by Noreen Wald
Lack of evidence, indeed. Mary Frances had mentioned those photographs arriving as promised. Kate would rather dine with the devil himself than have breakfast with Sean and Donna.
“No, thank you. I’m bringing doughnuts back to the booth. We’re busy setting up.”
“Well, have a good day, Mrs. Kennedy.” His smile held no warmth. “And tell my gal, Marlene, that I’ll be dropping by later to officially welcome her to the Cunningham corridor.”
Donna pointed to a raspberry doughnut and said to the young clerk, “Please give me two of those and two black coffees with extra sugar. Thanks.”
After all her rudeness, Donna’s good manners when ordering struck Kate as odd.
The flea market was jumping as Kate walked back to the circus corridor, balancing two coffees, a tea, and three doughnuts in a lopsided cardboard carton. She couldn’t believe how the crowd had swelled. If she didn’t think she’d drop her goodies, she’d glance at her watch. She’d been gone, what, maybe thirty minutes max, and the grounds were packed with people. You couldn’t see the grass for the sneakers. Retirees, moms pushing strollers, teenagers playing hooky, and eager young couples, hand-in-hand, buying housewares. Good. Every one of them could be a prospective buyer.
Concern curbed her enthusiasm. Whitey Ford’s murder—or, at least, the homicide investigation of his “suspicious death”—and its possible link to animal abuse nagged at her. She didn’t want to put a damper on Marlene’s debut as a vendor, but she so wanted to talk to the Humane Society’s volunteer.
As a toddler on a tricycle bumped into her shins, almost causing the food to fly out of her hands, Kate veered left, and carefully placed her cardboard carton on a wicker chair in front of a booth selling potted palms. She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket. Maybe she’d luck out and the Humane Society volunteer would be on the job.
Early-bird passersby, apparently sated, held shopping bags and totes filled with purchases as they beaded back toward the flea market’s parking lots. Their replacements, streaming past in the opposite direction, looked eager and determined to find a buy. Kate figured many of them were regulars. If the shoppers didn’t go broke, the flea market would be a great place to while away a sunny April morning, enjoying the fresh air and searching for bargains. Far better than sitting at home alone watching sappy talk shows or soap operas.
Kate dialed information, and her tiny cell phone’s technology both located the phone number and automatically dialed it for her.
“Broward County Humane Society,” a perky voice answered.
“Hello. My name is Kate Kennedy, and I need to speak with one of your volunteers.”
“Yes, ma’am. Which one?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know her name.” Hell’s bells. Why hadn’t she thought this through first and asked Mary Frances, who might have known. Hearing a sigh, Kate plunged onward. “I’m looking for the volunteer who visited the Palmetto Beach Flea Market to investigate possible animal abuse.”
“‘Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa they have named you,’” the voice sang the first few bars of the famous Nat King Cole song. Smooth and on key.
“I beg your pardon.” Kate sounded as puzzled as she felt
A giggle, then the woman said, “Sorry. I got carried away. I just love that song, and I just love MonaLisa Buccino. Unlike the painting and the song, her first and second names are one name, one word. She’s the volunteer you want.”
“Oh.” Kate laughed. “That’s one of my favorite old songs too. So is MonaLisa Buccino there?
“May I tell her why you want to speak to her?” The poky voice had turned somewhat wary.
“Yes. Please tell Ms. Buccino I may have information that will help her case.”
“Good.” The voice was friendly again. “MonaLisa’s downstairs nursing a sick dog. Give me your phone number, and I’ll have her call you in about an hour, okay?”
Kate left both her numbers and hung up feeling better, yet frustrated. She had so many questions. Impulsively, but from memory, she dialed Nick Carbone’s number. Risking being called a busybody Miss Marple—it wouldn’t be the first time—she’d share her theory that Whitey Ford was murdered to prevent him from mailing his evidence documenting elephant abuse to the Humane Society. Did his killer know the photographs had arrived?
Nick wasn’t there. She left a brief message, then leaned back in the wicker chair, eyes and heart heavy.
