by Erin Johnson
As I walked down the pier, the late afternoon sun bounced off the water far, far below. Within a few hours, the tide would rise hundreds of feet to lap at the pier that for now jutted out over empty space. I passed the main purple-and-black-striped tent on my way back to the booth. I paused next to a kettle corn stand and bit my lip.
I’d promised Maple to do my investigating with her or Iggy or someone to watch my back. But I itched to see if Riga had known about Madame Zerna’s illness. And with the Night of the Dead ceremony this evening, Maple and I working the night shift, and the carnival packing up and leaving tomorrow, I wasn’t sure I’d get another chance to speak with her.
My gut twisted with a twinge of guilt. At least it was afternoon. Nothing bad happened while the sun was up, right?
My rationale sounded flimsy, even to me, but as I started across the walkway toward the tent I figured Maple couldn’t blame me. She had run out of the potions tent, leaving me unsupervised. She had to have known I’d do something reckless, left to my own devices.
I skirted the striped tent, the fabric bouncing and rippling in the wind, and wound my way to the quieter back side. There I found the flaps to the staff entrance unsealed. I pulled one open and slipped inside.
The dressing room looked the same as it had the other night. The globe lights encircling the giant, round vanity mirror glowed in the darkness, the dark walls were plastered in posters for the various acts, and of course—what dark mysterious tent would be complete without—the creepy bucket of mannequin hands was still there.
Even Riga sat at the same spot, on the tasseled bench in front of the vanity. I didn’t spot Scullivan, though. I relaxed a little. The guy gave me the willies.
I mimed rapping my fist against the tent flaps. “Knock knock.” I got no response, so I moved a few steps closer and cleared my throat. “Um, Riga? I’m Imogen, I came by last night after the show to ask you a few questions? Do you mind if I ask you a couple more?”
The pretty girl sat slumped forward, unmoving, unspeaking. My stomach clenched with concern as I moved closer. She sat so still—was she breathing? “Riga?”
I stood right by her side. Her long ponytail hung forward over her face, her knees folded together with her feet wide—it seemed an uncomfortable position to be holding so long. Maybe this was some new, awkward form of yoga? I gingerly placed my hand on hers and yanked it right back, recoiling at the cold of her.
“You must be freezing.”
Still no response. I looked around for a coat or a shawl to place around her shoulders, but the only clothes hanging on the rack were skimpy, sequined showgirl outfits. Huffing through my nose, I turned back to her.
Looking closer, I noticed that her nails were chipped and cracked, with a dark line of dirt underneath them. Not only that, they glowed with that greenish light.
I leaned closer, biting my lip in concern. “Do you need help?”
“What are you doing in here?”
I jumped and whirled at the gruff voice. Scullivan stood behind me, beside the tent flaps, tall in his top hat and sleeveless white undershirt. It even more clearly revealed his skull throat tattoo. I gulped. Definitely should have brought Maple and her bad-cop routine along.
“I came by to ask a couple more questions.”
He stepped toward me, a dark look on his face, and I backed away to the other side of the tent. He narrowed his eyeliner-ringed eyes and stood between Riga and me. He put a hand on her shoulder and, keeping his eyes on me the whole time, bent low and whispered in her ear.
She suddenly straightened, sitting bolt upright. She stared straight ahead at her reflection in the mirror, and lightly touched her fingers to her glowing cheek. Scullivan peeled his eyes away from me to glance at her. As he took in her gesture, he scrambled, fishing around in his pocket.
“What’s wrong with her? Why didn’t she respond to me?” I turned from Scullivan, and addressed Riga’s reflection. “Are you okay?”
He retrieved an amber-colored bottle with a corked stopper. The dim lighting made it difficult to tell, but the label on the bottle seemed to be the cauldron and broomsticks logo of the potion maker’s stall.
“She was meditating—ain’t that right, sweetie?” She nodded, dazed, and he scrunched his nose and flashed me an oily smile. “She goes deep. Loses all track of time and space.” Scullivan slid his arm over Riga’s shoulders and tipped the bottle into a cracked white mug on the vanity beside the various bottles of perfumes and cosmetics. “Drink your coffee and you’ll perk right up.”
