A FATAL FESTIVAL (Alethea, The Circus Sleuth Book 3) Page 7

  “Indeed, they did,” he softly lamented. “In the name of justice. This way, at least, nobody else can be sabotaged. If Obed was a victim of sabotage.” He looked her as if he knew something, before going back to stirring whatever he had in that plastic box of food and putting it back into the microwave for a second time.

  “Do you think he was killed for a different reason?” She pursed her lips as she considered the idea. “He certainly didn’t have a public mishap during one of his performances, that’s clear. And contrary to the other days, what happened to him was the only incident on the whole day. Like they focused all their malice into one person. Why him?”

  Virgil poured what revealed itself to be goulash into two deep plates and brought them over, together with some bread. He gently pushed one plate in front of Alethea, with a fatherly look in his face. She found it bewildering, but obediently grabbed a spoon and started eating.

  “The police are conducting interviews. A lot of interviews. Apparently, the whole festival is filled with potential suspects. And when you couple that with everyone’s personal investment, all the businesses here, all the circuses and sideshows and solo performers, you’ve got an investigative free-for-all on your hands the world hasn’t seen since Jack the Ripper. Obed was also quite popular at the Circus Pandemonium, and barring that, one of their own. If there’s a culprit or several still around, they’re going to have a hard time.”

  Because her mouth was full, Alethea could only nod. The food was far better than expected, which made her wonder about where Virgil had acquired it from. It was visible on his face as soon as he put the first spoon in his mouth that he experienced some vaguely nostalgic bliss while tasting this food that was reminiscent of his home country. In that exact moment, as they were both busy letting their taste buds take over their brains, there was a knock on the door.

  Before either of them could answer, the door was opened and a new guest stepped inside. It was none other than Special Agent Westley Holden, who sniffed at the air with a broad smile. “Good day, and bon appétit! Ah, what an occasion to be here again, and to meet the both of you.” He half bowed to them. “I could already smell the goulash from outside. What a treat, isn’t it? It’s rare to find a good goulash in this part of the world. Nonetheless, Mr. Ardelean, I see that your connections to the old country have paid off. If you are not entirely opposed to it, I would very much enjoy taking a plate of my own and having a taste of this aromatic sensation.”

  Virgil mumbled something while some sauce dripped onto his chin, which could, together with a vague hand gesture towards the kitchen cupboard, be interpreted as an invitation for Westley to help himself. He certainly interpreted it that way, and in less than thirty seconds, the FBI agent sat down with them and had a plate filled with the rest of the goulash.

  “G-good to see you again,” Alethea managed. Holden moved his spoon into his left hand before extending his right to shake hers. The same was repeated with Virgil, whose eyebrows remained locked in an upward position. He hadn’t yet been able to put all the facts together.

  “Miss Thwaite, I hoped to meet you here. Indeed, it is quite fortunate that I could meet the both—that is, the three of you, counting the goulash, in one place at the same time. I have been, and to make a little joke—drumroll please. You will see why the drumroll is thematically appropriate soon, assigned to the special division of circus crimes.” He cleared his throat and pulled out a napkin. He was the single person Alethea might have expected to always have a napkin ready to dab his mouth with. Then he leaned back in his seat, looking between the both of them.

  “Now, many people ask me, ‘Agent Westley, is a special division only for circus crimes a factual necessity?’ To which I answer, ‘Yes it is.’” He put down the napkin and smiled. “You see, thanks to my experience and hard work, I have achieved what few others have achieved before me, and my hope is that this organizational body that I founded will finally give us the tools required to curb any and all criminal acts surrounding the circus business and restore and rejuvenate the image that the ordinary American citizen has of circus troupes and related professions.”

