by Nic Saint
I started up the recording again and we watched the next part. This was the Pit of Doom, and we all sat hunched forward in our seats, staring intently at the screen. Suddenly there was a shadow that seemed to pitch down. It was nothing more than a streak, but I knew it was the moment Anny Reckitt had been ejected from her seat. We all sat motionless. The next image showed an empty seat where the doctor had sat before.
“She’s gone,” said Luitpold, quite unnecessarily.
“The seat next to her is empty as well,” said Jamison. He tapped my desk. “I told you. She was killed. Someone sat next to her and killed her.”
Chapter 5
“You don’t know that,” I said, scrolling back through the recording. “Maybe one of the other visitors just wanted to sit next to her.” The moment I said it, I knew how lame I sounded.
“Just wanted to sit next to her?” Jamison asked. “Why? To have a chat in the middle of the ride? To show her his tonsils and ask for her medical opinion? Then why were they gone the moment they came out of the Pit of Doom?”
“Maybe something happened—the harness malfunctioned and Doctor Reckitt was thrown from her seat,” I said. “And the moment this person realized what had happened they knew there’d be questions and they wanted to avoid trouble?”
“That’s not normal behavior,” said Jamison, leaning back. “Excuse me, but if you just saw a person plummet to their death you don’t just crawl back in your seat and pretend nothing happened. You warn the ride operator there’s been an accident the moment the ride is over and you hope the person is unharmed.”
He was right. The behavior of the person who’d crawled in next to the victim was highly suspicious. Still I refused to believe that foul play was involved. “Maybe they were scared? Maybe they didn’t want to face any questions?”
“Then they’re guilty of gross negligence,” said the cop. “They should have stopped the ride somehow and reached out to help Mrs. Reckitt.”
I threw up my hands. “Maybe…” I was clutching at straws here and I knew it. I directed a pleading look at Luitpold. “What do you think, Leo?”
“I got nothing, honey,” the big man said. “They sat down next to her—which must have involved unlocking the harness—then saw her fall to her death—and then took their original seat? That’s not normal. Uh-uh.”
“You’re right,” I said with a sigh. “Of course you’re right.”
“Tell me about the restraints,” said Jamison. “How do they work, exactly?”
“Well, they’re so-called over-the-shoulder restraints, as opposed to the lap restraints. They keep you locked in your seat pretty tight so you don’t fall out when the car makes a loop or does a corkscrew. There’s an emergency button located beneath the seat, in case of fire or some other calamity, but visitors are not apprised of those buttons.”
“Can you see who the person next to the victim was?” asked Jamison, scooting forward in his chair.
I nodded as I clicked the start button, relaunching the sequence right before the Pit of Doom. Unfortunately this part of the ride was mostly cloaked in darkness, and it was pretty much impossible to get a good look at the person’s face. And when the ride zoomed out of the Pit of Doom and back into the light, everyone was in their seat again, just like before, except for the doctor, whose seat was ominously empty.
“It’s unbelievable that no one noticed she was gone,” Jamison said. “Not even the ride operator.” He rubbed his square chin. “What can you tell me about him?”
“Byron Laraway has been with us for five years,” I said. “He’s a dedicated worker, who’s been stationed at pretty much every ride and attraction in the park. He’s well-liked, conscientious, and has never given us any trouble at all.”
“So tell me this,” said Jamison, tapping the desk again. “Is there a way to unlock the restraints from the operator station?”
I stared at him. “You’re not suggesting—”
“I’m not suggesting anything, Miss Rugg. I’m just trying to figure out what happened. Can Byron Laraway unlock the restraints on the ride?”
“Yes, he can,” I said after a quick look at Luitpold. “But he would never—”
“Can he unlock them separately or is that impossible?”
“He can unlock them separately,” said Luitpold when I shook my head. “It’s necessary in case something happens to one of the visitors. Suppose the ride gets stuck and one of the guests has suffered an injury, they need to be able to be released while the others all remain strapped in.”
Jamison leaned back, nodding. “So maybe Byron Laraway accidentally hit a button and dropped Mrs. Reckitt on her head inside the Pit of Doom. He’d never tell, would he? Cause he’d lose his job if he did. And risk prosecution and prison for involuntary manslaughter.”
“Only one way to find out,” I said. Though I resented the accusation leveled against one of our employees, I could see where Jamison was coming from. So I brought up the footage from the ride operating station for the time frame we were looking at.
“You have cameras aimed at the employees?” Jamison asked, surprised.
“Yes, we do. They can misbehave just like any visitor,” I said firmly.
“Don’t you have a union? They cannot have been happy about this.”
“No, we don’t,” I said tersely. It had been a point of contention to unionize Charleneland. My sisters and I were all for it, but our parents, and especially Charlene, were dead set against it. Unionizing could only cause more problems than it was worth, she argued. I thought that was rubbish. Then again, we did provide a fun working environment for our employees. The only gripe they had was that the pay was low, which was not something we could do a whole lot about, as we were competing against other, bigger theme parks in the area.
