by Jenna Coburn
Surprising both women, Abel propped himself up a little and looked over to them. “I think it was the smell,” he said. “There was a smell in the air I couldn’t quite place, like of a flower or something.” He sank back into the pillow, and his eyes closed again. “There’s a lot of different smells in the world. I just didn’t remember ever smelling that specific one in the trailer.”
Alethea watched him and inclined her head to the side. As if she could smell it from here, she drew in a few short breaths through her nose, and then sighed. She smelled the hospital and only the flowers she had brought. Turning her eyes towards Léa, she smiled. “Did you meet the FBI man, Holden Westley? I ran into him when he was looking at your trailer, searching for evidence.”
Léa nodded. “We met him early this morning. He came in before breakfast. I didn’t even know where he came from. He said he was investigating something else, but he seemed much invested in what had happened to Abel.”
“He’s a good guy,” Alethea answered the unspoken question. “He helped me a lot when I was trying to exculpate Braden…and, well, if you haven’t noticed it yet, I’ve kind of taken on this case now, too, so hopefully he’ll help me again. And help us. I think people are feeling rightfully apprehensive about what happened.”
Léa fidgeted somewhat, apparently struggling with the next thing she wanted to say. It took her at least half a minute, but finally she came out with it. “Do you think it could’ve been one of us? I mean, one of the circus folk?” The question hit Alethea hard, because she hadn’t really considered it before.
In her eyes, everyone was like family. She had never lived outside the circus life, and she knew everyone who was there since they had first joined. Most people had been with them for years, including the Faucheux twins. Still, the twins had already been adults when they’d first come along, they’d been with other outfits, and nobody—except perhaps Virgil—knew of their past.
“I don’t…I mean…I don’t really have a reason, but I don’t think so.” The jade tiger was, according to Virgil, a well-kept secret, but someone in the circus was the most likely to know about it. Alethea saw how the suspicion might form, but she couldn’t follow it. To her, it pointed outwards, to someone who could make off with the figurine instead of having to play innocent.
“Okay,” Léa conceded. “I just wanted to ask. It’s not that I distrust someone.” Her head sunk again, and she cupped her chin in her hands, supporting it. She looked in dire need of a proper sleep. After a glance to the bag, she sighed deeply and stood up. “I’m going to freshen up, and then we can go, I suppose.”
She grabbed some of the stuff that Alethea had brought and went to the bathroom, leaving the other two alone. Abel was probably still not asleep, but just resting. Alethea watched his peaceful face for some time before she walked over to look out the window. The vista wasn’t very impressive, but it gave her time to consider things.
Following the theory that someone inside the circus did it, the greatest suspicion would actually fall on Léa. She was the one who found Abel, and who specifically ran to Virgil’s. If one didn’t consider her ruthless enough to clobber her own brother, perhaps Abel was in on it. These circumstances would also explain why Léa first said he was dead—not out of confusion, but to shock and divert attention.
It sounded completely logical and believable, but it didn’t answer the biggest question. How did anyone know about the jade tiger, and what was so great about it? Pit could be worth millions to some hidden collector, promising the Faucheux twins a life of luxury. And even if Virgil claimed nobody knew he had it, with enough time and money, someone could always uncover past secrets.
Turning back towards the room, Alethea looked at Abel again. He looked peaceful and innocent. Looking at him like this, she believed the theory was nonsensical. They weren’t hardened criminals. There was no doubt that their words and expressions were genuine. She would let that one rest and look for a better lead. In case she found any actual evidence, she could still come back to it later.
While she was waiting, nothing much happened. A nurse checked in for a second, put some light food on Abel’s nightstand, and left again. Alethea exchanged polite greetings with her. She considered searching for the jade tiger, but gave up after she didn’t find it in plain sight. Maybe there was a pawn shop downtown where they sold them. Virgil might be too old to spot the difference.
When Léa came back, Abel had fallen asleep, and she didn’t want to wake him up just to say good-bye. The two women left silently and remained so as they walked down the hall.
Alethea’s cell phone vibrated while they were in the elevator, and she found that Holden Westley had messaged her. The message read:
Good day! The Horne crime scene is near the hospital. If you are free after you have finished there, come over. There is something you should see. Also nearby is the Ocelot Lounge Café, where they offer a special discount on the lunch menu to law enforcement personnel, which has made them a favorite among the local police force. You see that I cannot pass up on this. It would be disrespectful to my colleagues. Greetings also from Officer Mullins. Special Agent Holden Westley.
It took her some seconds to lower both of her eyebrows again. She turned to Léa. “Sorry, Léa, but I’ve got to meet up with Agent Westley. I’ll see you later, okay? You should talk to Virgil once you’re back.”
“Sure,” Léa said. “I want you to tell me about anything that you learn.” She looked Alethea straight in the eye. “Promise me.”
“I promise,” Alethea said. She pressed her lips together and tried telling herself that the jade tiger thing was somehow unrelated. And later, she could always give Virgil one upside his half-bald head for making her lie like this. It felt more than uncomfortable.
No wonder the circus folk had begun suspecting each other.
