2 Landscape in Scarlet

by Melanie Jackson

  He grunted.

  “Had to break up a fight last night. Some lightweight got a four-beer hard-on and decided he didn’t really like his two best friends anymore,” Garret explained.

  “A four-beer hard-on? I’ll have to remember that.”

  “Thank you for the cupcake,” he said with real gratitude. “Sugar and caffeine may be all that stands between me and a coma. By the way, you were right. Doc looked right away and there was taxine in the inhaler. I don’t know how they tell these things, but it was apparently some homebrewed thing, not done by a commercial distillation process which would have removed more debris.”

  “That figures.”

  “There was also some kind of mud in the threads that they are trying to identify. The color is wrong for around here. No prints, except Comstock’s, so it was probably wiped clean.”

  “Naturally. Was there any sign that Comstock was a drug user?”

  Garret raised a brow.

  “None. The tox screen will take a while but there were no outward signs—and no history of drug use in the record. He has no police record at all, except for a parking ticket in San Francisco three years ago. Why?”

  Juliet sighed and then repeated what she had heard from Rose the night before. She suggested that Garret find the name of the “other boy” who had overdosed with Joel Cray. He might be the only person who could tell them if Comstock had actually been supplying drugs. Not that it mattered in terms of the killer’s motivations. A belief in Comstock’s wrongdoing would be—had been—enough to motivate them to act. But Juliet needed to know for her own peace of mind if she was investigating the death of a guilty man, or if she was trying to find the truth about an innocent one.

  Because if Comstock wasn’t guilty, then he needed to have his name cleared. Perhaps that would appease his shade which seemed to hover near her, mourning at the corner of her eye.

  “That he didn’t take drugs himself doesn’t mean he didn’t deal or give alcohol to the boys. Or that he didn’t abuse them.” Garret was thinking out loud.

  “The boys didn’t overdose on alcohol. Can you talk to the police and find out if there was any evidence that he was giving out drugs in return for sexual favors?”

  “You bet I will.” Garret sounded energized. Juliet just felt tired and discouraged by the whole ugly problem.

  Comstock’s killer probably had his or her conscience bricked up behind a wall of their reasons, however spurious and ill-conceived their justification for murder. Once they had decided on Comstock’s guilt, the rest had followed logically. Justice demanded that they cull the predator hiding in the herd if the police would not do it.

  If Comstock were proved innocent, guilt might eventually bleed through to them, but it was too late now. Their actions had put them on the wrong side of moral society.

  And finding the guilty party would only lead to more tragedy because killers had families too.

  “Well, I need to get to the booth and integrate some of my leftover summer stock. I’m glad something about the fair has gone well,” she said when she was done with her report and brooding.

  “I’ll see you in a bit. I’ve got to start collecting statements before people leave town. Two retired deputies are coming in to help, but it is still going to be a long day.” He sighed, looking at his trebuchet which was jammed in the corner of the office. “You know, I wish we were at your place having a tuna sandwich.”

  “I bet. I wish it too.” Juliet smiled in sympathy. Garret wouldn’t be able to finish the punkin chunkin competition. Even if he had time, it would look all wrong for him to be doing anything frivolous when a killer was on the loose. It was a shame, and something else to lay at the killer’s door.

  “Thanks to you, I at least have a starting place to begin sifting the haystack looking for our needle.”

  “Right. We need to cheer up. I may yet stumble on something that will narrow things down even more.”

  “If anyone can figure it out, it’s you.”

  Juliet wasn’t as confident as Garret but made herself smile.

  “By the way? Does anyone in town offer basic self-defense courses? I am trying to convince Rose to take one with me.”

  Garret looked concerned.

  “There’s one on Thursday nights at the church. But, Juliet, if you are worried I could certainly teach you—“

  “No. It isn’t that. I just think it would help Rose to be less nervous.”