  He turned back to eating, and spoke between gulps. “And in this current case, I would like to invite you to help the investigation once again, Miss Thwaite. I think you have proven yourself to be a valuable asset, and I would enjoy working with you again. We have a lot of work on our hands. The circumstances surrounding the murder of Mr. Selby are difficult in that there are a lot of potential witnesses and suspects, and so we are already overburdened with the investigation as is. An influx of amateur investigators has only served to overcomplicate the situation further. We require someone trustworthy, someone local to the community, with experience, connections, and communication expertise. That is where you come in, Miss Thwaite.” In time with finishing his sales pitch, his plate was empty, and he neatly put down his spoon. “What do you say?”

  “Sounds…sounds good.” Alethea felt Virgil’s eyes on her, somehow uncomfortably so. It seemed the old man did not appreciate the sudden intrusion, but there wasn’t anything they could do, either way. “It’s really such a surprise that you’re here, Agent Westley,” she stated the obvious.

  “This entire situation is extremely ugly. I am happy that I could come here and be of help. And I am confident that by working together, we will be successful. The way I know you, Miss Thwaite, you already have some information that the police didn’t find yet.” He smiled, and Alethea mirrored the smile and shrugged. They could talk about the details later.

  Because Virgil’s feathers still seemed somewhat ruffled, silence was kept until the end of the meal, and Alethea asked Holden to go ahead and wait outside while she took a moment with her boss. The agent complied, of course, and promptly stepped outside with another polite bow towards both of them. It took Alethea and Virgil some time, which they mostly spent collecting dishes and washing them, before the conversation would continue. They were certain that Westley could wait a few minutes. He had calls to make and a whole circus crime unit to organize.

  “What I wanted to talk to you about,” Alethea finally said while hanging up a kitchen towel, “is this woman named Kaley. I don’t know her last name. She came to me last night and gave me a photo of the yelling guy from the Wheel of Death performance.” She watched Virgil intently. “Do you know anything about her?”

  “Kaley.” He repeated the name, as if hearing it out of his own mouth might help him remember. Before he would have to do any more brain acrobatics, Alethea took out her cell phone and showed him the selfie. In silence, and with a serious expression, Virgil looked at it. “I’ve seen her before. I think she’s been…around.” He gave Alethea her phone back and raised his eyebrow. “How is she involved?”

  “I’m not sure yet. It’s just that she’s suspicious. The man who yelled out, his name is Elias. He’s not one of the saboteurs, by the way.” She was already halfway out the door now, her hand on the handle behind her back. “The things he said made me think.” She waved good-bye. “But I’m going to look into some other stuff for now, I suppose. See you soon, Virgil.”

  “Good luck,” the old man said in a low voice. “We’re all relying on you.”

  Outside, Holden Westley was waiting at a respectful distance, so as not to give the impression that he had been listening in. His hands were behind his back, always looking the part of an impeccably groomed gentleman. When Alethea looked at him now he seemed less like a federal agent and more like a newly rich adventurer—someone who was not bound but stood apart from the rules that bound others. She wondered if he had changed, or just her perception of him.

  “It’s good you’re here, Agent Westley. Now I can believe that we will find the people responsible and limit the damage to this festival,” she told him with a smile. “So where would you like to start? We can walk together. You talk first, and then I’ll tell you what I know that the police doesn’t.” Her expression became mischievous.

  “Again, I h
ope that your trust is well-placed, Miss Thwaite.” He made a ceremonious gesture with his left, indicating that they should walk in the direction of Circus Pandemonium. “As I said, we have a lot of suspects.” He threw her a glance. “But something tells me sifting through that might not be your primary interest. Perhaps we could investigate the scene together. I did not have the chance yet, and last time you proved to have a good eye.”

  “That sounds good to me, Agent Westley.”

  They took their time walking, because they wanted to bring each other up to speed before arriving at their destination. Since the grounds were empty and the weather was sunny, it felt like a walk through the park. Seeing everything mostly deserted was an interesting experience, such a contrast to the usual bustling activity it overflowed with, the masses of people slowly wandering around.