“When an elephant squeaks, it means he’s happy to see you.” A boy about four, certainly no more than five, with golden-brown bangs and huge, dark blue eyes plopped himself down in a child-sized rocking chair next to her. Kate started. The little boy looked exactly like her son Kevin at that age, with the same John-John hairstyle.
She stared at the child, her heart suddenly much lighter. “Is that right?”
“Oh, yes.” The boy smiled up at her. “I know all about elephants. Even their secrets.”
Kate longed to scoop him up and ruffle his thick hair, but she settled for a smile.
“Please tell me more.”
“I sat on an elephant once. I did. And my mommy helped me off.” The boy giggled. “I slided down his face. I really did.” His navy eyes sparkled. “Right between his big ears.”
“What an adventure.” This time Kate did reach over to touch his hair. “I once had a little boy who looked just like you.”
“Did he die?”
“Oh, no, sweetheart.” Kate shook her head. “He just grew up.”
“My daddy died.”
“Billy, there you are! I warned you not to wander off.” Donna Viera’s loud voice made both the boy and Kate jump. “And I warned you about talking to strangers.”
“Well, I’m hardly a stranger, Donna.”
“You are to Billy. Why, you could be a child abuser. I’ve taught him not to speak to anyone he doesn’t know. That would include you, wouldn’t it?”
Donna grabbed the boy’s hand and led him away.
Kate bit her lip as the tears fell. How could her preconceived ideas about Donna Viera have been so wrong? Despite those drum-majorette looks, she must be considerably older than twenty. She had a son, whose father was dead. The still-vivid image of the trainer prodding the elephant made Kate feel queasy. How did Donna treat her beautiful child?
Ten
Kate walked into a corridor filled with confusion.
Marlene, on her knees, blocked much of what appeared to be a man’s body.
Pacing in the center of the corridor, Mary Frances shouted into her cell phone, “Of course, it’s an emergency. I wouldn’t have called 911 if it weren’t.”
The Baby Boomer doll lady, Linda Something—Kate couldn’t think—was stroking her cat and crying. “Two dead in three days, Precious. It’s time to get out of Dodge.” A huge sob punctuated her sentence.
Kate dropped the carton, and the three doughnuts tumbled out as the cups hit the floor, splattering coffee and tea all over her new gray and white sneakers.
An agitated Ballou yelped when he spotted his mistress and ran out from under the swastika tablecloth to Kate’s side. She bent and scooped him up, pausing amid all the chaos to note how heavy he’d gotten—too many of Marlene’s treats.
As Kate murmured, “It’s okay,” the Westie covered her face in wet kisses.
“Quick, call Nick Carbone, Kate!” Mary Frances screamed. “The 911 operator just put me on hold.”
Clutching Ballou, Kate spun around to Marlene.
Her sister-in-law appeared stricken and, despite her tanned face, pale beneath well-applied makeup.
“Is it Carl Krieg?” Kate’s voice, barely above a whisper, cracked. She fixated on a black boot. “Is he dead?” Ballou barked, squirming in her arms. “It’s okay,” Kate said again, thinking it probably wasn’t.
“I thought so,” M
arlene said, breathing hard, as she rose from her knees. “But it seems he’s only dead drunk.” She lifted a corner of the tablecloth and gestured toward Carl’s still, florid face. “Take a whiff. He’s passed out cold.”
“Why don’t you ladies take a coffee break?” Sean Cunningham said. “I’ll sober him up. God knows, I’ve done it often enough, haven’t I?” The clown came across as sincere, sounding concerned for all involved.
Where had Sean come from? And how long had he been standing there, observing them?
“Give Jocko and me fifteen minutes. You gals go on over to the bakery.” He glanced down at the carton and its former contents, then pulled a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket. “My treat.”
Both his movements and his dialogue seemed orchestrated.
“Does that invitation include me and Precious?”
Sean crossed the corridor and draped an arm around Linda’s shoulder. “Absolutely, my dear.” He tucked the twenty into the deep V of her purple spandex t-shirt.
As they sat in the shade of a huge umbrella-topped table near the circus entrance, Mary Frances and Marlene, fighting to hold the floor, recounted what Kate had missed in the corridor while buying the doughnuts.
