Cirque De Slay

by CeeCee James

  But that didn’t stop some of the circus workers. It wasn’t just pick-pocketing. It was amazing how many customers left their valuables in their car and didn’t bother to lock it. Their kids left electronics—phones, iPads, games— right next to their car seats, making it easy pickings. It was stuff that wasn’t missed right away and parents blamed it on the kid losing it.

  The kid lost it alright. Right into the hands of the brothers, who paid cents on the dollar amount.

  It worked out for the carnies. Maybe too well. I had to wonder what happened, with all this gossip that the brothers were hanging around being bantered about. Was it one of the brothers I’d heard talking to Claudette the night before she died?

  5

  As we started our morning, I thought about what Becca said. Theory aside, Claudette did have a few enemies. As I headed for breakfast in the chow tent, I saw one now.

  Tiffany Roxbury, reported as one of the most beautiful woman in the world, and the only other woman I knew who wore high heels at the circus. She was billed as the living fashion doll. Now, I understand that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but I think anyone would admit, Tiffany was a very lovely woman. Especially compared to someone short and squatty like me.

  Besides her fashion doll act, Tiffany danced on the silk. The silk was a long piece of material that hung from the tent rafter. She danced in the air while wrapping the cloth around her body to herself. Truly, she looked like a floating fairy.

  As for Claudette, like I said before, although she was famous as the bearded woman, she was breath-taking herself, with her violet doe-like eyes that were fringed with heavy dark eyelashes. She loved her beard. Sometimes she’d stroke it and give whatever man was watching a wink.

  Now, Tiffany had all the generic markers of beauty. Blonde hair, big blue eyes, tiny waist, soft voice. She was used to turning heads. But standing next to Claudette, Tiffany might as well have been invisible.

  And, even though the two called each other friends, it was well known that Tiffany had some jealousy issues. She couldn’t stand to be billed below Claudette, and threw a fit every time that happened. Which, I just realized, had been happening more of late. Probably because of the Ringmaster’s relationship with Claudette.

  I shook my head at the thought. But jealousy would never be enough to give someone a knot on their head hard enough to kill them. Besides, Tiffany had crowds of fans who came just to see her.

  It was puzzling. How could someone who had so much still not be satisfied? There must be something in some people’s nature that stole contentment and replaced it with a burning desire to reach the next never-ending goal.

  For myself, I would have been happy just to have achieved an average height. Maybe have a nose that was smaller. Ears that were smaller. A body that wasn’t quite so lumpy. And I sure as heck would have felt like I’d won the body lottery if I’d woken up and looked half as attractive as Tiffany.

  Tiffany had grown up with nothing else but adoration for her looks. She was obviously not used to be overshadowed.

  Especially by a bearded woman.

  As I watched now, Tiffany didn’t go straight to the chow tent. Instead, she veered off from the crowd and down the side path. I hesitated for a second and then followed her.

  The litter on the ground had been gathered the night before, and black trash bags fenced in the dirt walkways that ran through the circus. They were waiting for the garbage crew who would do the final clean up just before the circus opened for the day.

  Tiffany ducked around the bags and headed for the costume tent. It was much plainer than the ones where the paying customers sat. This one was made of beige canvas with green and orange power cords covering the ground. Typically, where the customers were, the cords were covered with black rubber mats. Here the cables littered the ground like dead snakes.

  She stepped over them, her high heels poking holes in the dirt, and entered the tent.

  I watched for a moment and then ran to the side of the tent to remain out of sight. It was tricky to get in the structure in any other way besides the entrance since the tent’s edges were tamped down and its seams were solid and firm. But I knew of a way in; a spot where an eyelet rope-hole had torn and then been weakly patched. There was some slack in the canvas there, making a space where one could squirm and creep under.

  If one were small enough.

  I found that space now and began to crawl under the edge of the tent. I had no idea why I was going through all this effort except that, after being a target all my life, I’d learned to trust my gut feeling. I paid attention when it said something was not what it seemed.

  Right now it told me to keep an eye on Tiffany.

  She’d made it to the hanging wardrobes by the time I’d climbed inside. Ducking down, I scurried behind the wall of bags, boxes, and trunks that held everything from costumes to theme decoration when we hit towns during the Fourth of July, or even Christmas, in the warmer states. Right now, several had been emptied of Autumn decorations—scarecrows, bats, broom sticks and pumpkins.

  The dirt crunched under my feet, but it didn’t matter. She was making too much noise to hear me as she hit a wooden box.

  “You didn’t tell me the brothers were here!” she hissed to someone unknown. I peeped behind the boxes, straining my neck to see. I didn’t see who she was talking with, despite the neck cramp I gave myself. I slumped down and rubbed the muscle.

  “So? They’re here,” a male voice answered. Who was that? Was it Bill? That man made my skin crawl.

  “And Claudette? They went after Claudette?” she said.

  “No one said they went after anyone. They simply want their money.”

  I heard footsteps and chanced another peek. She was pacing. Her hand covered her eyes, and she swore.

  “Do you not understand I owe them too?” she whispered.

  “There’s no sign that they’ve done anything,” the voice answered. “You’re taking this awfully personal.”

