“I don't!”
“Do you know,” I shouted. I paused and caught my breath. “Did you ever know anyone who died by drowning?”
“Did I… What? Drowning?”
“Yes! Who do you know that drowned?”
“Nobody! Never!” she said, shouting back at me now. “I don't know anyone who drowned!”
I stopped shouting questions. The rich widow stopped shouting answers. We caught our collective breaths in the vast silence of the pavilion. Still on my knees, I felt suddenly vulnerable for I sensed another presence nearby. I turned to see Rudy, the protective chauffeur, looking unhappily on from a walk-in door in the far wall. He didn't get any happier as he came my way.
“Are you all right, Blake?” Danita asked again.
I nodded and, when I found the air, said, “Yes. I'm… I'm all right.”
“Do you need…?” She didn't know what to offer. I couldn't blame her. She didn't know what had happened. I couldn't tell her. Still she was trying. “Shall I call…?”
I waved away her calling anyone. “I'm all right. I have a… condition.”
“Rudy…”
The chauffeur took my arm with a solid, not friendly, grip and helped me to my feet. For him it was no chore as he had me by four inches and forty pounds. He held the grip once I was up. Dizzy, I was in no condition to wrestle free or argue the point.
“Would you like some water,” Danita asked, frightened and still trying to help. “I can have some brandy brought out.”
“No.” I reached to balance myself against the wagon wheel, but stopped short. I studied it for a moment. I took a breath and laid my index finger on it. Nothing happened. I released the breath and took hold of the wheel. It made a good crutch (now I knew it wasn't going to bite) and I steadied myself on my feet. “I'm all right, really.”
At a nod from his mistress, Rudy the ape let go of my arm.
“It's a… seizure. It comes out of nowhere sometimes.”
Danita breathed more easily. “Can I do anything?”
“Yes. You can ask your man if the names Michael Gronchi or Mickey the Geek mean anything to him?” I turned, looking up to take in the chauffeur. “You've been to the circus, Mr. Ace, standing guard over that lovely Fleetwood. The acts come and go around you. Did you know Michael Gronchi or Mickey the Geek?”
Rudy turned to Danita and got her nod. He turned to me and shook his head. He knew nothing and he said nothing.
“How about Sybil? Or Gerald Lapinski? Any bells going off?”
Again the silent shake of the head.
“You're sure you're all right, Blake?” With my assurance, the rich widow dismissed her chauffeur again. He didn't like it before and taking seconds did nothing to cheer him up. But he went.
“He doesn't talk?” I asked after he'd left us.
“He has a beautiful voice,” Danita replied. “When he has something to say.”
The dizziness had passed. There was no way to apologize for the embarrassment the episode had caused, for either of us, so I dove back in to get the meeting over with. What else was there to do? “What can you tell me about Alfonso Valencia?”
“The little clown? The subject of your article?” She enjoyed a laugh at my expense. “Him I know. I don't mean personally, but I know about him. Everybody in the circus knows Alfonso. He's quite the character.” She paused as she realized I was studying her. “Oh, Blake, he's not…” She tried to find the words. “Are you telling me Alfonso's been killed?”
“I don't know. He's missing – without explanation. I want to find him before he ends up like the others.”
“Of course. Yes, you must. I'll pay for your services myself.”
“I'm not looking for a client.”
“If I can help you solve these horrible crimes in any way, you need only ask.”
I cannot say I completely trusted Danita Callicoat. With the sole exception of my secretary, I don't think there was anyone on the planet I completely trusted. What I can say is I no longer suspected her of murdering the performers in her show. I believed her when she said she knew nothing about the killings. She seemed bothered by them. She said she wanted them solved. And when I asked for her official sanction, she replied, “Yes, of course. Go back to the circus. Dig. Inquire.”
Chapter Fifteen
I raced through the drive-thru of the chain burger joint that promised I could have whatever I wanted, My way, Any time of day. What I wanted was a half-dozen plain hamburgers. “No. No fries. No. Nothing to drink. Right. Nothing on them. Plain.” The kid on the other end of the intercom sounded disappointed. He might as well get used to it. It was a long life. I collected my burgers and turned the Jag for the north shore.