I tapped a key and the screen showing Byron’s workstation was blown up until it filled the screen. The ride only took a little under two minutes, and the employees could use this time to entertain the next round of visitors waiting in line, or to have a quick bite to eat or a drink. We watched intently, and saw that Byron wasn’t entertaining anyone. What he was doing was sitting in his chair checking his smartphone. He kept this up the entire time the car was in the ride.
“Where is this emergency button?” asked Jamison, leaning in.
“Underneath the desk,” I said.
He nodded. “So could he have accidentally hit it?”
I glanced at Luitpold, who gave me a level look.
“Yes, he could,” I said.
Jamison went grim-faced. “I think I’ll have another word with young Byron.”
Chapter 6
“Wait a minute,” I said.
Jamison, who’d risen from his seat and was making for the door, turned. “What?”
“Look, no matter what happened, I want to find out, all right?”
“Even if it means accusing your own employee? Or admitting the victim was murdered?”
“Yes. Even if it means that.”
“Security is our priority at Charleneland, Detective Jamison,” said Luitpold. “And if one of our own did this, we need to know.”
He nodded, leaning against the doorjamb. “So what do you suggest?”
I took a deep breath. I didn’t believe I was saying this. “We have to work together, Detective. If we’re going to find out what happened, we need to join forces and collaborate.”
He gave me a long, appraising look. Finally, he nodded. “All right. We’ll team up. I need your help interviewing the people on that ride, and you need me to find out what happened.” He pointed a finger at me. “But if you don’t like what we find, there will be no backing out. No politics whatsoever.”
“Understood,” I said. “I want to find out just as badly as you.”
“Why don’t we start by drawing up a list of suspects?” Luitpold suggested.
“All right,” said Jamison, returning to his seat. “Let’s do that. Oh, and before I forget, someone has filed an official complaint a
gainst your grandmother, Miss Rugg. A woman named Anaïs Phoenix? Name ring a bell?”
“Oh, yes, it does,” I said grimly.
“She claims Charlene Simple killed Doctor Reckitt because she wanted to sabotage her career.”
“Phoenix and Charlene are old enemies,” I explained. “They’ve hated each other’s guts since the start of their careers.”
“Phoenix,” said Jamison musingly. “Isn’t there a singer with that name?”
“Yeah, she’s pretty famous,” Luitpold said with a chuckle.
“I hadn’t recognized her,” said Jamison. “I bumped into her just before I came in here and she gave me this whole spiel about Charlene murdering her doctor and sabotaging her career. She looks… different.”
“The woman takes daily baths in Botox,” said Luitpold. “Not to mention she’s got several of LA’s top plastic surgeons on retainer. I’d guess she’s had more work done than Lady Liberty.”
Jamison gave the burly guard a good-natured grin and rubbed his hands. “Let’s get this show on the road, shall we, Miss Rugg?”
“Just call me Mia,” I said.
“Only if you’ll call me Blane.”
“And I’m Luitpold,” said Luitpold. “But you can call me Leo.”
“Luitpold. That’s a pretty rare name.”
“Yes, it is. It’s German for Leopold, actually.”
“Wasn’t Leopold a king somewhere?”
Luitpold laughed. “I’m sure he was.”
“And now Leo’s King of Charleneland,” I said with a smile.
The big guard grimaced. “King without a Queen, though.”
“Is Charlene married?” asked Blane. He held up his hand. “Just out of curiosity, mind you. Not because I’m interested in the lady myself.”
“No, she’s not,” said Luitpold with the sigh of a long-suffering admirer. “She was married to a session pianist for a while. Geoffrey Rugg.”
“My grandfather,” I supplied helpfully.
“And then there was that guy Chocker. That didn’t exactly work out.”
“Nowadays she restricts herself to toyboys,” I said with a sympathetic look at Luitpold. The security chief had been in love with Charlene for years, but knew he didn’t stand a chance with the fickle woman. The older Charlene got, the younger the men in her life became, and since Luitpold only got older with each passing year, his chances of finally winning the lady’s heart diminished rather than increased.
Blane glanced between Luitpold and me. He seemed to sense something was transpiring between us, but he refrained from asking what it was. Which was very considerate of him. More considerate than I’d given him credit for.
“So let’s find out who was in that car with Anny Reckitt, shall we?” I said, placing my fingers on the keyboard again and calling up the footage.
It took me almost half an hour before I’d managed to crop out pictures of the people on that ride that were of an acceptable quality.
“Now all we have to do is compare these pictures to the ones from the cameras at the entrance—”
“And the Sapsucker Lodge,” Luitpold added.
“—and we’re in business.”
“Do you have facial recognition software?” Blane asked.
“Something like that,” I admitted. “It’s not as sophisticated as the one you use, but it’ll do. The rest is up to the eyes of our staff.”
“I’ll make the necessary arrangements, shall I?” Luitpold suggested.
I nodded and the security chief left my office.
“How long until we have a list?” asked Blane.
“Let’s hope not too long,” I said. “Most of the people who visit Charleneland are only here for the weekend—some on a day pass. So it’s imperative we identify all six people on that ride before they leave.”
“Why don’t we start with Byron? See what he’s got to say for himself.”