I probably shouldn’t have asked, not alone in the tent with the strange man and the dazed girl, but I couldn’t help myself. “What’s in the bottle?”
He narrowed his eyes. “You do ask a lot of questions, don’t you?” He gave a long, hard look. Then plastered on the oily smile again. He held a hand to the side of his mouth. “It’s whiskey—Riga likes her coffee strong, if you know what I mean?”
I pulled my lips back in imitation of a smile and nodded. Nothing like a little meditation and spiked coffee for an afternoon pick-me-up.
He placed Riga’s cold hands around the mug and helped guide it to her mouth. As she drank, quite a bit dribbled down her chin and throat and onto her sparkly leotard.
Scullivan fished a handkerchief from his pants pocket and dabbed her dry. This was… odd, to say the least. I edged toward the exit. Riga took a deep breath, then blinked at herself in the mirror. Whatever was in that coffee, she suddenly perked up and smiled at me. I looked at her face and hands—no more of that glow.
I glanced at the ceiling. Had it been the reflection of something green bouncing off her that had made her look that way? I didn’t see anything. Maybe I’d imagined it.
“What did you want to ask me?”
Oh, okay. Just like that, huh? We were going to pretend all that weirdness didn’t happen. Sure…. I took a breath, and feeling slightly more composed, I asked. “Did you know your mother was terminally ill?” I hoped it wouldn’t send her back to that comatose state, or upset her too much. What if she hadn’t known?
She blinked at me in the mirror, then spun on the bench to face me. “My mother was ill?” She gulped and looked down at her feet. “Mother’s ill?” She stood, her eyes wide like she was on the verge of tears. “I have to speak with her.”
“Honey, honey.” Scullivan leapt to her side before I could and slid his arms around her. He helped guide her back to a sitting position. I stepped closer, but couldn’t make out what he whispered in her ear. Aloud though, he said, “You knew your mother was ill. Remember? She wrote to tell you about it.”
Riga, now sitting again, frowned and looked confused.
“I read those letters.” My voice came out more confident than I felt. “She didn’t mention her illness.”
Scullivan squinted at me. “That’d be because it upset Riga.” He gestured at her. “She’d get agitated, and so we boths agreed to remove those parts of the letters. Ain’t that right, sweetie?”
Riga, still looking puzzled, nodded.
I frowned. “Of course she’d get upset, that’s her mother.”
Riga shook her head, seeming to come back to herself. “No. No, I was upset that she was trying to manipulate me into letting her into my life. That’s right. I remember now.”
I frowned deeper. “You thought she was lying about it?”
Riga shrugged. “Don’t know, don’t particularly care. It makes no difference to me.”
I let my arms drop. I could not understand this level of unfeeling. “Why didn’t you tell me she was ill last night?”
Riga lifted a slim shoulder. “Was it relevant?” She picked at her nails, a dark brow arched. “She was murdered, she didn’t die from it. And besides, it didn’t change things between us.”
Dang. This girl was cold.
“Anything else?” Riga raised her brows at me.
Uh… I cast back, trying to keep everything straight. I’d definitely be talking with Frennie soon to find out wh
y she’d bought the potion. Which reminded me of Rhonda’s first vision. Maybe if Frennie had kept Madame Zerna’s illness from me, she’d withheld other truths as well.
“Did your mom, Madame Zerna, write down her visions? Or keep a diary?”
Riga pulled her lips to the side. “She used to document every last one, religiously. She always had her quill with her so she’d be ready anywhere—writing on napkins, receipts—anything she had on hand. She’d make me or her assistant organize them all. What a mess.”
I stepped closer. “Her assistant Frennie?”
Riga nodded. “Of course. Frennie’s been her assistant for as long as I can remember. Poor, frazzled thing, always hanging on my mother’s coattails. Not the life for me, thank you very much.”
I nodded. “Thank you for your help.” I stepped toward the exit, prepared to go, but couldn’t quite make my feet move.