  The fair looked outwardly the same though it felt different. The sun was out, but only for a while and sinister shadows lined the folds of the mountains and lingered in the nearby forest. It bothered Juliet to see a raven sitting in the trees that had held Comstock’s balloons. Though not superstitious, she had come to view the ravens as a sign that murder had happened, living markers of heinous outrage. The residuum of the dead, even after the body was taken away, was persistent. Whether it was lingering emotion or memory, or an actual troubled ghost, there seemed to be an extra shadow loitering around the stables. The ravens made it manifest.

  Once in her booth, chair stabilized, cupcake and coffee consumed, Juliet got out a small sketch pad and began drawing out the layout of the fair tents and attractions. She wanted to know who could have seen the balloon man slipping off to the stables and if anyone had followed him. She had no proof, but from where the body had been found, she had a feeling that he had been pushed from behind. As she had told Raphael and Esteban, that shove probably meant that the killer had followed him.

  Whether the last push had been pure malice, or merely some effort to hide the body, she did not know. Either way, someone had stood there and calmly watched a man die. That meant deep hate and anger. Surely anyone who hated that much would be easy to find.

  She paused after the food tents were inked in, trying to recall what had changed since yesterday. It was the cat rescue tent. It was gone, probably to the flea market where they were most Sundays. Juliet decided that she wouldn’t worry about their being gone from the scene. It was doubtful that any of the dedicated seniors who were manning the booth, mossy pillars of society that they were, could be in any way involved with Comstock’s death and from their location, they wouldn’t have been able to see anything important.

  “What are you drawing?” Rose asked, licking the last of the icing off her lips. Rose didn’t often indulge in sweets since she tended to think of them as being the unnatural fruits of unclean living, but the pumpkin cupcakes were especially good and woman cannot live by carrot sticks alone.

  “Just a sketch of the booths,” Juliet answered, but didn’t offer to show it to her friend since the drawing was clearly not about art. And Rose wouldn’t ask again since she expected artists to be sensitive about work in progress. She added, “I should draw the giant pumpkins too. I like how they droop.”

  A glance at the finished map confirmed that she—or Garret—needed to speak to Darby and Harrison, if he was there all day helping his girlfriend, and the potter, Samuel Levy. Even with the strolling musicians, crowds admiring large pumpkins, and zombie jugglers sometimes blocking the view, any of them could have seen Comstock when he staggered toward the bathrooms and might have noticed if he was followed—and by whom.

  Less likely to have seen anything was Carrie Simmons, but Juliet supposed she would have to be questioned eventually.

  “Oh no. The news people are back,” Rose murmured. “I wouldn’t mind so much but they scare the tourists and they never buy anything,” she said, echoing the conversation Juliet had had with Raphael the night before.

  “Poor Garret. He doesn’t like them either. They just get in his way.”

  “There goes Lulu. She hates the press. She’ll probably hide in the bathroom until they are gone,” Rose said, looking down to the end of the row where Lulu Weston was indeed walking away with a briskness she hadn’t previously shown. “I do hope her assistant is reliable.”

  “What is his name?” Juliet asked, glancing at the tattooed teen. Something about him reminded h
er of someone else though her brain refused to place him.

  “Vinnie, I think. He seems like a nice boy. I’m sure he can handle things at the booth, or she wouldn’t have hired him.”

  “Hm,” Juliet said, unable to tell if he was a nice boy or not, and truthfully not really caring about his personality, except as a potential witness to Lulu Weston’s activities the day before. “I’ll have to visit him later, if we get a break.”

  “It is nice to have some young people around.”

  Juliet nodded, though she found “young people” to be rather baffling.

  Garret managed to stop by briefly. While Rose was busy with a customer, Juliet was able to show her drawing to the sheriff and he could see at once who would have had the best line of sight on the route Comstock likely took before he died. There was more than one way to get back to the bathrooms behind the stables even with all the tents in place, but anyone as sick as Comstock forcing their way through the crowded petting zoo or forging a path behind the food booths with their constantly manned barbecues would have been noticed. It was barely possible that someone could have worked their way through the maze and shoved some straw bales aside when they reached the far end, but it was most unlikely since it was always full of children and protective parents who would have noticed a very sick man staggering around and probably throwing up. It made far more sense for Comstock to take the passage between the zoo and Madame Mimm’s enclosed tent.