I pulled onto Navy Pier, parked, grabbed my burgers, shanghaied Olive from his ticket booth with a plea for help (he found a replacement), and headed around the Big Top and into the performers' dormitory on the far east end of the Pier. Pinned waist-high (my waist) on Alfonso's dorm room door was a note reading: What the Hell? See Me! It wasn't signed. It seemed a likely bet the midget had missed the evening performance. That left little doubt who'd written the note.
Inside the room, Olive and I found Alfonso's personal effects untouched. There was no sign the little clown had come or gone. His depressed mutt was there, as I feared, no more or less active than before, giving a blink, a sad slow gaze, an occasional heartbreaking sigh to prove he was alive, laying on his rug between several pools and piles unavoidably left on the surrounding floor. I unwrapped the 'plain' burgers – then spent five minutes scraping the ketchup, mustard, and pickle from each. Damned drive-thru employees.
“What's his name?” I asked Olive.
“The dog?” The pimpled youth shrugged his shoulders. “Don't think he has one. I'd say, 'Mornin', Alfonso. How's the dog.' He'd say, 'Depressed.' That's all was ever said 'bout the dog.”
I broke the burgers into his empty bowl while the dog sighed. I filled his water bowl from the bathroom tap while he hungrily ate. I assured the pooch – though it did nothing to cheer him up – that Olive would keep an eye on him until Alfonso returned.
“Me?” Olive asked. “Why me?”
“Alfonso said you were a good kid. So be a good kid.” I offered Olive a five spot for a promise he'd walk the dog until the midget came back. He countered that feeding the dog wouldn't be free. I made it a sawbuck and he was on board.
I asked the kid where I might find either The Major or Alida Harrison. Both were main players – in their show and in mine – whose interviews had been too long-delayed. It was about time we talked officially. At mention of the boss, Olive lifted his brow sharply, asking (without asking) why anyone would want to meet that man willingly. “The Major is already stalking the Big Top,” he said. “Laying down the law, making the early risers sorry they bothered. The acrobat…” He blushed around an idiotic schoolboy grin. “Alida is prob-ly still in bed.”
“Where's her bed?”
“O-one flight up. Room 304.” Youthful lust shown in his eyes. “I'll show you!”
“I've got it, son, thanks,” I told him. “You cheer up your dog. I'll see what I can do with Alida.”
I left Olive to his adopted mutt and his wondering imagination.
I climbed the stairs and discovered immediately that the image of the blonde pixie buried in soft sheets had been wishful thinking on Olive's part. Alida Harrison was not in bed. She was anything but at rest. As my head topped the landing above, I got my first close up view of the little acrobat, hurrying from her room, pulling the door quickly closed behind her, red faced and breathing rapidly as if she'd just… Well, let's go with 'ran a marathon'.
She was a short-haired blonde with black roots but I never hold that against a lady. She didn't have the curves that normally invite male urges but had instead one of those hard, athletic bodies that guaranteed a full evening of satisfying contact sport. In fact, the more I looked, the more I take back my comment about male urges. She was a few inches over five
feet, somewhere in her mid-twenties, wearing an open pink bathrobe (that heightened her rosy blush) over shorts and a T-shirt cut off just below her pert breasts. She wasn't Mae West, but she'd have fit in fine on the dessert menu and plenty of guys would have ordered seconds.
She saw me and froze in place against the door. I did my full share of staring back. “Alida Harrison?”
Her black eyes widened, for an instant, then she brought them under control. The silence was good and pregnant. Then she gave birth to a smile. “Who are you?” Like many around the circus, she too had a slight accent. But from where? Your guess is as good as mine.
“The name's Blake. I'm a private investigator.”
It was like watching a magic trick. In an instant, the little blonde's smile went from Cheshire Cat to kitten. She closed her robe, slowly, issuing an invitation not taking one away. Then she moved my direction like a hundred and five pounds of warm smoke crossing the landing. “Whose privates are you investigating?”
I wouldn't have given a penny for the joke or her delivery. But I'd have emptied the wallet for the giggle that followed, then asked what she wanted for a tip. I was on foot and kicking myself for not wearing a seat belt.