This time, the doll lady, Linda, had gone for coffee. Since animals weren’t allowed in the flea market—except for the Cunningham corridor vendors’ special dispensation—Linda had left Precious in Marlene’s arms, warning, “Mind you, Mrs. Kennedy, keep your Westie in his proper place.”
The Westie in question sat at Kate’s feet, watching the cat.
“So, of course, I assumed Carl was dead.” Marlene finally finished the story.
“We all did,” Mary Frances begrudgingly agreed. “I was terrified, thinking the vendors might be murdered, one by one.” She glanced at Marlene.
Kate didn’t feel ready to share her brief moment with the beautiful little boy—it had affected her too deeply to be examined just yet. Instead, she launched into her meeting with Sean and Donna in the bakery, and her suspicions that the killer knew Whitey had shot the incriminating photographs.
“A man called the Humane Society.” Marlene frowned. “It’s a real stretch to conclude that man was Whitey Ford.”
“She’s right, Kate.” Mary Frances again sounded less than eager to be caught agreeing with Marlene.
“Well, we can’t prove anything—at least not yet.” Kate shrugged. “But I’d bet the condo that Whitey took those photographs and made the call.”
“Whitey Ford couldn’t take a proper picture to save his arse.” Linda Rutledge placed a large cardboard box filled with doughnuts and cinnamon raisin bagels on the table. “The best photographer in the corridor is Freddie Ducksworth.”
Interesting, Kate thought, wondering how much the doll lady had overheard. Hadn’t Sean whispered that Freddie, the comic-book vendor, and Whitey, the Dewar’s pitchers vendor, hadn’t spoken in several years? Since they were neighbors in the corridor, that must have been awkward, at best.
“I see you kept your dog at bay, Mrs. Kennedy.” Linda sat in the empty chair next to Marlene, who stroked a contented Precious, and reached for a bagel. “My favorites. Nothing like them in Liverpool. And I ordered them smeared with cream cheese.”
“Ballou is always very well-behaved, Ms. Rutledge.” Sitting like a gentleman at Kate’s feet, Ballou stirred at the sound of his name and licked her hand, while still watching the cat.
“Call me Linda. And don’t bristle. Some mean little dogs thrive on tormenting my poor Precious. And their masters don’t give a fig. I meant that as a compliment, Kate. I can call you, Kate, right, seeing as we’ll be working side by side.” Linda bit into the bagel. “Brilliant.” Kate jumped on the doll lady’s attitude adjustment and moved in for the kill.
“Of course, please do call me Kate. And I will have a bagel. Cinnamon raisin is my favorite too. I have one every Sunday morning after church.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Marlene smirking. Well, Kate might be laying it on thicker than cream cheese, but she told the truth.
The doll lady smiled.
“So, Freddie’s good with a camera. Tell me, does he focus on the circus animals? They’re such interesting subjects and right under his nose.” Kate took a bite of her bagel. “Yummy, aren’t they?”
“Righto.” Linda swallowed. “Freddie’s favorite models are the tigers; he must have five hundred photos of those cats. Always pulling out the latest batch and shoving them under my nose. Freddie believes tigers are brighter than most people and better-looking too.” Linda lifted Precious out of Marlene’s lap and rubbed the cat’s stomach. “He often reads his comic books to them, claims they can recognize the cartoon characters’ names. Drives their tamer wild.” Linda shifted Precious to her knees and sipped her coffee. “If you ask me, Freddie Ducksworth is daft.”
“What about the elephants?” Kate asked. “Did Freddie ever take pictures of them?”
Linda shook her head, her long hair rolling with the movement. “I never saw him shooting any elephants. Why do you ask?” Kate could almost see Linda’s mind working, quickly coming up with an answer to her own question. “Do photographs of the circus elephants have something to do with Whitey’s murder?”
The doll lady was no dope. Still…could she be playing Kate? Pretending to process new information, while knowing full well the photographs might be a motive? And more importantly, could Linda Rutledge be a woman scorned?
