Calamity at the Carnival Read online

  "King Harold." I lowered the bucket to use as a shield between us. "Nice to see you." I hoped the bird didn't hear the nervous tremor in my voice. I reached into the bucket. "How about I give you the last bits of grain and then you let me walk, without incident, back to the gate?"

  King Harold stared at me with laser beam eyes. He seemed to be contemplating my offer.

  I smiled politely and tossed the broken bits of corn his direction, then I walked a wide berth around him. He ignored the food and raced after me like a rabid beast.

  I screamed and raced toward the gate. The latch was stuck. I turned around and threw the bucket at King Harold. He easily dodged it and lunged toward me, claws in the air. The gate latch finally opened. I slipped through and shut the gate hard behind me. I turned around to stick my tongue out at the King before spinning triumphantly back to the outside gate.

  Jackson was just putting away his phone.

  "Did you just film that?" I asked.

  His mouth slanted into a sly smile. "Maybe." He pulled a note out of his pocket. "Found this in the barn. It's from Emily." He unfolded it and read it aloud. "Be careful when you go into the chicken yard. I put King Harold in with the hens."

  "My sister—always thinks of everything," I said with a head shake. I glanced back at the chicken yard. King Harold was strutting along the chicken coop wire with his bright red comb held high like a crown.

  "I think he won that round," Jackson noted.

  "Yes. I think his royal title has gone to his head." I sighed. "The next three days should be quite the adventure."

  Chapter 3

  The week long carnival had been set up on a vast expanse of land just off Butternut Crest between Firefly Junction and Hickory Flats. It butted up against a wilderness park area that offered hook-ups and restrooms for travelers. The vacation spot was filled with motorhomes, large box trucks and three eighteen wheelers, two that were flatbeds, and each showcasing the Stockton Carnival logo on their cabs. A group of tents had been propped up on a section of grass outside the park bathrooms.

  "That is not an easy lifestyle," I said. "Living in trailers and showering in park restrooms. Then there's the whole packing up and moving every few weeks. I hate the task of putting groceries away. I can't imagine having to pack up an entire carnival just to pull everything back off the truck a few days later."

  "I don't know—" Jackson said. "As a kid, I dreamt of living the life of a traveling carnie." We headed toward the entrance. "Going from place to place, eating nothing but fried, sugary junk food with no one telling you what to do."

  I laughed. "If the employees eat only carnival food, then I'd say the life expectancy of a carnie is thirty, thirty-five at the most."

  Jackson paid the admission fee and we walked under the big sign boasting that we were entering what was once voted 'the number one traveling carnival'. I wondered exactly what year that vote was cast. It was easy to see that at one point in time the Stockton Traveling Carnival had been a vibrant, lively collection of tents, neon lit game booths, inviting food kiosks and thrilling rides. But the teal and pink striped canvas on the tents and awnings had faded to a dull blue and washed-out rose color. Neon signs with sporadic broken light bulbs towered over booths that were all sadly in need of more paint . . . or at the very least—less rust. The obligatory ride with the long octopus arms that floated up and down while spinning screaming riders into a wave of nausea looked particularly rickety and made a terrible screeching sound as it lifted its tentacles into the air.

  It was Sunday, and the first full day for the carnival. The kids in Firefly Junction and the surrounding towns were on spring break, and considering the crowds swarming the booths and rides, it seemed the carnival owner was going to make a nice profit, despite the shabbiness.

  Jackson stopped and stared up at the Ferris wheel that was slowly filling up with riders. "My friends and I used to really like this ride. Looks much smaller now."

  "Ferris wheel, eh? I pegged you more as the hammerhead kind of guy, much more dangerous and scary. You know the kind of ride that makes you think you're going to pass out or puke or both." I squinted up to the top of the wheel where a teenage boy was rocking the bucket just enough to make his female riding mate scream with terror. She clutched at him in fear.

  Jackson winked at me. "That's why we favored the Ferris wheel. I see old traditions never die."

  We continued on. I took hold of his arm. "You don't expect me to believe that Brady Jackson had to resort to scare tactics to get girls to cling to him."

  "Occasionally, but only when a snap of my fingers failed," he said wryly. He stopped at a basketball throw where the grand prize was a plastic blow up alien. "I used to be pretty good at this game. Shall I win you an alien? Or are you more the fuzzy unicorn type?" He pointed across to the baseball toss where a thin kid in a pink and teal striped shirt was using a megaphone to draw customers to his booth. Even the striped uniforms of the carnies looked as if they were from a bygone era, one where laundry was scrubbed on a washboard.