  “You should have been here before. The difference is incredible. It’s…it’s terrible what happened. The spreading waves of one vile act…ruining so much.” Alethea bit her lip. “It feels like a lesson in the hole that one person can leave behind.” She offered a sad smile. “So, is there anything important you have found?”

  “I believe not, Miss Thwaite. Sadly, I have no great insights to report. As for the details of Obed Selby’s death, we found evidence that he died through suffocation brought on by poisoning, possibly through the coating of his sword with a contact poison.” He cleared his throat. “And yes, this is why we work so hard to bring the criminal to justice, to ensure peaceful existence within society.”

  After looking at her for a long moment, perhaps to gauge her reaction to such a sweeping statement, he continued, “The poison could be a very helpful lead as soon as we are able to identify it. As you might already know, there are no witnesses so far.” He slowly shook his head. “Why are there never any witnesses?” Something told Alethea that if she knew how to answer his rhetorical question, her world would never be the same again. “We have a lot of people who talk to us about circus rivalries and sabotage, but I personally must say that I do not believe this murder is part of a circus gang war.”

  “But what do you think about the sabotage? Do you think the same people who caused the other incidents did this, too?” The answer had been clear to her before Virgil had sown the seeds of doubt in her mind. As it was, especially in conjunction with the Kaley thing, things seemed less cut-and-dry.

  “It’s too early to say. We cannot exclude or explicitly include such connections. From what I know about the other acts of sabotage, it seems dissimilar. After all, this was clearly premeditated murder, not a manipulation of equipment that has the potential to endanger lives. Furthermore, it did not happen publicly, but was rather well concealed.” He emphasized his words with a nod, and as always, he made a lot of sense to Alethea.

  “It will probably shed a lot of light on everything when the saboteurs are found. If they’re found.” One look at Holden’s face told her that it did not look very good in that direction, potentially worse than the murder investigation itself—unless they were the same investigation, of course. She coughed lightly. “Anyway, about that other thing. What I know that the police might not….”

  The rest of the way to Obed’s trailer, she told him the story of her investigation of what happened during the Wheel of Death. She mentioned the man named Elias, who she believed was innocent, and Kaley, who she found suspicious.

  Chapter VIII

  Obed had lived alone in a trailer small enough to rival the ancient heirloom that the strongman, Cliff Bruce, was living in. It was full of things, and everything seemed to precariously balance on top of something else. It was obvious why searching the place had not been an easy task. The sword-swallower had, at least, stored his equipment elsewhere, which was lucky for the investigators. Alethea and Holden aimlessly searched through the trailer, a bit unsure of what they might find or what they were searching for, but vaguely confident that something would turn up.

  “I’m impressed that anyone managed to live in here,” Alethea said with a shiver in her voice. Her first instinct had been to take a big black evidence bag and toss out about ninety percent of the trailer’s contents, just to give both of them some breathing room. Obed certainly hadn’t been very concerned with cleanliness, order, or the throwing away of things. “And I understand why this place hasn’t been fully searched yet.”

  “Miss Thwaite, even if some of my colleagues have a good laugh behind our backs, there is no reason to let our courage sink. There must be something here, and we will show them up.” Holden had already lost his jacket and rolled up his sleeves; he was digging through things with a systematic fervor, if one could call it that. He worked fast, put everything back, and then moved on.

  Alethea was slower because she was much more careful about what she was putting her hands in. Her current project was to dig out some of the drawers to look through their entrails. Besides trash, all kinds of empty containers, and stacks of paper, Obed possessed a remarkable amount of books. Most of them covered rather esoteric topics, like the one on the Celts she currently had in her hand.

  The book looked antiquated but beautiful and well-made, with an engraved leather cover leather. “Here’s a book on the Celts,” she informed Holden. She wasn’t sure why, maybe because it kept her from working through more useless stuff. “I really wish I’d find something more substantial.” She idly leafed through the pages, until, for a fraction of a second, she saw something that stopped her breath. Quickly turning back the pages until she saw it again, she furrowed her brow.

