“Please. I’ll be honest with you,” Lucy said. “I don’t think you being here brought us any extra business, but we’ve received a positive response anyway. Just today, I had two people tell me they loved buying your dog biscuits.” She looked at Brenton.
Brenton smiled sheepishly. He was so easygoing that he’d never want to cause waves.
“Please,” Lucy said again.
I didn’t get it. Even if she had heard positive responses, why in the world was it so important that we stay?
“Give us some time to discuss it. I’ll find you,” I said.
Lucy smiled. “Thank you!”
“She really wants us around,” Stella said as Lucy disappeared into the crowd.
“I know. I can’t quite figure out why she’s so adamant, though,” I said.
“We offer something different,” Henry said. It was always a surprise to hear his voice. “We’re not fried in grease, we’re not a clunky old ride, we give a fresh feel to the fair.”
“You’re probably right,” Brenton said. “I’ll do whatever, Becca. The whole thing only lasts one more week, and we’d already planned on not being here Monday. We could make Saturday or Sunday our last day, or see how it goes and then commit or not commit to next week. I don’t think Lucy would mind if we played it day to day; at least it seems like she’d be okay with that. I can stay or go, but I have a built-in Internet business. I’ve got orders coming in that I can easily fulfill in the evenings, so this isn’t my only way to pay the bills. It’s up to you all.”
“I can stay,” Henry said as he looked toward the quiet Ferris wheel. The ride was the only thing that had been officially shut down. “I think we should stay.”
“Stella?” I said.
“I’m fine coming tomorrow and seeing what happens, I suppose, but I do feel kind of rotten about doing a one-eighty after business picked up. How bad would it be, Becca, to come tomorrow and then decide on next week from there?”
“I think it’s okay. These are businesspeople. They get it, I’m sure.” I looked toward the Ferris wheel, too. For an instant, my imagination turned it into a big, dark, steely monster that was capped with even darker storm clouds. In truth, it was just a big old machine that glowed in the waning sunlight of a beautiful fall day. “Okay, I’ll let Lucy know. I’ll be right back, and then we can leave for Monson.”
Switching gears again wasn’t comfortable, but it only made sense that we stayed. We’d told Lucy we were leaving because of the poor business. It was as if she’d stepped up to the plate and given us what we were looking for—a bigger crowd. I suspected the bump in traffic had everything to do with the murder and nothing to do with it being Friday, but it wouldn’t hurt us to stick around a little longer and see what happened. So, unless Lucy was Virgil’s killer, she probably didn’t have much to do with the rush.
“Oh goodie!” she said as she hugged me. I was caught off guard by her enthusiasm, but glad she was pleased. “You won’t regret it, I promise. And I bet you’ll enjoy it so much that you’ll change your mind again and want to come back next week, too.”
I nodded agreeably but didn’t say anything for fear she’d take it as further commitment.
As I made my way back to the temporary stalls, the hairs on the back of my neck rose and rippled. I stopped and turned around, looking for whoever was watching me. The area was so crowded that it was impossible to pinpoint a specific voyeur. Perhaps my instincts were off.
“Hey,” a voice called from somewhere to my left. For some reason, I knew the call was for me.
I turned to see the corn-dog vendor leaning out the front window of his small, closetlike trailer. “Your name’s Becca, right?” he said. My mother would have described him as a “nice-looking young man.” He might have been thirty, but probably not quite. His curly brown hair was shaggy, but he was clean shaven and his smile was the youngest thing about him.
“Yes.”
“Cool. I’m Jerry Walton. I was talking to Scott, and he said you liked to play poker.”
I laughed. I hadn’t played poker in years, but it was something that Scott and I had enjoyed together. “I suppose.”
“We got a game together for tomorrow night. You up for it?”
“Me?”
“Yeah. Scott will be there. He told me to talk to you, but I think you might be a ringer. We only bet with licorice and peanuts. It’s more for fun than anything else.”
I laughed again. A poker game on a Saturday night didn’t exactly fit with my current lifestyle. I knew Ian and I were going to try to spend some time together this weekend, but we’d talked about Sunday night or Monday, and as with all our other recent plans for spending time together, we hadn’t been specific about details. I had no desire to hang out with Scott, but there was something appealing about the unpredictability of it all. I thought I might regret it later, but I said, “Sure. What time?”
“Awesome. We’ll play under that pavilion over there. Fair shuts down at ten, game starts at five after or thereabouts.”
I had an urge to retract my knee-jerk-like acquiescence, but I held back. What would it hurt to join in a poker game on a Saturday night?
I waved farewell to Jerry and veered to Scott’s shooting gallery.
It was booming—actually, the “guns” made more of a popping sound than a boom. The booth was wide, easily accommodating the five rifles tethered to the front area by cords. Metallic critters on a chain mechanism provided the targets as they rolled across a painted backdrop, popping up as they passed and falling down with the ding of a bell when the laser dot from one of the rifles hit them. I found it all a bit gruesome—not that it was bloody or anything, but the whole idea of shooting at bunnies, squirrels, and foxes did not appeal to me. Every gun had a shooter, though, so what did I know?