I glanced from Riga, sitting on the low stool, to Scullivan standing beside and a little in front of her, one hand in a fingerless glove grabbing her shoulder. I bit my lip. I wanted to ask her if she was all right without Scullivan around. I guessed for now, I had to leave.
Scullivan followed me right to the exit and magically sealed the tent flaps the second I stepped outside. I shook my head, my bangs and stray hair whipping around my face in the strong wind. Something was not right about those two, but for now I had no way to poke holes in their alibis. Besides, was there even a motive?
A rush jolted through me. Madame Zerna’d been trying to reconcile—none of the letters mentioned a will, but maybe the other night she’d told Riga she’d leave her everything, or something like that. She knew she was terminally ill, so maybe she’d made provisions for Riga, and she and Scullivan were hurrying things along.
One thing was certain. I needed to talk with Frennie. She could give me more information about Madame Zerna’s illness and her potion, and hopefully her will.
20
Frennie
I headed toward Madame Zerna’s caravan. I didn’t know where Frennie’s was, but she’d shown up there the other night and I suspected she’d be nearby. An iciness chilled my middle. Then again, if she’d killed Zerna, why stick around? She could’ve left already. With a greater sense of urgency, I headed that way.
The shadows deepened, lights springing to life inside the food booths and above the carnival rides. As the human traffic left Bijou Mer, the magic folk began to come out in greater numbers. That twinge of guilt nagged at me to go get Iggy or Maple—but they needed to work the tent, and besides, this wouldn’t take long.
As I mulled everything over, I must have lost track of watching out for my feet, because I slammed into what felt like a solid rock wall. I stumbled back and nearly tripped, but strong hands caught my wrists and steadied me.
“Whoa. Ha, sorry.” I grinned at Edward the Strong. He released my wrists and looked me up and down.
“You all right?”
“Yeah.” I waved off his concern, then smoothed down my dress. “Just not paying attention. Sorry for bowling into you.”
He nodded, but the crease between his brows remained. I looked closer at him. “Are you all right?”
He shook his head. “Yes. Of course, but—well, I’m glad I ran into you—or I suppose, you into me. I was looking for you, actually. You never showed for our lesson this morning.”
“Oh!” I pressed both hands to my cheeks. “I completely forgot. I’m sorry. I was helping a friend with something and….” I trailed off as he swallowed and looked away.
It probably sounded like I was making up some lame excuse. “Actually… it’s something important and I could use some help if you’re not too busy?” I knew the carnival would be in full swing soon, but we probably had an hour till the sun set and the tide rose.
His gaze softened. “I’m not too busy.”
“Great! Come on.” I filled him in as we walked, happy both to smooth things over with my friend and to have such awesome backup. No way would Frennie try to off me with that wicked-looking knife she’d had the other night with Edward watching my back.
We climbed the steps up to Madame Zerna’s caravan, wind snapping the fabric of the tents scattered around the field and rustling the leaves of the trees. I could hear tinkling from inside, and movement. It ceased as soon as I knocked. Edward and I exchanged glances as we waited several long moments for a response.
“What do you want?”
I nodded at Edward. I recognized that voice. “Frennie. It’s Imogen, the girl from the bake booth. We met here a couple of nights ago.”
“Go away!”
“Afraid she can’t do that,” Edward said in his deep voice. “She’s got some questions for you.”
“I don’t care if she does.”
We exchanged looks and Edward flexed his massive biceps, then pointed at the door. Oh. He could just bust it down, huh? Impressive, but I shook my head. Instead I stepped closer to the door.
“Frennie. It turns out a certain potion in a cobalt blue bottle killed Madame Zerna. I know you bought that potion for her. If you don’t come talk to me, I’ll make sure you’re speaking to the police instead.” I hoped she wouldn’t call my bluff, because the police were clearly not interested in questioning anything.
Lucky for me, Frennie didn’t know that. A moment later the lock clicked and the door pulled open a few inches. She pressed her face up to the opening. Her large, deep-set eyes darted from me to Edward.
