Vamps, Villains and Vaudeville

by Ellen Mansoor Collier

  “What’s his name?” a detective in a trench coat asked.

  “Nick Turner,” Draper said.

  “Name doesn’t ring a bell. Who discovered the body?”

  “The clown. Part of his set was missing and he started searching the premises, as well as the grounds. That’s when he found the body, underneath the set.”

  “Does the clown have a name?” the cop asked.

  “He’s Bonkers, the happy clown.”

  The cop glared at Draper, probably thinking he was bonkers. “A real name?”

  “Of course.” The director wiped his face with a hanky, though it was a cool 50 degrees outside. “It’s Peter Peterson. He should be around here. He’s hard to miss.”

  “I’ll bet.” The officer raised his brows at two other cops flanking his side, and looked around the area. “Got that, boys? We’re looking for Bonkers, the happy clown.”

  “Funny, he seems to have disappeared.” Draper frowned. “He was here a minute ago.”

  “Until we can talk to your clown and troupe, I’m afraid we’ll have to close your show tonight,” the cop snapped.

  “Close down my show?” The director bristled. “You can’t do that. Everyone depends on me. Trust me, officers, I’ll round up my troupe and bring them to your station within the hour.”

  “You’d better keep your word, pal, or we’ll padlock these doors and put your whole troupe in jail.” The cop glared at Draper, then turned and left, his men following behind. Strange how Sammy and Draper seemed to be in the same boat, with the police on their heels.

  I scanned the crowd, keeping my eyes open for a suspicious clown. With a name like Bonkers and a clown outfit, how dangerous could he be? Or had he changed into street clothes and run away? I watched the medics put the victim inside an ambulance, assuming they planned to do an autopsy. The whole scene seemed surreal, almost comical, because of the genie’s outlandish costume.

  Inching forward, I took a quick look at the group of gawkers, wondering if the killer was among them, watching and waiting. A face looked familiar and I did a double-take: Were my eyes playing tricks or was that really Rose Maceo in the background—and what was he doing at this murder scene?

  ******

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Determined to follow the mystery man—Rose Maceo?—I tried to find the short, stout gangster in the dwindling crowd but, like Bonkers, the now-suspicious clown, he had disappeared. Was it possible Maceo knew the victim? Did he have him killed—if so, why?

  Out of breath, Nathan suddenly showed up, smiling like a Chesire cat. “You gotta admit, dead genies make for some colorful photos. I couldn’t take close-ups of his neck wounds because of his damn beard. Still got some good shots that’ll make the boss happy.”

  I shuddered. “Hope Mr. Thomas doesn’t put the photos on the front page. A dead genie will give kids nightmares for months.”

  “This story belongs on the front page with my pics!” Nathan argued. “Mack’s stories always get top billing.”

  Mack again. If only the editors would give the rest of us a chance. “What did Mack find out? Anything besides the obvious?”

  “Not much. The victim seemed to appear out of nowhere—like a genie.” He grinned. “Hey, maybe I should start writing news stories myself. Can’t be that hard.”

  “Says you. Good luck sharing the spotlight with Mack. Say, did you overhear Draper talking to the cops? Sounds like he hired the victim without an audition. Doesn’t that sound dicey?”

  “Seems risky. What if he stinks on stage? They throw tomatoes, shoes and all sorts of stuff. Then they’ll pull you offstage by the neck with a huge hook. Tough job.”

  “I’ve seen a few duds yanked off the stage.” True, I felt a bit sorry for the troupe, sympathizing with their plight. Still, that didn’t give them the right to steal strangers’ jewelry, no matter how rich and privileged. “Say, did Mack get to interview the troupe? Or Draper?”

  “He tried, but they avoided answering his questions, like they were hiding something.”

  “I got that feeling too.” I nodded. “Strange that this genie popped up out of nowhere.”

  “Maybe he’d escaped from his bottle?” Nathan cracked. “Let’s see what the cops and newsboys dig up.”

  Newsboys? What about news women?

  On the way back to work, I kept mum about Musey and Sammy’s plan to fence the stolen jewels. Had the cops shown up at their meet yet? How I wished I could be a fly on the wall...