Chapter V
The way to Lionel Horne’s home took Alethea half a mile up the road towards the outside of the city. He seemed to have lived comfortably, if not luxuriously, in a somewhat lonely house surrounded by great trees and a well-kept lawn. Walking up the driveway, she passed several cars, one of which she recognized as Westley’s. The door to the house itself stood wide open, and it felt like nobody expected anyone to trespass.
From the hallway she found herself in, a straight path let into what she believed to be the living room, while to her right, stairs led up to the second floor. From the looks of the place, Horne had lived alone. “Agent Westley?” she called out. There were clearly people in the house; she heard them moving, but none of them were in sight.
It took only a few seconds until Westley appeared at the top of the stairs. “Miss Thwaite! How nice to see you again already. Come on up!” She followed his invitation and shook his extended hand as soon as she made it to the top. “Excellent. Now, I know my invitation to this murder scene was somewhat unorthodox, but I made a discovery that I simply wanted you to see. You are, so to say, my outside specialist.”
With Agent Westley smiling broadly, they both went down the hallway and then to the left, finding themselves in a large room that could only be described as a study. There were white markings on the ground where they had found the corpse. As soon as Alethea entered the room, she smelled it—that same smell that had been present in the empty compartment of the jade tiger. She was taken aback.
It felt like the scales suddenly fell from her eyes. This was it again—that same thing America had been trying to impress upon her. Coincidence. Magic. Everything was connected, like a great invisible web, with the strings of a hidden puppeteer, or perhaps several of them. It was odd, but it was also…comforting.
The investigator who always saw connections everywhere might be a paranoid conspiracy theorist, but to Alethea’s understanding, that was what she had to be. If she approached everything from its most meaningful angle, from the idea that there were no coincidences, that reasons were aplenty and actions, items, and whole lives arranged themselves to the will of that unknown force�
�magic, fate, God—then….
“Wow, this guy has a lot of books,” Officer Viteri voiced his thoughts. He whistled for emphasis. Both Alethea and Holden looked at him. He looked back and forth between them. “I’ll be outside, if you need me.” He withdrew and went downstairs; they heard each creaking step.
“He was right, you know.” Holden said with some gravity. “Mr. Horne indeed had a lot of books.” Alethea could only agree. On the way to the study, she already had seen more than one bookcase, and as the name she had given the room implied, it was quite full of them. She assumed that Lionel must have been some sort of academic, or perhaps a literature aficionado.
“There is something more interesting to note about this room, Miss Thwaite.” He said only that. It was a test of her investigative abilities, and there was no doubt in her mind that he was implying the smell. The same aroma must have been present in the Faucheux’ trailer.
“The smell.” She didn’t really know what the smell referred to. It was flowery, Abel had been right, but all she could come up with right now was something silly, like…tiger lily. Perhaps, jade tiger lily—a mystical, green flower from faraway Cathay—
“Ah yes, it does smell a little musty in here, doesn’t it? I suppose I could open a window.” He walked over to one of the windows and let in the fresh autumn air; he breathed in deeply, as if it was a great relief. “There.” Westley smiled and turned back around to her. “The Ocelot Lounge Café is just a bit down the road. I can almost smell the coffee on the wind. Everyone at the department assured me that they make the best coffee in town.”
He dwelt on that for a second. “I am inclined to believe that they are biased in this regard, however.” It was apparent that Alethea had lost the thread, and so it was picked up for her. “On the walls, Miss Thwaite.” He pointed around the room, to a multitude of pictures and newspaper cutouts that had been hung up. “All of these have to do with your circus.”
When he said it, she saw it for the first time. The sensation of the smell had overwhelmed her, and even when her attention was steered away from that, she looked at the books, not at the walls behind. If this had been a test of her detective skills, she had failed thoroughly. Even more than before, she was struck wordless. Stepping closer, she noted the impressive collection. There were newspaper cutouts that seemed to document the circus’ path for decades.
The photographs were varied, but most of them depicted performances, or parts of performances. They did not focus on the individual, but on the trick, and they were far less systematic than the articles. It was strange to her that this man had followed their circus with such interest, and she looked at Holden Westley with large eyes.
“We don’t know anything yet.” He shrugged. “I just invited you here, after all. We will need to question the people at the circus about this, if any of them knows this man. Of course, the director Mr. Ardelean is the most likely. Horne was an old man, so perhaps they share some common history.”
“This is incredible,” Alethea finally said, “but it’s also alarming. Do you think what happened to Abel Faucheux and what happened to Lionel Horne is connected in any way? It was the same night, after all, perhaps just some hours apart.” She was still looking at the walls, only glancing over to Westley.
“There is nothing concrete to connect them as of yet.” He stepped closer to her, looking over her shoulder from a polite distance. “However, the circumstances of their injuries have proven themselves to be similarly confounding. Horne was found here, facing towards the windows and away from the door, with a deadly head injury.”
While he related this, he stepped away from her again and closer to the door, perhaps to demonstrate where the victim had stood and how he had fallen to the ground. “Just a few feet away from him, we found his phone. He was found soon after, because he had dialed 911. That is, we assume it was him. Nobody but the operator spoke during the call.”
