Red Herrings Can't Swim (Nod Blake Mysteries Book 2)

by Doug Lamoreux

  “The Wheel of Death shall be revealed.” The carnies pulled an ornate and colorful cover off of an impressive prop piece set atop a massive platform. Beneath stood a giant circular target board painted in pie slices of red, white, and blue, set up to spin about its middle. They rolled the platform on casters into the center ring.

  “As the audience reacts in awe and building terror,” Tommy said. “I escort you to the wheel and surrender you into the hands of–” He sneered at the lackeys. “Them.” He turned and walked away, declaring over his shoulder, “While I ready my knives with the appropriate flourishes, they will quickly secure you to the wheel.” Tommy turned to see the lackeys standing uselessly on each side of the wheel staring at the target girl. She stood ten feet off, arms crossed, face set on 'Don't touch me', staring at the knife thrower. “What are you doing?” Tommy demanded.

  “Isn't it obvious?” she replied. “I am doing nothing. After last night can you blame me?”

  “Pah!” He pointed with one of his keenly sharpened knives. “Get on the wheel!”

  “No.”

  “Don't be stupid. Get on the wheel.”

  “No. Why should I?”

  “Why should you do what you do? Ridiculous. We must rehearse the new routine.”

  She displayed her arm. “After last night–”

  “It was not my fault! That fool… That whoever! He had no business there. He broke my concentration. Last night was a mere nothing.”

  “Nothing to you. It was something to me. Where were you? What happened to your concentration? What happened to your head?”

  “It was nothing!”

  “Nothing. Your response is to add five times the danger? Requiring ten times the concentration?”

  “Your arm was scratched. Pah!” He tossed the bundle of knives on their table. “My reputation was deeply gouged. I must mend it.”

  “Not with me,” the girl declared. “Not until you govern your anger and regain your head.”

  His reply was instant fury. “How dare you?”

  And, of course, that's when he spotted me – and rerouted his fury. He stopped the (already halted) rehearsal with a shout, and grabbing a knife back up from the pile on the table, turned to face me. “How dare you,” he screamed, raising the blade above his head. “How dare you return here?”

  I reached beneath my jacket, laid fingertips on the grip of my holstered gun and, hating my life, stared warily at the circus performer.

  “You ruined our performance. You humiliated me. You were responsible for my injuring my beautiful assistant. I ought to cut your throat. I ought to pierce your heart!” Speaking of hearts, his face was red as a valentine and he shook so that his head genuinely looked as if it might explode. He screamed, “Pah!” He threw the knife back down, clattering atop the others on the table, and disappeared behind the curtains to the tent's backstage area in his own private storm.

  The target girl approached me. “Who are you?”

  I took a badly needed breath. “The name is Blake. And you?”

  “Sandra. Assistant to the great Tommy Dagger.”

  “Is that Sandra Dagger?”

  She laughed; a charming sound. “The answer to the question I believe you are asking is, yes. That is my excitable husband. Thomas Lacrosse.” She stretched a hand. Despite the injury she shook with a firm grip. “I'm Anita Lacrosse.” She laughed again at my arched and questioning brow. “In the circus, Mr. Blake, no one's name is their name. Call me Sandra.”

  Sandra was as pleasant as her husband and partner was disagreeable and she was willing to answer my questions. Willing, but not able. She didn't know Michael Gronchi or, for that matter, any of the older fellows Alfonso had mentioned. She didn't enjoy the midway, the food had no place in her diet and, she confessed, she was frightened of the Sideshow. She performed, she rehearsed, and, between, she read romance novels in her room. She said, without saying, Tommy kept a tight leash. Speaking of which, Tommy was no doubt waiting, and wondering where she was, and getting angrier as a result. Sandra accepted my apology for the part I'd played in her being injured. She wished me good day. And she said hello and goodbye to Alfonso, entering the Big Top, as she passed him headed away to find her husband.