  “Except Claudette is dead!” her voice rose with emotion. Her eyes darted around to see if anyone heard. Continuing much quieter, she continued. “A woman is dead.”

  “And we don’t know why,” the voice was bored.

  “We don’t know for sure who did it either, but I bet the brothers are behind it. I can’t believe this happened. Do we even know where her body is. Where is the Ringmaster keeping her?” she wailed.

  “I’ve heard there will be a burial tonight. They’ve brought out the excavator, ready to dig.”

  “Oh, my word.” She stopped pacing. Her chest heaved with her deep breaths.

  “Go back out,” the voice advised. “Act as though everything is normal. Or you could be next.”

  “Next?” She spun around. Her eyes narrowed. “Are you threatening me?”

  “First you’re worried about the brothers, and now you’re accusing me.” The man chuckled. “You hardly know who the enemy is, do you? Be careful, Tiffany. That’s all I’m saying.”

  She bit her lip. Even from here I could see how blood nearly sprang up under her teeth, but she didn’t seem to notice the pain.

  “Now, go,” the voice said. “Don’t bother me again.”

  Tiffany gathered her skirt and hurried to the door. The flap opened with a swoosh and then fell shut behind her.

  I didn’t move, little mouse that I was. I wanted to see who the voice was.

  He didn’t reveal himself. But I knew I could outlast him. It was only a matter of time.

  I leaned my head against the wall and waited. But it was only about fifteen or twenty minutes later when I realized something chilling.

  I was alone.

  Where had he gone? And why hadn’t I seen him leave?

  6

  As everyone knows, the show must go on, and it was well past midnight when we collected together again. There was no formal announcement. Simply word of mouth gathered us all here.

  The sky was fitting. The moon and stars were hidden under a gloom of
clouds. The air felt moist and held that electrical tension that sent the hairs on the back of my arms tingling. It would be storming soon.

  It was cold, and people shifted on their feet and blew in their hands in cloudy exhales as they waited. One man spit next to me, loud and phlegmy. I stepped away. If there was one thing I couldn’t stand, it was spit.

  I covered my chest with my arms and tried not to shiver. In the middle of the field, an excavator stood next to a hole in the ground. The glow of a lantern reflected off its metal teeth. Clumps of mud and grass clung to the edge of the bucket. It was hard not to think of it as wicked since it had just chewed up the earth to dispose of a body. The shiver I tried to stop broke free, and I trembled uncontrollably.

  “Where is he?” murmured someone next to me.

  “Shh,” hushed his neighbor, someone I knew as a clown. I think he was the first one to call me Trixie. He looked bizarre without his paint.

  But I knew who he was referring to. The Ringmaster.

  I glanced around, looking for the body. I was half-afraid I’d find her, to be honest, but I couldn’t stop my search. Dear Heavens. She wasn’t already in the hole, was she? Did they wrap her up? A vision of dirt falling on her cold white face filled me with terror, and my hand flew up to stifle the whimper I made.

  “Is that a puppy? A naughty puppy?” said the clown.

  “Shut up, that’s just Trixie,” said his friend.

  “I know who it is,” snapped the first voice. “Awfully funny to see her upset though. I don’t recall any love lost between the mouse and Claudette.”

  I curled my shoulders in as if I could make myself disappear. My fist was still by my mouth, and I bit it. The sensation of my teeth against my skin reminded me that I was in control.

  Make no eye contact. Barely breath. Maybe they will go away.

  It worked, and the men’s attention was grabbed by the few raindrops that started to fall.

  “Geez, can we get started already?” the clown asked. “It’s going to start dumping.”

  “Spoken like a true grief-stricken friend,” the second one joked.

  “Hey, life goes on. Seriously, did you feel that? Raindrops the size of quarters, I swear.”

  As they complained, I moved away again. Always moving.

  The rain picked up and soon drowned out the shifting sounds of bodies, clothing, and feet. But not the voices. Those rose as though given permission to speak by the storming clouds above.

  “Sure is taking him a long time.”

  “Who did it, do you think?”

  “We could be standing with a killer right now.”

  “Could be? Of course, we are. Unless he was a ghost.”

  The word ghost made goosebumps rise along my arms. I hadn’t forgotten the black phantom that had raised to the roof. But who would believe me? No one.

  Or maybe everyone, but not in the way that I’d want. Circus folks were superstitious. The ghostly accusations might come against me, with whispers that I’d somehow summoned something evil to dispose of my enemy. Retribution would be swift. I could hide from people wanting to mock me, but there was no hiding from those driven by fear. Fear had a way of empowering even the weakest human to do some of the vilest things in the name of self-protection. It conjured up possible future scenarios that encouraged a person to do anything to stop that scenario from happening. Mix that feeling with an offense, and it became unstoppable.

  No one recognized the fact that those imagined futures rarely happened.

  Nope. I was keeping my mouth shut. I wasn’t going to let myself be the next target.

  The whispers around me quieted unnaturally. I glanced about to see what caused it.

  Clothed in an overcoat, the Ringmaster had walked up and now stood in front of the open mouth of the grave. The wind ripped his jacket open. He ignored it. His face was stony as he pulled his hat further down his forehead to protect from the rain.

