
“What would you say about that, Violet?”
Violet swallowed and the room began to spin. “Sheriff, I feel that I should make you aware I’m not quite myself this evening. I consumed a large amount of alcohol right before you came in and I feel rather ill.”
Sheriff Morton gave a slow, deliberate nod. “I wanted to give you a chance to explain. I can assure you I don’t want to do this.”
“I understand,” Violet said. “It’s only your job. Come back in the morning and I’ll be in a much better state.”
“I can’t do that, Violet,” Sheriff Morton said. “You realise that, right? I need to take you to the station now and question you. If you do need to sober up, you’ll have to do it in a cell.”
And that was how Violet Warren ended up in a police cell with her head swimming and her fingers tingling.
15
Violet had only one frame of reference for being in a police interview: her mother. Over the years, her mother had had several brushes with the law and she always went in there and opened her heart. She always wore her most revealing top, too.