The acrobat's eyes lit up. She darted forward and snatched my arm as if she feared I might get away. Then, steering me to the stairs I'd just come up, she started me down again, rambling aloud in an odd little stream of consciousness. “Private investigator. Alpha male. Man of action. Decisive. Strong. Knows his mind. Knows what he likes. Come see my new act.”
Her excitement was genuine. But, in anticipation of what, I couldn't tell you. She claimed she wanted to show me her new routine but, to me, she seemed headed away from – not toward – whatever was on her mind. Of course I had no basis. I'd just met the girl.
“You can watch me,” she was going on. “Tell me what you think. Then investigate me. Ask me questions. Anything comes to mind.”
On the way out, she paused on the first floor to bang on a door. “The muscle behind my magic,” she explained, the sing-song stream of consciousness gone. When the door came open she issued orders to two semi-comatose roughs within. (The pair I'd already seen at work with Tommy and Sandra.) They were needed pronto for a rehearsal in the Big Top, she barked. They hopped to, grabbing for clothes, as if they were her private slaves. That's how she treated them. Without waiting, Alida led me away. “I'm Tinkerbell,” she said, all smiles again. “They make me fly.”
We hit the lot outside of the performers' dorm like we were on a mission. Considering she'd never heard of me, I was surprised to find myself so high on her 'To Do' list. Then again, we weren't going out to watch my act.
I did have to pause for a second – not related to the blonde pixie. Coming out of the building, I saw Danita Callicoat's limousine parked nearby. That set my mind to racing. What was it doing there? Had the rich widow sped from her estate to the circus after our talk? If so, why? I'd all but crossed her off my list because I'd gotten the impression the murders were a shock to her. Now I was wondering again. Could I have been that wrong? Where was Mrs. Callicoat? What was she doing? But my questions were fleeting; my urge to investigate the situation overruled by the pushy little acrobat. Alida wanted to show me her act; she wanted her turn to be interrogated.
I'll digress for a moment more to mention that with Mrs. Callicoat's limo in the lot and its owner on my mind and with Alida Harrison on my arm, I couldn't help but compare the two. The rich widow was a sensuous cougar who felt dangerous but read innocent. The acrobat was a smoking kitten who felt cuddly but read evil. Both were pure feline. But where did they prowl? For what did they hunt? In the night, I'd already seen, the circus was a world of lights, shadows, and lots of places in which to slink without discovery. Now I saw even in daylight there were plenty of nooks in which to hide and from which to spring. Who or what was I dealing with? House cats? Alley cats? Hell cats?
We followed the fence toward the employees' entrance at the rear of the Big Top. On our right, on the north side of the hippodrome, a reserve engine from the local Fire House had been coaxed into service. They'd pulled a hose line and were gleefully assisting circus staff in washing three elephants. The massive beasts, in turn, trumpeted their delight. To the distant left, on the far south side, I made out a shape that looked to be The Major standing near his white van. Beside him were two others in dark suits (not far from a green sedan) that could only be city detectives. They'd finally found their way to the circus. That wasn't surprising, they were bound to eventually even if only on a fishing expedition. Neither shape was round enough to be Wenders. And, as there was no boss, there were no hard clues. They were merely one of many teams following potential leads on the Lieutenant's orders. No need to panic yet. That said, I still wasn't ready to talk with the cops. This was my first opportunity with Alida and I wanted my interview. I replaced the acrobat's grip on my arm with my grip on hers, and hurried her into the Big Top, anxious now to see her act as much as she wanted to show it to me.
Her muscled stage hands showed up on our heels rubbing sleep from their eyes. Alida ordered them to “Get everything ready,” and they dutifully disappeared backstage. The pair reappeared rolling out a four-by-eight pedestal platform with two posts rising four feet from its center, then disappeared again. Alida dropped her robe and ran her hands from her breasts, down, to rest on her thin hips. “Imagine it, Blake,” she purred. “See an all silver leotard covered in silver sequins reflecting the changing color-gelled lights splashing over me.” She ran to the backstage curtain, turned back and shouted, “The band strikes up 'A Gift for Caesar' from the film Cleopatra!” She disappeared.