  It was the crimson glyph. The chapter of the book was on Celtic astronomy and related symbols, and apparently this sign was related to some celestial configuration. More than that, a note was attached to it, with a single word scribbled on it. “Paliakaltsa,” Alethea said out loud. She heard a crash behind her, and quickly turned around to Holden.

  “Forgive my clumsiness,” he breathlessly said as he knelt down. He had apparently tipped over a glass container, which had fallen on the ground and broken there. The fluid inside filled the room with an alcoholic smell while Holden had taken out a handkerchief and tried to limit the spread. In the middle of his task, he suddenly paused and stared at the ground.

  “What is it?” Alethea came closer, her curiosity awakened, with the book still in her hand. She squatted down next to him, following his eyes. In the ground, barely visible to the naked eye, was a gap. The only reason why either of them could have spotted it was because the alcohol had swept some dirt away and was now also slowly dripping through it.

  “A secret compartment!” they both said at once. Only a small part of it was visible now, with the rest covered in wet papers soaking in the liquor, but that was nothing a quick shove couldn’t solve. With more probing, they found that there was a perfectly square removable piece of the floor, and Holden Westley produced a Swiss Army knife—Alethea wasn’t surprised—which he used to pry it open and put it aside. To their dismay, there was a secondary barrier in the form of a grey lockbox.

  “I know that Selby’s pockets were empty. The key must be here somewhere,” Westley claimed. They looked around while scratching their heads. Clearly, there was no easy way to do this, and so they had to use the hard way. This time, Alethea actually took a garbage bag from Selby’s own rarely touched supply, and gave another to Holden. They sifted through his belongings, searching for a spot that might be likely to hold keys or something that could be used to pick the lock. Alethea slowly lost track of time as they were shifting mass around from one end of the trailer to the other. They ended up taking a break at some point, stepping outside to stretch their tired bones and rethink the decisions that led them to that point in their lives.

  “This damn box. Where did that guy hide his key?!” Looking to the heavens, Alethea aired her frustration. Holden looked apologetic, but did not say anything. It would probably have been the wrong thing, anyway. Meanwhile, the box was sitting inside on the stove, one of the few places where even Obed hadn’t stacked countless
amounts of random objects. Unable to truly relax or wait, Alethea went back inside to take a closer look at the lockbox. She had not done so before, and figured that maybe she could glean something from it.

  Defiant to the end, the box simply sat there, looking like any other box of its kind. It was unremarkable. Grabbing the box, Alethea shook it, looked at it from all sides, and then put it down again. Then, for no real reason at all, she tried opening it. The top of the box suddenly snapped open. Apparently, it wasn’t really locked but was held closed by a snap mechanism. A look of pure, speechless terror appeared on Alethea’s face.

  “Agent Westley, tell me one thing.”

  Westley, not suspecting anything, appeared in the open door and peered up at Alethea’s back. “Yes, Miss Thwaite?” He sounded so innocent and naïve to her ears. She turned around with a deathly stare, and he took an instinctive step backwards. For a short moment, both forget who they were—official status played no role in such a moment.

  “Did you actually try opening it…without a key?”

  Alethea smiled, but her eyes were cold. That look of terror, as if had leapt from one face to another, showed up again in Holden’s expression. He swallowed heavily and shook his head. “It…I suppose it didn’t occur to me,” he defended himself. “A lockbox that is not locked…just does not make sense.”

  She had a thousand answers for him, but vouched to keep her silence after taking a few good, deep breaths. Holden came in and looked at her with a hopeful smile, and then she set down the opened box and they both started looking at the contents. A first glance revealed little. There was no bottle of poison or anything flashy. It was mainly papers and notes. Nonetheless, for some reason Obed had deemed the contents of the box sensitive enough to hide them in a lockbox under his floor instead of just scattering them anywhere, which actually might have proven more effective.