  He stared out at us, and we stood silently, staring back. A flashlight shone across his face, and his blue eyes narrowed in anger. I was surprised to notice how blue they were—like the coldest part of a glacier— and that the color would show in the black of the night.

  “Get that light off of me,” he growled.

  It disappeared. I wondered who had been brave enough to do that or the reason why.

  “Sorry, Ringmaster,” a voice called from the side. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want everyone to be able to see you.”

  “They can see what they need to see,” the Ringmaster answered. “Which is us burying one of our own. Claudette Barbarosa.” He turned to the grave, and his mouth wrestled. I realized she must be there. Finally, he spoke. “Your life was cut short, and I will find out who did it. They will pay. But for tonight, we say goodnight, my love. We will see each other in a new season.”

  His hand jerked in the direction of the backhoe, and his fingers beckoned.

  The machine started up with a roar. Its headlights slashed through the darkness, making many turn their faces away. I squinted my eyes, not wanting to miss anything. Black smoke expelled from the stack. Then the tracks started forward and the bucket reached for the dirt piled to one side. The teeth scraped along the rocks with a metallic scream. The Ringmaster watched like a statue, never flinching.

  The arm flexed with a hydraulic groan and lifted. It shifted over the hole with dirt spilling out from the sides. The machine rumbled as the bucket opened, and the dirt fell. I swallowed at the solid sound it made as it hit.

  The backhoe made several trips as it slowly ate into the dirt pile. We stood there the entire time, watching with our hair dripping into our faces, shivering in the cold. The final pile of dirt collapsed into a muddy mess. The bucket scraped it over the grave. The driver patted the hole softly with the bucket and then turned off the machine.

  The silence was deafening. None of us moved, waiting for a sign from the Ringmaster. He stared at the now filled hole and his hands clenched. I swear I saw his lip tremble before he pressed them tight.

  Finally, he looked up. “To bed, all!” he roared, and marched away. His boots squelched in the mud.

  Still, none of us moved, as though needing to be certain he truly was leaving. When he’d gone around the tent, people finally began to disperse.

  I was grateful to escape to my bunk where I stripped off my wet clothes and slid into my only dry ones left.

  Sally came after me. We didn’t speak. I think she was as worn out as I felt. She turned off the lights, and our little cabin was wrapped in darkness. I rolled to my side and prayed.

  7

  The whole vibe was off the next morning. I don’t know if it was the fresh smear of dirt out in the field, or if it finally hit us that there was a murderer in our midst, but everyone was slow-moving and unsociable.

  It shouldn’t have mattered that much to me since I didn’t hang out with people too often anyway. But it did. When humans acted weird, they were unpredictable. I hated unpredictable.

  The circus grounds soon filled with customers milling about the tents like ants in a maze. Everything was normal for them. There were magic shows, candy apples, and the petting zoo for them to explore. The air smelled like crisp apples and cinnamon. Even the breeze cooperated by cartwheeling colorful leaves down the path.

  It was hours before my show. I still had to repair my costume, and so I was in the wardrobe tent. I sat on a trunk with a needle and a thread. Squinting, I licked the thread and tried to poke it through the eye of the needle.

  On the other side of the tent was Vincent, the other sword swallower. He worked on his sword, a seemingly endless chore. Polishing it, buffing. He kept the swords in pristine condition. And considering where they went, I understood why.

  I wasn’t sure if he knew I was here. He gave me no sign, but that was nothing new. Vincent barely acknowledged me. I don’t think he’d said more than two words to me my entire time I’d been with the circus. Once, a few months ago, I’d sat for hours next to him while he worked
on his stuff and I’d worked on my flower sash. Sally had come in to take care of her swords as well. She’d seen me and waved hi. He’d turned toward me, startled, his face paling white as a ghost.

  “How long has she been there?” he’d asked Sally.

  “You never know,” she said, making spooky finger movements. “Wonder what she’s seen.”

  I watched him now as I sewed my strap, a little concerned. He didn’t look good. In fact, his face was pale and sweaty. He swallowed hard and drew the cloth down the sword. The metal made a soft purr noise as he pulled the polishing cloth along it.

  “She had it coming, she knew she did,” he whispered to himself.

  “You say something, Vincent?” Tiffany asked. She pushed a rack of costumes from where they’d been hidden behind a hanging wardrobe. I’d known she was there, but Vincent jumped, surprised. But, as far as I could tell, neither of them had noticed me yet.

  “Uh, Just the news about Claudette,” he answered.

  “Ah, Claudette. Did she still owe you that money?” Tiffany asked.

  He blanched, clearly caught off guard. “Money?”

  Hearing where this conversation was going, my gut instinct told me to hide. I slowly ducked down and crawled into an open wardrobe. Once inside, I covered myself with a sweater that had fallen to the bottom. It was dark and stifley, but I felt safe.

  Tiffany sniffed. “Oh, come on. Everyone knows about the money. Everyone knew she had it, and that she owed you.”

  “She paid me back,” he finally admitted.

  “Did she now. All two thousand?”