  "Baseball is also a specialty of mine," Jackson boasted.

  "Oh really? Well, I'm pretty darn good at it too. Maybe I should win you a fuzzy unicorn," I suggested.

  "That's right, you were a softball star in high school. Do you think you can knock down all the bottles with one pitch?" he asked.

  "Haven't played in a few years but I think I've still got it." We headed toward the baseball game. We passed the dark green tent that boasted ten dollars for a palm reading and fifteen for a look into Madame Cherise's crystal ball. It was situated right next to the baseball game. I briefly wondered if Raine knew Madame Cherise. I knew there was somewhat of a network where psychics could exchange ideas and set prices for certain skills. Even though she owned one, Raine had always poo-pooed the crystal ball as a 'charlatan's tool', all for show but with no real powers. I myself had always been a stalwart skeptic about things like palm readings and talking to the spirit world, until I'd found myself having regular conversations and arguments with a ghost. My best friend, Raine, had proven hers skills more than once with her uncanny predictions. And, while she'd never conjured or spoken with Edward, even when he was sitting in the same room, she always seemed to sense when he was near. Inexplicably, Jackson seemed to have the same sixth sense when it came to Edward. I wasn't sure why, but I'd gotten fairly practiced at making excuses for unexplained events.

  As we strolled past the fortune teller's tent, the flaps fluttered open, and a man with dark hair, gray sideburns and a thick moustache practically stumbled out of the tent wearing a broad, satisfied smile. The scent of incense followed behind him. He was in a blue t-shirt but his cap matched the teal and pink stripes on the tents.

  The man's smile was still stuck on his face as he squinted and pointed at Jackson. "Detective Jackson, right?" He walked right toward us with hand outstretched. As he neared, the scent of a woman's perfume mingled with the smell of incense lingering on his shirt.

  Jackson stuck out his hand. "Yes, Mr. Stockton, good to see you."

  "Please, call me, Carson. And be sure to thank Chief Walker for sending extra patrols around at night. They'll be a big help for keeping troublemakers from hanging around the place after the carnival closes down for the evening."

  "That's good to hear. I'll let him know." Jackson looked at me. "Carson, this is my girlfriend, Sunni Taylor. She's a journalist for the Junction Times. Sunni, Carson Stockton is the owner of the carnival."

  Carson chuckled. "I suppose if you're a reporter, you've already figured that out since it's called the Stockton Traveling Carnival."

  "I wondered if it was just coincidence." I shook his hand and glanced behind him at the psychic's tent. "Good news or bad?" I asked.

  Both men looked at me in confusion.

  "Your fortune?" I added. "We noticed you were coming out of Madame Cherise's tent."

  "Oh, right." A dark pink blush covered his neck and headed toward his face. "Yes, well, that was just carnival business."
He placed a friendly hand against Jackson's arm. "You'll have to stop by the cotton candy kiosk. Ivonne will want to say hello."

  Jackson laughed. "You've got her making cotton candy, eh?"

  Carson's thick brow arched, and he leaned closer. "She's not happy about it either, but the usual girl is on maternity leave. Not many people know how to make the cotton candy correctly. It's a lost art—as they say." He glanced at his watch. "I've got to get over to the stage. They'll be announcing the name of the carnival queen soon, and I need to make sure the decorations are ready. Nice seeing you."

  He hurried off toward a portable stage that was being decked out with gold balloons and silver paper stars.

  "I take it Ivonne is Carson's wife?" I asked.

  "Yes, they've been running the carnival together for twenty years. They got married young. Carson inherited it from his dad." Something had caught Jackson's attention over my shoulder. "Raine's walking this way with one of those deep fried cupcakes on a stick."

  I spun around. Sure enough, Raine was sweeping through the crowd in one of her long, colorful skirts and a pink and yellow head scarf. Her bangles glistened in the sunlight as she lifted the fried cupcake to her mouth and took a bite.

  She headed straight toward us. "Who knew you could deep fry a cupcake. It sort of tastes like an extreme donut. Not that I've ever had or even know what an extreme donut is, but I think this would qualify." She scrunched her nose. "I'm sure I'm going to regret this later." She lowered her lump of fried dough. "Didn't think I'd see you here, what with this morning's incident and all. Poor Lana. I warned her she might fall and hurt herself."