“Madame Zerna had a scrip for that potion from a witch healer. I picked it up for her. Goodbye.” She pulled back, but Edward braced a hand against the door, stopping her from shutting it.
He stepped forward, forcing it open. “We’d prefer to speak inside. It’s getting a bit stormy out here.”
“Psh. Just the Sansea Winds—early for ’em, they don’t usually hit till August, but still.” She grumbled and backed up to the rear of the caravan, distancing herself as much from us as possible in the small space. She perched on the bed and grumbled to herself. “Pushy, rude—got things to do, don’t you know….”
Edward stooped to fit in the space, and as no other places to sit presented themselves, he remained standing, his head tilted to one side in the cluttered space. Even the incense-filled air felt too thick for the three of us.
“So… tell us about the potion?” I leaned against the low table on the right side of the room, trying to give Edward as much space as possible. A jar of antique keys tinkled as I jostled the table.
“Or what? Your boyfriend will crush my skull with his bare hands?” Frennie hugged herself and scowled at me.
“Uh, not my boyfriend, first of all.” Edward and I shook our heads at each other. I wasn’t sure why I felt the need to clarify that to Frennie, but maybe it wasn’t for her. I wanted to make sure he knew how I felt, because even the thought of him like that seemed utterly wrong. Friends, for sure. “Secondly, that’s really graphic. Look—can’t you please cooperate?”
She narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips so that they nearly disappeared under her long nose. “Can’t you please go away. I have something to do soon and I must get ready.”
I smiled. “The sooner you answer my questions, the sooner we get out of your hair.”
“Why would you get in my hair?” She turned frightened eyes toward Edward.
Grrr. “Human expression.” I let out a breath. “Tell us about the potion and Madame Zerna’s illness.”
She folded her bony hands in her lap and stared at them, her long frizzy hair draped over one shoulder. Finally, without looking up, she spoke. “It started a few years ago. I think the stress of Riga, her daughter, eloping with that vagabond Scullivan Night was too much for her. She couldn’t sleep—only nine hours instead of her usual fourteen. Could hardly eat—only three meals a day.”
Frennie shook her head sadly as Edward and I exchanged dubious glances.
“It took its toll on her, the stress and worry and heartbreak. I tried to fill that hole in her life but… she n
ever let me in.” Frennie wrung her hands together. “Then she became unable to see as many clients. Her breath grew short and she tired quickly. I finally convinced her to call a doctor—actually, doctor after doctor—we probably got at least twenty different opinions. And they all agreed. She wouldn’t live out the year.”
My heart softened somewhat. Frennie seemed genuinely distressed. But if she cared, why rant about Madame Zerna all night at the Rusted Wreck?
Frennie wiped away a tear, then refolded her hands in her lap and continued to stare at them. “So, I got the potion for her. It wasn’t a cure, but it alleviated her pain.”
I nodded. “Why didn’t you tell me about this the other night? Or if not me, the police?”
She shrugged her narrow shoulders. “She was murdered and they caught her killer red-handed, didn’t they? It didn’t seem relevant. And the police didn’t even ask me any questions.” She rolled her eyes.
I took a deep breath. “But we now believe the potion is what killed her. Did you tamper with it?”
She looked up, her big eyes wide. “No. Never.”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “Could someone else have?”
She shook her head. “No. She kept it on her always.”
“You seem sad to have lost Madame Zerna.”
“I am.” Frennie pouted.
“Then why did you rant and complain about her all night at the Rusted Wreck?”
She looked up, her eyes blazing. Her lips curled back and I felt a rush of gratitude for Edward’s presence. “How do you know about that?”
I shrugged. “A little birdie told me.”
She clenched her fists and peered out the window. “Which one?” she growled.
“Uh… figure of speech.” I hoped I wouldn’t be responsible for any innocent birds being interrogated. “Why were you so upset? And why did you lie about her diary? I know Madame Zerna kept one, meticulously, and that you were in charge of organizing it.”
Frennie’s mouthed dropped open. “How? How do you know all this?”