  Alfonso was a surprise. I'd heard him plenty but had never seen him without his costume or makeup. His language led me to believe he was a native of the Bronx, or maybe South Chicago, but his accent hinted – like many around there – he was European in one way or another. What I didn't imagine was he was black (really an attractive tawny brown). Last night I guessed, without a thought, he darkened himself to perform the Pygmy in the Sideshow. Now I knew he actually laid the Clown White on thick to do Binky. Mind you, none of it mattered. I have as many prejudices as anyone, but I'm too lazy to be an -ist and too contemptuous of society in general to form specific -isms. I take folks, clerks, clients, and criminals, as they come. I'm just telling it so it dawns on you, like it was dawning on me, that nothing is as it first appears in the circus. But the real surprise was still to come.

  I'd made a rough start of the morning. Seeing the midget brightened my day as I had high hopes he could smooth the path between me and those I wanted to question. So much for my hopes. Alfonso had come down in a surly mood and with a chip on his shoulder. Before I got a serviceable word out he growled that he'd changed his mind – and our bargain.

  “I've been thinkin' it over,” Alfonso said. “You're not gonna get anywhere without my help. And I ain't showin', or tellin', you one more thing until you listen to my problem and promise to help.”

  “I already said I'd help.”

  He jammed what must have been his breakfast cigar into the corner of his mouth and folded his arms over his chest. He was serious. He wasn't moving.

  “Okay,” I told him. “Tell me your problem.”

  He jerked the cigar back out, leaving a satisfied sneer, and jutted the thumb of his smoking hand toward the tent's east opening. “The canvas has ears. Let's take it to my room.”

  Again I found myself helplessly following the midget.

  Alfonso's second floor room was your standard run-down dormitory digs, mixed and unmatched furniture, some of it held over from the 40's, built the right size for someone like me but miles too big for the diminutive circus performer. A worn dresser, table, and chair. A bed with a bad mattress. Four coat hangers, impossible to steal, hung in the closet niche. A faded area rug lay in the corner with a surprisingly hairy gray chihuahua prostrate upon it. I'd always understood that breed of dog to be hyper but this example of the species looked as run down as its surroundings. The dog not only didn't jump, or yip, or nervously skitter, it showed few signs of life. It merely looked at us with eyes as big as its head and sighed. (I mean it. It didn't yawn, it sighed.)

  Alfonso closed the door, shutting us in. He offered me the chair, then climbed up and perched himself on the foot board of the bed like a rodeo performer on an arena fence. There he sat, deep in thought. I waited. The dog did it again. “Did your dog just sigh?”

  “Don't mind him. He gets depressed.”

  It was my own fault. I had to ask. I gave the situation a few more minutes and, finally, blurted, “Can we get the show on the road?”

  Alfonso took what, for him, was probably a big breath, and said, “There's this girl.”

  Now I was ready to sigh. “Yeah. There usually is.”

  “I got no sense of humor about this.”

  “I'm sure you don't. All right. Tell me about the girl, but do me a favor and skip the romantic parts if you can. It's too early.”

  “There ain't no romantic parts. She's engaged; not to me.” He stewed for a few seconds, as if convincing himself of what he'd said, then went on. “The guy she's engaged to ain't no good and I want you to check him out. Maybe if I can prove he ain't no good–”

  I held up a hand. “You ever met a woman before? She's probably after him because he's no good.”

  “Not a woman like this. And she ain't after him. He'
s after her.”

  “I thought you said they were engaged.”

  “So they are.”

  “Then the chase is over, Alfonso.”

  “This is the circus, fer Chris-sake. Nothin's over until the fat lady sings.”

  I would have pointed out he had the circus confused with an opera but it would only have prolonged the argument. He was in no mood to see reason. I had a case I wanted to get back to. “Okay. Tell it.”

  “There's a lady, right here in the show, she's in danger and needs help.”

  “I've already got that much memorized,” I told him. “Move it down the track.”

  The midget frowned. “I'm just introducin' you to the characters.”

  “Good. I need more characters in my life.”

  Alfonso hopped down from his perch and squared off on me, all three feet and a few inches, looking half-mad and half like he couldn't decide what I was. “You're so tough I gotta take that from you?”

  “Keep your shirt on, Alfonso, and tell it.”