During Sean’s steady stream of gossip yesterday afternoon as he’d introduced Kate and Marlene around the corridor, he’d started with Linda’s broken romance with Whitey.
Linda met Kate’s eyes. “I told you Freddie’s a bit off. He’s no killer, though. Not bright enough, for starters.” She tugged at her purple spandex shirt, trying to stretch the material to cover her cleavage, and she sounded nervous, on edge.
Kate nodded, then kept quiet, hoping Marlene and Mary Frances would do the same.
“I think someone is after us circus-corridor vendors. It began with the automobile crash.”
What crash? Where was Linda going?
“I doubt Carl Krieg had anything to do with that. He just likes dressing up like a storm trooper and strutting about. For him, every day is Halloween. Carl’s all style and no substance, just like the Jerry who landed in my Aunt Jessica’s garden during World War II.” The doll lady sighed. “A pilot but not a very good one, and not out of his teens. Destroyed my old auntie’s tea rose bushes, though he’d been convinced he zeroed in on Ten Downing Street. Kept demanding to meet Churchill.”
Again, Kate nodded, leaning in closer to Linda. Mary Frances opened her mouth, then catching Kate’s disapproving glance, shut it. Precious meowed—a plaintive sound—the cat’s tone matching her mistress’s.
“Unlike the German’s plane, Suzanna’s car crash was no accident.” Linda shed a tear and let it roll down her face. “Whitey checked it out. Someone had mucked around under the bonnet and tampered with the brand new Volvo’s brakes.”
If this was an act, it was quite a performance.
“I’d swear on my auntie’s grave, Whitey must have figured out who tampered with the Volvo’s brakes. And why everyone in the corridor was in danger.” Linda gulped. “And Whitey had a big mouth, especially after a snootful of scotch. Probably told the killer what he knew, signed his own death warrant.”
“It’s safe to return to work, ladies.” Sean’s high, lilting voice startled Kate. “We have Carl sleeping it off on a cot in the fire eater’s bunk. Suzanna and Freddie are here and open for business. Jocko’s manning the fort, watching over both your tables. But customers are champing at the bit, so you’d better hurry back to your posts.” He paused, unblinking in the bright sunshine. “Now.”
Eleven
Sean Cunningham’s imperial attitude grated, but Kate had to admit he�
��d been right about the customers. She and Marlene, with Mary Frances serving as a most efficient stock girl, had sold almost two hundred dollars’ worth of those truly ugly bowls, plus a Miriam Haskell pin for another two hundred, within fifteen minutes.
Across the aisle, the Jordan mother and daughter team were doing well too. Good, Kate thought, not wanting to outshine the competition on their first day. Suzanna Jordan, sleek in all black—ballet slippers, Capri pants, and turtleneck—had been checking out Marlene’s wares when Kate, Mary Frances, and Marlene had returned to the corridor. She appeared perturbed when she spotted Marlene’s rather large display of Haskell brooches and earrings.
Ballou, admonished to be on his best behavior, reveled in the crowded corridor, greeting each potential customer with friendly, but not overwhelming, curiosity.
At the table next to Suzanna and Olivia, the latter in an unfortunate orange flowered print—and why hadn’t Suzanna shared her fashion flair with her daughter?—Freddie Ducksworth’s comic-book aficionados, many of them preteens dressed as Spiderman or the Hulk, stood in lines three-deep. The Santa-shaped man, a wide smile fixed in place, obviously thrived on his customers’ demands for attention.
The Cunningham Circus booth was closed, and Jocko had disappeared, no doubt changing into his clown costume for the matinee. Of course, that booth made most of its money post-performance.
To their left, Kate and Marlene’s neighbor haggled for ten minutes, then closed a sale with a young woman who purchased a bridal doll the size of a well-nourished preschooler for over a hundred dollars a foot.
Precious, curled up in front of a Tudor dollhouse, had slept through the entire transaction.
Only Carl’s table, manned by Sean himself, sold nothing. The pre-circus crowd wasn’t into Nazi memorabilia. Or maybe Sean, already in his clown suit and makeup, had turned them off.