I was surprised to see that Scott wasn’t manning the booth. Instead, a seemingly uninterested teenager sat on a stool to one side of the activities. He went through the motions of taking money and handing out small prizes, but I could tell he’d rather not be there.
“Where’s Scott?” I asked him when he had a brief break.
“Doing something with the Ferris wheel,” he said without looking at me.
“Really?”
“Uh-huh.”
I knew Scott enjoyed tinkering with mechanical things, but the Ferris wheel? He often said that a motor was just a motor. They had some differences, but for the most part they all worked the same way. Without bothering to tell the teenager good-bye, I turned away and went to find Scott.
It didn’t take long. He was crouched down, most of his body hidden behind the open door of the case that covered the Ferris wheel’s motor. I saw only the bottoms of his shoes.
“Scott?” I said as I stepped over the rope someone had put up to indicate the ride was closed.
“Hey, Becca,” he said as he peered out.
“Did you offer to do that, or did they ask you?”
“I offered. I didn’t promise I could make it work any better, but I thought I could at least take a look at it. It wasn’t working quite right, you could just tell by listening to it.”
“What do you think? Can you fix it?”
“Maybe. It hasn’t been well taken care of. If someone had just done some regular maintenance, it might still work smoothly. I doubt they’ll power it back up, but maybe I can guide them on how to care for it until next year’s fair.”
“That’s pretty considerate of you,” I said.
Scott shrugged. “Nah, when you have my talent, you can’t keep it to yourself.” He laughed.
“So, are you staying? With the big jump in attendance—are you sticking around?”
“Yeah,” he said, his head back in the motor case. “There’s enough business to make it worth my while, though I can’t say I don’t feel a lit
tle guilty about it. Profiting from someone’s death is wrong and not my style, but I’m trying not to look at it that way.”
“What way are you trying to look at it?”
“A coincidence. I’m hoping that business would have picked up anyway. Maybe. Why not?”
“Got it.”
We were silent a moment as he worked and I thought about what else to say.
Scott leaned back again, still on his knees, but pulling himself into full view, and looked at me. “How’s your family, Becca? Your parents, sister, everyone?”
“Good. My parents are in Monson for a while, though you never know when the road trip bug will hit them again. Allison, Tom, and Mathis are great, too. Everyone is healthy and fine.”
“That’s good news.” He hesitated a moment. “Is it weird if I ask about your love life? Just curious, you know.”
I laughed. “Only if I can ask you about yours.”
“I’ll go first.” He put his hand on his chest. “I’m remarried.”
“That’s terrific,” I said and I meant it. I was suddenly pleased he’d moved the conversation this direction. There was zero physical attraction between the two of us. Whatever we’d had together had been replaced by a platonic familiarity, and though not forgotten, locked away in one of the compartments labeled “Another Life.” “Tell me about her.”
“She’s my—our age. She has a five-year-old son who has changed my life in so many great ways. Her name is Susan; his is Brady. They’re in Florida right now visiting her family, but I hope you get to meet them someday.”
“I do, too. I’m happy for you, Scott.”
“Thanks. What about you?”
“Ah. Me. My love life is complicated at the moment. I’m sort of with someone named Ian, but I have my concerns about whether it will last. I seem to be doing everything I can to sabotage it.”
Scott’s eyebrows rose. “Really? That doesn’t sound like you. I was the one to sabotage us—well, my immature behavior was. You were the levelheaded one. I can’t see you sabotaging anything.”
I decided he didn’t need the details.
“I have a dog, a great dog. Her name is Hobbit,” I said. “She’s almost a golden retriever but with about three-quarter-sized legs.” I’d acquired Hobbit from the same 7-Eleven parking lot where this Scott and I had last seen each other. As he’d driven away, a kid held up this small, long-footed puppy and asked if I wanted her. I had. It was one of the best decisions I’d ever made.
“You really wanted a dog. That’s good.”
“So, what do you think happened to Virgil?” I asked.
Scott looked up at the top chair. It rocked slightly, stirred by either a small breeze or some random vibrations. “Dunno. He wasn’t all that friendly.”
“My police officer friend, Sam, said he’d check into the tattoo and see if he could find out more about it.”
“Really? That’s pretty cool. You must be good friends.” Scott’s cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked at it. “It’s Susan. Give me a minute.” He stepped over the rope and walked to an area behind the Ferris wheel where a few trees provided some privacy, if not total peace and quiet.
Curiosity sent me toward the motor casing. I would have no idea what I was looking at, but not because Scott hadn’t tried to educate me. To this day, whenever my truck started acting up, I would open the hood and just stare at its innards. It was habit, even if my eyes glazed at the sight.
This motor was just as confusing, though it did look smaller and perhaps simpler than the motor in my truck. I had no idea which of the parts did what, but all of it was most definitely dirty. Oil and soot filled the casing and covered the mechanisms, and it smelled dirty, too. Even though I wasn’t sure what I was looking at, it was clear that Scott had been right: the motor hadn’t been well taken care of.