  “The lady,” he said, forcing the words out through clenched teeth, “I'm concerned about, her name's Alida Harrison.”

  A bell rang but I didn't know why.

  “She's only been with us a short while; our new star aerial acrobat.”

  That was why. The pixie from the night before. I'd heard the ringmaster's introduction. 'Alida, Lady of the Air'. What had he called her? 'The world's most astounding aerial acrobat and contortionist'. I'd heard of a contortionist but had always imagined it to be a skinny Indian guy who could twist himself up like a pretzel then screw himself down into a wicker basket. Not that I'd given performers of that sort much thought, but a sexy blonde pixie had never occurred.

  Alfonso was going on. “The guy, I already mentioned, is Karl Kreis.”

  “The show's manager,” I said, proving I did on occasion listen and remember. “The guy you'd like to behead.”

  “He calls himself The Major. Supposedly 'cause of some great military career. But you could have fooled me. I don't think he could fight his way through the poodle act. I doubt he's ever been on the water. I'd be surprised if the son of a bitch bathes reg'lar.”

  “I got it. You don't like The Major. But what's he got to do with the lady?”

  “To hear him tell it, they're engaged. But that shouldn't ought to be 'cause, they say, long before he was The Major, back in the real circus days, he was already married.”

  “So? Lots of people marry more than once.”

  “Hold your horse. I'm gettin' to the so. The so is… There's rumors. Lots of rumors. There's somethin' hinky about that first marriage. He's divorced. He's a widower. She disappeared. Rumors live and breathe in the circus but, when it comes to Alida, I don't like rumors. Where's the first wife? Who is she? Where is she? Why isn't she anymore? Same goes for The Major. Who is he? Where'd he come from? Where'd he get his job? His dough?”

  “Does any of that matter?”

  “I don't like him. I don't think he's good for Alida.”

  “Is that it? You want a background check? That's simple enough. But what's Alida to you? Are you her guardian?”

  “No, I ain't her guardian.”

  I studied him. “Oh that.” I may have added an unnecessary, and unnecessarily smug, nod of the head. “You're in love with the girl yourself.”

  “It doesn't matter what I am. I'm a nice guy with a big heart of gold, ain't that enough?” (I hope, sisters and brothers, as you're listening to Alfonso you're still inserting random cuss words and plenty of F-bombs along the way. He certainly was.) “I'll take care of what I am and what is. I want you to find out what was. Will you do it, Blake? I don't know how you find out about people. I wouldn't know where to go; who or what to ask. You do. Find out about this guy.”

  “What do you know about Alida Harrison? You said she's new. How long's she been here?”

  “Just long enough for The Major to get his hooks in.”

  “Where's she from? Is there any family to look after her interests?”

  “I don't know much about her. The Major doesn't let her out among us peons. I was hopin' to get to know her, if you get my drift. But that ain't goin' to happen if she marries The Major.”

  “All right. I'll check their backgrounds.” I stood. “Now… can we get back to my case?”

  Alfonso didn't like it. But he couldn't object. I'd listened and promised to look. He nodded his agreement. “Where do you want to start?”

  “Left field,” I said. “If you know, what does the phrase, 'The canary didn't die when she fell from the sky' mean to you?”

  Alfonso stared. He smacked his lips. “Nothin'. Should it?”

  “I don't know. I'm asking. The canary didn't die when she fell from the sky.”

  Alfonso shook his head. “Nope. Not a damn thing.”

  “Okay. Let's get back to our search for the identity of the drowned man. You named the possibles last night, the old timers here at the circus. Let's start with them.”

  “Start how?

  “We question as many as we can lay hands on at this hour of the morning. We waylay them in the hallways on their way to the showers, the can, or breakfast. We rap them out of their beds. If they can lean against door frames and rub the sand from their eyes, we'll know they aren't dead and the body isn't theirs. We then ask if they saw or know anybody fitting the description of the drowned man. We ask if they saw or heard anything out of the ordinary last night. As we eliminate, we ask when was the last time they saw… whoever we can't find. We find anybody who knows anything. Eventually, through the glamorous work that is detection, we'll identify our drowned man.”