  At the Gazette, the newshawks hadn’t gotten back yet, so I sat at my desk, trying to piece together details about the victim. Were they at the morgue, waiting for a report?

  Mrs. Harper frowned at me from across the room. “That was a nice long lunch, Jasmine. Where were you?”

  “I was helping the fellas at a crime scene,” I fibbed, glad that Mack hadn’t yet returned. “Didn’t you hear about the murder at Martini Theatre?”

  “Yes, of course, but why is that your concern?”

  Trying to think fast, I brought up the one subject that I knew would melt her frosty heart. “When I heard the news, I was so worried it might be Derek. I wanted to make sure he was OK.”

  Only then did her stony face soften. “Did you get to see him?”

  “Yes, thank goodness.” I fluttered my hand over my chest for emphasis. “I even got to ask him a few questions—for Mack, naturally.”

  Speak of the devil. Mack burst in with his entourage of eager cub reporters, Chuck and Pete, his broad face flushed with excitement. “Have I got a scoop for tomorrow’s paper! A real humdinger. You’ll never guess who this so-called swami or genie was in real life!”

  Mr. Thomas peeked out of his office door. “Who?”

  “His real name is Nico Turturo, a con artist with a rap sheet ten miles long.” Mack paused as the staff gathered round to hear his latest news. “They call him the Turtle ‘cause he likes to wear different disguises. I recognized him the minute they removed his face paint.”

  I figured Nick Turner was an alias. “Did he work for one of the gangs?” I piped up.

  Mack studied me for a long minute. “What makes you say that?”

  “Just a hunch.”

  Mack glared at me before he continued. “Get this: His last job was a bank heist. Turturo freelanced as a jewel thief and part-time fence. He just got out on parole about two weeks ago from Huntsville prison. Under that corny costume, he’s got the prison tattoos to prove it.”

  I knew it! Then a thought hit me: Did the genie work for Maceo—or was it Musey? After hearing Draper’s answers, I began to wonder if Musey forced him to hire the genie or mystic to keep his eye on Draper and his band.

  The genie costume and even his act may have been merely a cover, a way to infiltrate the troupe. Maybe Musey wanted to make sure he got back his investment—either in jewelry or cash.

  The staff crowded around Mack, asking questions, but he shooed them away. “Beat it, boys. You’ll just have to wait till you read tomorrow’s paper. I gotta make this deadline.” When Mack thought no one was looking, he motioned me over, his voice low. “You think the Turtle was working for a local gang?”

  “Makes sense to me.” I shrugged. “Or else he was freelancing.”

  “I saw you talking to your two beaux at the crime scene. What did they tell you?”

  I ignored his crack. “Not much. I heard the director say that Bonkers, the clown, found the body under a circus set in the alley.”

  Why mention the viola case to Mack? Let him do his own detective work.

  “They’re still looking for him. Peter Peterson. Sounds like a bogus name to me.” Mack glanced around the room. “Keep me posted.”

  I nodded. “I’ll let you know if they find out anything.” Feeling smug, I sat at my desk, wondering if Mack was playing dumb or playing me.

  Half an hour later, I jumped when the phone rang on Mrs. Harper’s desk.

  “For you, Jazz,” the secretary, Mrs. Page, called out. “That dreamy Fed a
gent.”

  Swell. Did she have to blurt it out now? Was she planning to eavesdrop on all our calls?

  “Jazz, I’ve got some bad news.” Burton’s voice sounded urgent.

  “What happened?” My heart banged in my chest. “Is Sammy OK?”

  “Sammy’s been taken into custody. Damn it, Musey never showed up. I think some snitch tipped off Musey about our sting.”

  ******

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  “What?” I cried out, trying to lower my voice so the nosy news hawks couldn’t overhear. “Who spilled the beans? I thought everything was all set.”

  “I thought so, too.” Burton sounded worried. “Let’s just say things didn’t go as planned. Don’t know what to tell the brass. Only a handful of cops knew about our sting to set up Musey. Instead they caught Sammy with the jewels and the cash. Sorry to say, he looked guilty as hell.”