A moment later the huskies entered the performance area at a steady march, carrying a litter, bearing an acrylic glass box that couldn't have been more than two feet square. I looked on. I stared. I did a double take. Somehow, some way, Alida was balled up inside the box, contorted backward over herself, smiling at me through the translucent side. They laid the box on the platform and left the ring.
Alida unrolled upward from the box like a charmed snake, thighs, pelvis, stomach, breasts, and head, until she was standing. I could imagine it in silver; glistening diamonds and light. With an all new smile, neither Cheshire Cat nor kitten, she did a back flip out of the box, spun in a pirouette, and – as if there was nothing to it – ended up in a handstand atop the posts above the pedestal.
In that position, she performed what amounted to a dance, gracefully contorting her body in all manner of ways, backward and forward, supporting herself on one hand, then the other, adjusting her balance by extending a limb, by spreading or closing her legs as the situation demanded, upside down all the while rotating slowing in place. How in the world a human body could twist itself so, I had no clue. Alida dismounted, bowed, then pulled the posts from the pedestal and tossed them aside.
A silver ring, three and a half feet in diameter, dropped from the sky (compliments of the stage hands), and a light came on inside of it making the ring glow. “Now the theme music changes,” Alida called out as she took hold of the supporting cable. “To Cleopatra's 'Love and Hate'.” I wasn't up on my soundtracks but, with this second allusion to the Egyptian queen, was beginning to question the score playing in the acrobat's head.
She spun on one foot, turning on the podium, whipping the ring ever more rapidly in a circle about her. The ring jerked and lifted, carrying Alida, still turning, into the air. She reached the heights, dangling thirty feet up, with the glowing ring in orbit about her. In a blur, she and it became one. Still spinning, the ring slowed to show the acrobat inside sitting on the lower curve. “See it in lights!” Alida cried. Then she let herself fall.
The lower arc caught her spine, supporting her, as she hung backwards from the waist on either side of the ring. Her head hung even with her feet, her heels touched the nape of her neck. She reached behind taking hold of her own ankles, still spinning. The ring sped up again. Alida became a blur. With little trouble, I imagined it in l
ights. The blur became the pixie again. The girl was upside down, her feet alone in contact with the ring, dangling from her flexed arches. She did a sit up in midair, took the ring in both hands, and was lowered spinning to the floor.
I applauded. But she wasn't finished.
The spinning ring rose again with Alida dangling beneath it. She pulled herself up with the lower arc at the nape of her neck. She dropped her head back as if she'd fallen asleep, and let go. She spun high above the floor with no visible means of support. The effect was startling. She was holding on with only the muscles of her neck. She lifted her legs, grabbed her ankles, and spun. Then, slowly, returned to earth and took a final bow. Alida rolled her tiny body (and her evident self-satisfaction) into a ball as she slipped back down inside the glass cube. The huskies carried her out again.
I followed her like a pet schnauzer.
Backstage, out of her box, Alida invited me to gush over her new act. It was hard to blame her. For a rehearsal, it had been a hell of a performance. I told her so. She dismissed her team of muscle, took me for a walk and talk past the cages and pens of exotic animals, and invited me to perform. She wanted her interrogation. That was when the circus really began. I asked questions. She flirted and answered questions I wasn't asking. Nothing I asked, and certainly nothing she answered, got us anywhere near the murders. Here's a sample:
“No. I did not know Michael…” She looked the question.
“Gronchi. Michael Gronchi, the grounds sweeper. Mickey the Geek.”
She waved it away. “I didn't know him. I don't know the grounds sweepers. I spend so little time on the ground.”
“Sybil?” I asked. “The Bearded Lady?”
She grimaced. “NO! That disgusting fat woman with the beard? No. I did not know her. I don't know any women. Why would I?”
“Alfonso? You know Alfonso?”
“Of course I know Alfonso. He's everywhere, playing the little boss, when he isn't playing the clown. He's a pest.”
Red Herrings Can't Swim (Nod Blake Mysteries Book 2) Page 15