  “If he came from here,” Alfonso said. “If he had anything to do with the circus.”

  “Don't forget our hard-won piece of evidence,” I reminded him. “The fabric from the jacket lining. He came from here.”

  “I can tell you right off your dead guy ain't The Major,” Alfonso said. “I already seen him up and about, so he didn't drown in the harbor. More's the shame. Besides, after I thought about it, it was stupid to even have mentioned him. You saw him last night.”

  “I did?”

  Alfonso nodded. “He doesn't just run the circus. He's the ringmaster.”

  That was that. “What about the others you mentioned?”

  “It ain't Ed or Butch. I heard 'em arguin' on their way out to feed the animals this morning.”

  “Not dead,” I agreed, “either of 'em. And have no fear, they made up. When I passed them, they were laughing and hauling meat to the carnivores.”

  Alfonso nodded, opened the door, and gave the hall a look. Then he ducked back and quickly and quietly closed the door again with the two of us still in his room. His facial arrangement suggested a whiff of bad cheese.

  “What is it?”

  “The Major,” Alfonso said, “headed upstairs. And the circus owner is with him.”

  “He rates a visit from the owner at this time of the morning?”

  “He rates a shove down the stairs.”

  “I'm asking why the owner is here this early?”

  “Business meetin' I imagine. They've had one or two since she took over.”

  “She? A woman owns the circus?”

  “The better part of it. How the hell would I know why they're meetin'? It could be on a million subjects from aardvarks to zebras or anything in-between. On-hand stock of toilet paper? The nutrition in ostrich feed? The going price for granulated sugar and fresh lemons?”

  He had a point.

  “Besides,” the midget went on. “What's the difference? Neither of them is your drowned guy.”

  I couldn't argue with that either. But I was nosy by nature. “The Major have a room upstairs?”

  “Yeah. But I doubt they're headed for it. Now I think about it, they're probably goin' up to see Alida.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not?” Alfonso asked defensively. “She's their new headliner. She's a rising star and will soon join the elephants
as the reason people are comin' to the circus. Why shouldn't the manager introduce her to the owner? Nothin' suspicious about it. No hint they're discussing a recent murder.”

  I had to admit it didn't look it from my angle either. With no compelling reason to wonder further, my brain let go. We had enough work to do.

  “I guess they'll be a while,” Alfonso said. “You want to knock on doors or peek in rooms right now, we can. Might as well start on this floor.” He checked the hall up and down, found it clear, and led us out. He pointed and, whispering, said, “Selma, from ride tickets, and her worthless old man have the room at the end of the hall. Simon, that's his name! Selma and Simon! Why can't I remember that? Anyway, they're down there. They're in 'cause I heard him go for a pee an hour ago. That good enough or you want to go knock?”

  I shook my head. “We can question him later. If he's peeing, he isn't dead.”

  “S'what I thought.” Alfonso took a moment to think. “There's Tim – whoever – the dart game guy…” He turned and started down the hall, pointing. “He's down here on the opposite end. Rooms with Vlad from the shootin' gallery.” We listened at the door to Tim and Vlad's room and heard nothing. I tested the knob and found it unlocked. Alfonso stood guard while I stuck my head in. The geezers, as my miniature guide called them, were safe, dry, and softly snoring in their beds.

  Alfonso pointed to the stairs in mid-hall. “Pete, the popcorn ball guy, sleeps one floor up. Old Earl, the elephant ears and cotton candy guy, has the room across the hall from him. Mickey, the guy we were talkin' about, the geek, he's downstairs, first floor, across from Sybil, the Bearded Lady.” Alfonso swore. (I know you're surprised.) “This is goin' to take all day.” He looked at me with pleading eyes. “You said last night Mickey sounded about right. Maybe we should start down there. If Mickey is it, I can get the bad news over with and we can save bothering everybody else.”

  It sounded like a plan to me. We headed for the first floor and slipped quietly into Michael Gronchi's room. It was empty. The bed showed no signs of having been slept in.

  Alfonso was glum. “Does this mean Mickey is your guy?”

  “Not necessarily,” I said, wandering the room. “But it's another tick in the 'probably' column.”