  “So Sammy was framed instead.” My breath caught in my throat. “Do you need me to testify? I can tell them where I found...” I noticed the newsroom grew silent... “the stuff.”

  “Thanks, Jazz, but you’d be safer staying quiet. We don’t want Musey to know you’re connected in any way.”

  “I want to help. After all, it was my dumb idea.”

  “Your idea was fine. Trouble is, these wiseguys have shadows everywhere.” Burton snorted. “Why don’t you type up a formal statement and I’ll pick you up after work. Say, by five or six? We can talk more then—in private.”

  Dazed, I hung up the phone. My nice neat plan to set up Musey and take the heat off Sammy had completely backfired. Now Sammy was in jail for a crime he didn’t commit and Musey was free as a bird.

  Who’d blabbed to Musey?

  “What was that all about?” Mack poked his head over his typewriter.

  “Nothing. Just a personal matter.”

  Upset, I paced around the newsroom, pretending to be filing, trying to avoid the reporters’ curious stares. Couldn’t a gal have any privacy at work?

  All I wanted to do was help give Sammy a chance to escape from Johnny Jack and George Musey, to break away from the Downtown Gang forever. Burton had promised me that Sammy’s arrest was only for show, that he’d be released soon after they’d taken Musey into custody.

  Defeated and deflated, I sat down to write my statement, wondering how much to reveal without incriminating Sammy—or myself. Less is more, I decided, and began typing a short, professional-sounding statement that said I’d stumbled onto the jewelry by accident. No reason to admit that Sammy was my half-brother, or that Doria, our wooden figurehead and mascot, was the secret hiding place. What would the cops do—arrest her and force her to talk?

  Nathan peered over my shoulder, and I covered my typewriter with my hands, shielding the paper. “Why the long face, Jazz? What’s eating you?”

  “Just working on a short item, trying to concentrate.” Twirling around, I blocked his view. How could I tell him the truth with a nosy bunch of reporters a few feet away?

  Fortunately, Mack’s phone rang and as he listened, he waved Nathan over with his free hand. “You don’t say? He’s in custody now? I’m on my way.”

  Mack stood up, hiking up his khaki pants and puffing out his barrel chest. “Today’s my lucky day, fellas.”

  Mack nodded at me and Mrs. Harper. “And gals. Now I’ve got not one, but two hot potatoes dropped right in my lap.” He glanced over at me, giving me a condescending look, and I knew what was coming.

  “Now I understand why you’re so down in the mouth, Jazz. Your pal Sammy was caught red-handed, trying to fence a stash of stolen jewels.”

  The staff gasped and looked over at me with pity, waiting for my reaction. I raised my head, meeting his steely gaze. “You’ve got it all wrong, buster.”

  “How can I be wrong? Got a hot tip from my good source.” Mack flung his arm toward the door. “Go down to the police station and see for yourself.”

  “No, thanks. Trust me, Sammy didn’t steal any jewelry. It’s all a big misunderstanding.”

  “Oh yeah? How do you know? Where’s your proof?”

  “That’s all I can say for now.” I stood closer, eyes narrowed. “Why don’t you get your facts straight before you make false accusations?”

  “False? I hope to God you’re right. Look what happened to their last fence.”

  Gee, thanks. Did he have to rub it in my face?

  Mack slapped on his hat, threw a scarf around his neck and grabbed his satchel. “While I’m waiting on the coroner’s report for Turturo, I may as well investigate this new case myself. Care to join me, Jasmine?”

  I crossed my arms, fuming, wondering if the same snitch who tipped off Musey was also Mack’s personal spy. “Who’s your source? Some dirty cop?”

  “My source? Which dirty cop?” Mack’s face reddened and he drew in a heavy breath, looking like he wanted to slug me.

  “You tell me. What’s his name?”

  “I’m too much of a gentleman to tell you what I really think.” Mack gritted his teeth, his dark eyes blazing. The staff’s heads collectively swiveled back and forth, enjoying our verbal tennis match. I bit my tongue, aware all eyes were watching us feud.