And as we walked out of my office and out of the security compound, something occurred to me. “There’s one other possibility.”
“What’s that?”
“What if Mrs. Reckitt committed suicide?”
He gave me his best frown. “That seems a little far-fetched, don’t you think? I mean, why would she do that here in Charleneland? And on the Haunted Ride of all places?”
“Why not? Maybe this place held a certain significance for her?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Like… Maybe she once came here with a favorite daughter, but she died and she mourned her death by returning here every year. Only this time it all became too much and she jumped from the car in an act of despair.”
He gave me an almost comical look. “Are you sure you’re not a writer on a soap opera?”
“Did she have a daughter who died?”
“No, she didn’t,” he said, then added, thoughtfully, “But she did have a husband who died of cancer a couple of years ago.”
“Aha!” I said triumphantly. “So what if she and her husband came here when they were kids and he proposed on the Haunted Ride? It’s possible,” I said stubbornly when he gave me that look again. “Just put it on the list.”
“It’s going on the list,” he said. “Along with Charlene murdering the good doctor because she wanted to sabotage Anaïs Phoenix’s career.”
“It’s not Anaïs Phoenix,” I said. “It’s just Phoenix. Like Madonna, or Céline, or Adele.”
“Or Charlene.”
“Or Charlene,” I admitted. “They’re divas. They only use the one name.”
“Oh, I get that,” he said. “But I’m a cop. I don’t care about divas. All I see are suspects and motives and opportunities and stuff. That ego stuff just gets in the way of a good investigation.”
“So are you going to interrogate Charlene?” I asked, amused.
“Of course. She’s a suspect in a case so I’m going to interview her.”
“She won’t like it.”
He laughed. “If I just interviewed the people who wanted to be interviewed I’d be twiddling my thumbs. Nobody likes to talk to the police. That’s just a fact of life.”
I gave him a sideways glance as we traipsed along Main Street, with its hustle and bustle and kids trailing huge balloons. He had a nice profile. Classic and handsome. And he seemed nicer than I’d initially thought. At least he had a sense of humor. “I don’t mind talking to you,” I said.
“That’s because you’re not a suspect,” he said dryly. “Trust me, if you were, we wouldn’t be talking here but at the precinct, you with your wrists shackled to the table and me giving you the third degree. You wouldn’t like me then.”
“What makes you think I like you now?”
“No reason. Or maybe the fact that you stopped looking at me like I’m the bane of your existence.”
“I never looked at you like that!”
He laughed. “Oh, yes, you did. When you thought I was going to close down your precious park you looked at me like you wanted to throttle me.”
“Well, maybe a little,” I admitted. “You did come off very officious.”
“That’s because I take my job very seriously, Mia.”
“I do, too, Blane,” I said. “This park supplies employment to three thousand people. It’s not just my family and me. It’s those three thousand other families as well. Close down this park, and you put them all in jeopardy.”
“Then let’s do our best to figure out what’s going on here, shall we? The sooner we know, the sooner Charleneland is safe.”
Chapter 7
We found Byron Laraway outside the break room, smoking a cigarette. He looked positively rattled. The notion that a person had died on a ride he was operating clearly had come home to him.
He was a slightly paunchy young man with a round, cherubic face. Under normal circumstances he was a fun-loving employee, who liked to goof around on his breaks, and entertain his colleagues with his imitations of popular cartoon characters. Now, however, he looked nearer to crying than
laughing.
“So have you found out what happened to that lady, Miss Rugg?” he asked, quickly stubbing out his cigarette when he caught sight of me.
“No, that’s what we’re here to talk about, Byron,” I said. “You already met Detective Jamison?”
He nodded distractedly. “I checked the restraints, like I always do, before and after the ride. Everything was fine.”
“Didn’t you notice Mrs. Reckitt wasn’t on the ride when it rolled in?” asked Blane, immediately going for the jugular.
“No, I did not, sir,” said Byron, shaking his head. “It’s never happened before that someone just… fell out like that.” He cut his eyes to me, giving me a desperate look. “Nobody ever told me I needed to check that whoever goes on the ride also gets off the ride. That wasn’t in the instructions I got.”
“Nobody instructed you because that’s not something we do,” I said. “Well, we just don’t,” I said a little louder when Blane gave me a blank look. “We can’t ask our people to memorize every face of every person who goes on the ride and then do a check afterward. This isn’t the cub scouts. We’re pretty sure that nobody gets left behind.”
“Until today,” he said dryly.
I didn’t say anything. This was just ridiculous.
“Miss Rugg told me you have a system for releasing the restraints from your workstation?” Blane asked.
“That’s right. In case of an emergency.”
“And this is located beneath your station?”
“Yes. Right underneath the desk.”
“Okay, now I want you to think very carefully before you answer me, all right, Byron?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is it possible that you accidentally touched a button? Is it possible that you hit the button releasing one of the restraints?”
Byron’s face fell when he realized what Blane was asking. “Oh, no, sir.”
“Think very carefully, Byron,” Blane said, eyeing the operator closely.
A look of determination came over Byron’s face. “I did not touch that button, sir,” he said.