As I scooted backward, I caught sight of something just outside the right wall of the casing. I peered around and saw a wallet sitting on the ground. I immediately knew it was Scott’s. There was something familiar about the light brown leather and the way it was worn and curved slightly. It probably wasn’t the same wallet he’d had when we were together, but it was the same style. I reached to grab it only so I could give it back to him, but my fingers accidentally grazed the wallet’s outer edge and flipped it open, revealing inner pockets overly stuffed with credit cards. The dollar bills, if he had any, were probably behind the card pockets in a larger back space. I also noticed a small, folded yellow piece of paper—perhaps a large sticky note—had slid to the ground when the wallet opened.
I reached for the paper and was going to put it back into the middle of the wallet, close it, and take it to Scott, but something else got my attention. Written on the paper was the word “Virgil.”
I didn’t even think about the fact that I was invading Scott’s privacy; I unfolded the paper to inspect it more closely.
It was exactly what I thought it was: a large yellow sticky note, the sticky part dirtied with small particles of dust and lint and no longer very sticky.
Written on the note, in handwriting that I would have recognized anywhere, were these words: “Virgil Morrison. Ferris wheel. One down!!!” The exclamation marks were heavy and bold, as if drawn in anger.
In the span of about a second, my mind tumbled over the millions of things the note could mean. The only thing for certain was that Virgil’s name was part of it. Other than that, it was unfair to speculate. It could mean . . . well, lots of things. For the briefest of instants, for a miniscule passing of time, I did wonder if this note indicated that my second ex-husband, Scott Triplett, had been the person to kill Virgil Morrison. It was ridiculous to attach such a serious event to the simple words on the paper. It was paranoid and misplaced. Scott wasn’t a killer. Well, the Scott I’d known wasn’t a killer.
I re-folded the note, put it back where I found it, and closed the wallet. I grasped it just a little too tightly as I stood and turned.
Scott had just finished his call and was walking toward me again. The look on his face was difficult to interpret, but he seemed to be suddenly stressed about something.
“Here,” I said too forcefully as I held out the wallet.
Scott’s eyes widened as he patted his back pocket. “Holy . . . where was that?”
“Next to the motor.”
“Dang, Becca. Thanks. I don’t remember taking it out of my pocket. I’m not sure I would have even looked over there again today.”
“No problem. Everything okay?”
He glanced at his phone. “Oh, sure, all’s well.”
“Good. Hey, I’m playing poker tomorrow night.”
“That’s good. I told Jerry he might get you to join us,” Scott said distractedly. He looked at the wallet still in his hand and then up at the top seat of the Ferris wheel. I followed his gaze. The seat was still swinging gently, perhaps because of a nudge from Virgil’s ghost. “Excuse me, Becca, but I have to go. I have something I need to take care of.”
“Sure. See you tomorrow?”
“Yeah, yeah. See ya.” Scott closed the door to the motor casing and then hurried purposefully away.
I hesitated only long enough to give him a head start—I didn’t want him to notice I was following him. But even if he caught me, I wouldn’t have to come up with a creative excuse. I could be going anywhere. If he left the premises, I’d probably have to give up the chase, but on the fairgrounds every place was a possible destination.
Scott didn’t look back once as he hurried through the still-expanding crowd—the influx that had begun earlier in the day had not yet abated. He didn’t acknowledge anyone; he just kept moving purposefully and quickly toward the front of the fairgrounds.
“Shoot,” I said. His leaving seemed like a real possibility. There was no way I could hop into my tr
uck and follow him.
Fortunately, I didn’t need to worry. He stopped at the front trailer. He wiped his hand on his thigh before looking around and then knocking on the door. A couple seconds later, the door opened and Lucy stuck her head through the opening. She furrowed her brow at the sight of Scott, glanced behind him, and then opened the door further.
She stepped back, and he disappeared inside the trailer.
I stopped and thought about what I’d just seen—nothing really, but it still seemed . . . funny . . . off.
I suddenly wanted to know much more about my second ex-husband than I ever thought I would.
Four
My first idea was to pretend to confirm with Lucy that we, the Bailey’s vendors, would definitely return to the fair on Saturday. She might think it strange that I was confirming so soon after initially telling her, but I didn’t care. I also didn’t care if Scott thought I’d seen him enter the trailer. I boldly stepped up the two attached metal stairs and knocked on the somewhat flimsy door.
And no one answered. Less than a minute had passed since Scott stood in this very same spot.
I knocked again, rattling the door even more. Again, no answer. I tried turning the handle, but it was locked. It wouldn’t take too much to break the mechanism, but I wasn’t that desperate. Yet.
I stepped off the small platform and pondered just why Lucy and Scott weren’t answering the door. My mind couldn’t conjure anything that wasn’t salacious or illegal.
“Calm down,” I said quietly to myself. “You don’t know anything. It’s no use making wild guesses. Just talk to Scott later.”
I peered out across the fairgrounds and caught sight of Jerry, the corn-dog vendor, who seemed to be in the middle of a quiet moment. I hurried to his trailer and asked for a pen and piece of paper.
“I’ve got sticky notes,” he said. “Will that do?”
“Of course,” I said after a beat.
He looked at me funny. Perhaps he’d heard the suspicion in my tone.
“’K.” He handed me a pen and a square blue notepad. “What? You look disappointed.”
A Killer Maize Page 4