  Or to cut through Xander Lawson’s booth. But even in extremis—especially in extremis—would Comstock have risked going near his enemies?

  “Well, I know where to begin my interviews,” he said softly, smiling for the benefit of the tourists and news crew who wandered by, not recognizing the sheriff out of uniform. “Especially since the tarot reader isn’t here yet.”

  “I thought I might wander down and talk to Darby and Carrie when the crowds let up. Harrison has been at the booth a lot too. I just hoped they weren’t turned around the whole time watching the punkin chunkin. If they were facing the square we might get lucky.”

  Garret gave her a more genuine smile since he didn’t much care for being cornered by the man-eater and was just as happy to let Juliet feel out Carrie Simmons. Juliet found that Carrie’s conversation and opinions were almost always predictable and boring, rather like slopping another coat of beige paint on already cream-colored walls. Still, this was about murder. No rocks—not even the ones in her head—should remain unturned.

  “I’ll start with Levy. His booth doesn’t look all that busy,” Garret said.

  “It wasn’t yesterday either. Hopefully he can tell us something.”

  Fortunately, the news vans wanted to film reports at the location of the murder, so they had no reason to be near Juliet’s booth though they tended to dog Garret’s footsteps. Rather shockingly she sold out of stock just before one o’clock and decided that it was time to go visit Darby since no one from the fourth estate was currently hanging about.

  The former veterinarian was having a slow day. Her smaller sculptures had been snapped up the day before and her few remaining pieces would probably not be purchased until the last moment when people had to make a decision about whether they liked something well enough to make it fit in their car.

  “Harrison, you’re almost out of CDs,” Juliet said. “Congratulations.”

  “Your idea about recording some spooky music was a good one. I also sold some of the other concert collections. It’s pretty neat since most people are into mp3 players these days.”

  “Hello, Juliet,” Darby said, taking a seat. Her slightly clubbed feet were hardly noticeable, but they pained her when she stood for too long. “I saw you at the bakery this morning. Are you mainlining pastry now?”

  “Pumpkin cupcakes,” Juliet explained. “They’ll be my ruin.”

  “I guess you want to ask us about what we saw yesterday,” Darby said.

  “Did you see anything?”

  “Well, the balloon man sure looked drunk. If I had thought it was anything else I would have gone to help him.” She looked guilty. Juliet understood.

  “I know. Me too.”

  “He must have been confused. If he felt sick, why didn’t he go to the first aid station? They would have gotten him help.”

  “I have no idea.” Unless past experience had made Comstock wary of appealing to the police for aid.

  “It was murder?” Harrison asked, his voice low. “No one has said but.…”

  “Yes. Poison. In his inhaler. He had asthma.”

  “Was it something slow acting?” Darby asked with a frown. “Because I saw him use it a couple times in the morning and he seemed fine.”

  “Taxine,” Juliet said. Darby, being a vet, would know about what the drug could do. “A homebrew apparently done with crude apparatus.”

  Probably she shouldn’t discuss the case, but there was no way that Darby or Harrison had had anything to do with Comstock’s death.

  “It would act quickly being inhaled like that. Faster than if it was ingested.”

  “Yes, we think—well, I think and will bet you anything the autopsy report will confirm—he must have taken a dose sometime during the punkin chunkin. And that means that between twelve and two, someone he either didn’t see or whom he trusted tampered with or replaced the inhaler.”

  “We were watching the competition,” Darby confessed and Harrison nodded. “Business was slow since almost everyone was at the chunkin. It was only because I wanted some water that I turned around and saw Comstock stumbling by.”

  “Was anyone following him?” Juliet asked.