  In a flash, Nathan jumped between us, blocking me with his camera equipment, his expression like a red flag. The reporters circled around, egging us on with stupid grins. What did they expect—a duel? A fistfight? Right—as if I’d take on a seasoned soldier like Mack, over twice my size and age.

  Mack scowled as he turned to go. “Coming, Nathan?”

  Nathan gave me a sheepish smile and trailed behind Mack like a servant—that traitor.

  Still shaking with anger, I started to follow them out the door, then remembered my police statement, still fresh in my typewriter.

  Mrs. Harper waddled over to my desk just as I snatched the paper right out from under her nose. Quickly I folded the sheet in half, and tucked it into my handbag, heart thumping. Close call.

  “Jasmine, I need to talk to you,” she scolded. “You know that’s not proper behavior for a society reporter, especially in public. Why, you were asking for a fight!”

  My face flaming, I heard a few reporters snicker, feeling like a kid getting chewed out by an old school marm. “Sorry I lost my temper. But Mack deserved every word.” I shrugged on my coat, grabbed my bag and knit scarf. “Excuse me, I’ve got some place to be. It’s urgent.”

  Before she could stop me, I rushed out the door and almost ran right into Agent Burton walking toward the Gazette. “You got here just in time.” I took a few deep breaths to calm down. “Hurry, let’s go down to the police station before they crucify Sammy.”

  ******

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  “Blame the police.” Burton worked his jaw. “Musey was a no-show ‘cause of some dirty cop. I thought Sheriff Sanders helped us clean house last summer.” He held open the car door for me, parked in front of the Gazette building. Police privileges.

  “Sammy has provided enough fodder for Mack’s sensational stories. All he needs is another front-page spread of his latest arrest.” I sighed. “But if Sammy admits he was helping the cops set up Musey, he’ll have to worry about a lot more than a night in jail. Musey and Johnny Jack will waste no time getting revenge.”

  “Maybe Mack should write a story on Sammy to get Musey off his back,” Burton said. “Think about it, Jazz. He may be safer in jail than at the Oasis.”

  “You mean incriminate him in print?” I considered his words. “Musey may buy it, but the last thing Sammy needs is to be labeled a fence or a jewel thief.”

  “As I recall, didn’t he agree to go along with Musey’s idea to fence the jewels in Houston?”

  I glared at Burton. “Did he have any choice? If the cops had done their jobs, Musey would be locked up by now—instead of Sammy.”

  “Obviously we need a new plan.” Burton sounded apologetic. “Let’s stop by the station and drop off your statement, so you can talk to Sammy.”

  “Wh
at am I supposed to say?” I knotted my hands. “I feel terrible—this was all my fault.”

  “Gosh, you sound so guilty, you may as well be locked up next to Sammy.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I pouted, wondering how to apologize to him behind bars. ‘I’m sorry’ wasn’t enough. How many times would Sammy have to go in and out of jail before he was free of the Downtown Gang? “Mack and Nathan will have a field day with this story. If they publish it, there’s no doubt Draper and the vaudeville troupe will pack up and leave town without warning. The cops can’t let them get away.”

  Burton nodded. “Frankly, it’ll be hard to accuse Draper unless we catch them in the act, or with the stolen jewelry. Or a victim needs to press charges and prove ownership. To do that, first we have to find out who the jewels belonged to and where they were stolen. What we need is a confession, someone who’s willing to testify on record.”

  “You mean one of the performers? Good luck getting them to cooperate.”

  “Can you talk to Derek? Maybe he can convince one of his friends to testify.”

  “His friends? From what I hear, he’s a persona non grata with the troupe. Maybe we can ask him before the performance tomorrow night—if they’re still in town.”

  “Believe it or not, now I’m actually looking forward to the show,” Burton said. “These musicians have got to slip up one way or another.”

  At the police station, Burton and I arrived in time to see Mack and Nathan leaving, frowns on their faces.

  “What’s wrong? Sammy wasn’t willing to spill his guts or pose for you?” I couldn’t help but taunt them—not very mature, I know.

  Mack scowled at me and kept walking to his car.

  Nathan shrugged. “The cops already released him, said he wasn’t guilty.”

  “What? When?” I was relieved, yet surprised.