Holden kneeled, putting his hand to where the phone had been. “According to its position, it must have fallen from his hand after he received the blow.” He looked up to Alethea, who had followed him, scanning the room as he was. “It must have killed him instantly,” he said with some regret in his voice.
They looked at each other, and he stood up. “We found no evidence of anyone else’s presence. One would be inclined to say that it must have been a ghost that killed him, in such a situation. Of course, there are no ghosts.”
“That really is confounding,” Alethea agreed. It was difficult to find something more useful to add in that moment. First, she needed to take in everything she had just heard. The circumstances of his death and of Abel’s injury seemed remarkably similar, with one massive difference—he had tried to call for help. Accordingly, there must have been some threat he knew about, contrary to Abel, who just suddenly saw a “shadow.” “What about the recording of the call? Doesn’t that give you anything?”
“There is nothing to be heard beside what one would expect—two sounds of impact. It is quite eerie to listen to that, knowing the meaning.” Westley looked around the room again, putting his hands behind his back. “I wish I could tell you something significant, but the truth of the matter is that even if we did find a suspect, I would be wondering how they could be convicted or even arrested, unless they confess.”
Alethea followed his eyes. “Did you notice any peculiar scent in the air when you were in the Faucheux’ trailer?”
“That’s a rather specific question, Miss Thwaite. I don’t usually pay enough attention to that particular sense.” It took him only a moment, and then he nodded. “Now that you say it, there was a smell, very faint, but the same kind of smell that there is in this room. I wonder where it is coming from.”
They both started sniffing the room. It took them almost two minutes to give up.
“You should probably ask for a police dog,” Alethea concluded.
“I was just thinking the same thing,” he smiled. He seemed more enthusiastic now that he had noticed the smell, and literally gave Alethea a pat on the back. “Already you have proven that it was the right decision to bring you here, Miss Thwaite. You have quite the talent for this work, if I might say so.”
“Thanks, Agent Westley. But in truth, I feel like I’m just stumbling along, doing what I can to pick up on things.” It came from her heart. More often than not, life just felt like a strange ride to her. She had, for the most part, given up on holding on to anything but her metaphorical head. Coincidence or magic—either way, she wasn’t truly in control, was she?
“You are giving yourself too little credit, Miss Thwaite. All of us feel powerless sometimes, or perhaps overwhelmed by the circumstances we have been placed in. I know that without you, I might have never found this clue, and your brother may have been convicted for a murder he did not commit. Don’t forget that.”
He looked very sincere, and she couldn’t help but smile at him. “Now, let’s go to the Ocelot Lounge Cáfe. I am starving.” Turning around, Westley led the way. He was moving so quickly again. It took both her mind and feet some time to follow him. They sat in his car and were on their way before she knew it, leaving Viteri behind.
She thought about Holden’s words on the way, and he seemed comfortable with the silence. Giving herself too little credit, that was a new idea. Usually everyone just asked for more from her instead of trying to cheer her up. Then again, she rarely had the chance to say anything about her own feelings.
Maybe it was her own fault. She liked to get involved, after all. Even the thing with the jade tiger, no matter how she considered it common sense to tell Virgil that he was being silly, felt somehow exhilarating. It was difficult to admit, but she liked having that secret. The only thing she regretted was that she had to lie to people that deserved the truth in the process.
After they turned into the small parking lot, they both got out of the car. “There we are.” The situation called for stating the obvious. They were both staring at the building, including the giant glo
wing sign that was depicting an ocelot. Alethea didn’t know anything about ocelots, and they seemed an odd choice for the name of a café.
“I normally take my lunch break very seriously, but I suppose I should make a call in order to ask for that dog,” Holden remarked. They were both making their way to the entrance. The building seemed quite modern, and the flair of the place was very clean-cut. With that name, however, one probably couldn’t expect anything more traditional.
Soon they were sitting down at a table with a view of the parking lot, and even the front of the menu was dominated by the picture of an ocelot. “Isn’t it cute?” Holden was much more enthusiastic than she was, but he was right. It was cute. The ocelot in the picture looked just like any house cat, just with cooler fur.
“It’s like the expensive luxury car version of a normal car,” she conceded. “Only with a t instead…yeah.” She instantly felt bad about adding the last part. “Do you like cats, Agent Westley?” She gave him her brightest smile.
It may have been something in the big, round eyes of that ocelot, but as she stared at it, a realization crept up on her. The jade tiger, the Ocelot Lounge Café, the cat at the circus, and even the name Lionel…it was all cats. Different versions, different forms and references, but still—another connection.
Perhaps the smell really was tiger lily. Maybe the waitress’ name would be Lily, and she’d smell like a jade tiger. “I have no special opinion about cats,” Holden finally answered after having enough time to consider his past run-ins with felines, supposedly. “In the past, I have made no significant experiences that swayed my feelings of neutrality.”
He seemed like a dog person—he was all active, spoke his mind, energetic and positive. Alethea could imagine him with a dog. She recalled how they were both trying to sniff out the source of the smell in Horne’s study. Before she knew, she was staring at his face, trying to imagine Holden as a dog. A few minutes later, the way he started eating only supported her imagination.