  “The killer, you mean?” Darby looked disturbed. “I—I don’t know. When I say everyone was at the chunkin, I don’t mean absolutely everyone. There were still a lot of people milling around.”

  “Let’s narrow it down some. Did you see Xander Lawson, Lulu Weston, or Madame Mimm follow him?”

  “N-no. Though Madame Mimm was standing outside her tent when he went by. She was sure to have seen him. In fact, I think she may have said something to him.”

  Juliet recalled that he had actually entered Madame Mimm’s tent before she left for the chunkin. Could she have switched inhalers then?

  “Good. Maybe he said something back that will give us a clue about what happened.”

  “I hope so. This is dreadful. I’m just glad it didn’t make the news last night and scare all the families away. The town needs this fair. We need this fair.”

  “Me too. We all need a good festival.”

  “Don’t know if it matters but I saw Lulu stop by Levy’s tent a little before noon. I got the impression they knew each other. She left fast when the balloon man came by.”

  “That’s right,” Darby said. “He took off his coat and left it at Levy’s tent while he followed her to the concession stands.”

  “Did they speak?”

  “I—I don’t know. Sorry. The chunkin was starting.”

  “Well, maybe someone at the food booths will remember if they spoke. Given how much Lulu disliked him, it’s possible that they had words.”

  “I hope so.”

  Juliet noticed Lulu’s assistant in line at one of the concession stands and went to order some unwanted food.

  “Any recommendations?” she asked the pierced lip and Popeye tattoos.

  “Uh,” the kid answered in typical teenage monosyllabic fashion and then rallied. “I like the sweetie fries. They’re made from sweet potatoes.”

  “Really? That sounds good,” she said honestly.

  “They’re okay with honey and powdered sugar.”

  She repressed a shudder.

  “I’ve been meaning to come down and say hello. It’s been hard to get away from the booth though.”

  “That’s right. You do those cool sweatshirts.” His face warmed and he began to look like an actual human. “Have you thought about doing some of the classic monsters?”

  “Trademark problems for some of them. You’re Vinnie?” she
asked, offering her hand.

  The kid grinned as he shook it and she knew that she had succeeded in making herself unthreatening, even amusing.

  “Vinnie Hearst.”

  “Juliet Henry,” she answered back. “So have things been busy for you guys? Lulu’s glass pumpkins seemed to have sold out fast.”

  Vinnie shrugged.

  “It could be busier but I guess things are slowing down.”

  “Did you get to see any of the chunkin?” They moved up in line. There was one person ahead of them but he had a list of complicated coffee drinks that might take a while to fill.

  “No.” The disappointment was clear. “Lulu—she’s been out a lot and I haven’t been able to see much from the tent.”

  So, Lulu wasn’t around from twelve to two. That gave her opportunity as well as motive.

  “Too bad. I managed to slip out for a bit of a look on Saturday and I was impressed. Too bad about that man dying. The sheriff had to withdraw from the competition. I think he might have won otherwise.”

  Vinnie stiffened slightly.

  “Yeah. Well, maybe next year.”

  “I can help whoever is next,” said the new face that had appeared at the counter.

  Vinnie turned to place his order. Coffee mule stepped away and Juliet was obliged to order if she wanted to keep talking to Vinnie.

  “I hear your sweetie fries are good,” she said to the wrinkled face under the hairnet. “But no honey and powdered sugar for me.”

  “Okay—comin’ right up.”

  Juliet stepped away from the counter and went to stand near Vinnie who was also waiting.

  “Maybe next year the council will allow air cannons,” she said, trying to resurrect their conversation. “I hear that it’s the only way to break the world record for distance.”

  Vinnie grunted, turning back into one of the baffling young people. Juliet decided not to press him. After all, she had found out what she needed to know; Lulu wasn’t in her tent when Comstock died.

  Vinnie’s order came up the same time as hers. He snatched his plate and hurried away. Juliet opted to hunt up some napkins and wait for her sweetie fries to cool before tasting them.