  My eyes widened. "You predicted her fall off the stepladder?"

  "Huh? No. I'm just always telling her to watch out. She spends so much time on ladders—it doesn't take a psychic to predict a high possibility of falling. Guess we're both going to have to pitch in for the party next weekend. Hey, Jax." Raine finally took a moment to actually greet us. She tended to do the same thing on the phone—just spin past the hello and right into whatever was on her mind. And with Raine, that could be a wide range of topics. She elbowed Jackson and winked. "Are you two heading over to the Lovers' Lane ride? It's as corny as ever. I went on it alone," she said without one ounce of self-pity. The opposite, in fact. Raine had told me more than once that she just didn't have the patience or attention span for a boyfriend.

  Jackson grinned down at me. "Forgot all about the Lovers' Lane ride."

  "I'm sure it's as romantic as a trip to the grocery store. Where are you heading?" I asked Raine.

  She pointed back over her shoulder. "I'm here to see my friend, Cherise Duvay. Actually, we're just casual acquaintances, but I always make a point of dropping in on her crystal ball world." Raine mimed a crystal ball reader by dragging her hand around an invisible sphere. She ended the act with an eye roll. "Cherise is not exactly what one would call a top of the line psychic," she said in a low voice.

  Jackson started to laugh but quickly and wisely stifled it.

  "I wondered if you two might know each other. I know how you like to network with other psychics," I said. "We won't keep you. There was mention of cotton candy earlier and after standing here, staring at your lump of fried dough, my taste buds are craving sugar."

  "I'll see you later at Lana's. She mentioned something about filling goodie bags." Raine waved her stick of cupcake and swished away toward Madame Cherise's tent.

  Jackson and I followed the distinct fragrance of fluffy sugar to the cotton candy booth.

  "Sometimes I wonder how you and Raine became such close friends. The two of you have nothing in common," Jackson noted.

  I smiled up at him. "Exactly. Why would I want to hang out with someone like me? Raine is colorful and fun. Life's never dull around her."

  Jackson put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me against his side. "Interesting. Those are the exact reasons I like to hang around you."

  "Oh really? Are those the only reasons?" I asked, peering up at him with a bat of my eyelashes.

  "There are some other nice perks, but you get the gist." He lowered his arm and fished his wallet from his pocket. "Do you want pink or blue cotton candy? Because I'll be happy to kiss those lips wearing either color."

  "Well then, blue it is," I said.

  A woman with thick auburn hair tucked under a hairnet was leaned over a large metal vat circling a white paper cone around the perimeter. Gossamer strands of runaway cotton candy clung to her white apron, her arms and even her chin. Her face was pink and beads of perspiration dotted her forehead. She had lovely green eyes, which lit up like stars when she spotted Jackson looming over the cotton candy stand.

  "Detective Jackson," she chirruped and then swiped at a strand of cotton candy that flew past her face. She held up a half-covered paper cone. "As you see, I've been saddled with the cotton candy booth for the day." She afforded me a half-smile. I nodded my hello, deciding that was the most a half smile deserved. She stopped the machine for a moment and wiped her hands on a wet cloth. Feathery strings of sugar floated through the air as if the entire booth defied gravity. The weightless sugar was everywhere. I wondered how long she'd have to stand in the shower just to get rid of the stickiness.

  "Ivonne, this is my girlfriend, Sunni," Jackson said.

  This time the smile was a little more than half. "Nice to meet you. I'd shake your hand but then we'd be glued together for the rest of the day." She took a step and looked down at her feet. "I might even have to throw away my shoes after this stint." She smiled (a whole one) up at Jackson. "Have you seen Carson yet?"

  "Yes, actually we have," Jackson said. "We spotted him coming out of the—" Jackson paused and restarted. "He was heading over to make sure the stage was set for the crowning ceremony."

  "Then I guess he forgot all about the paper cones I asked him to bring," Ivonne said somewhat angrily. "That man can't remember anything. Oh well. Did you want some cotton candy?" She grinned. "Made it myself."

  "Yes, a blue one please." Jackson pulled the money from his wallet.

  Ivonne handed me a blue cotton candy. Jackson paid and said his goodbye. We turned and headed back toward the game area.

  "I'm curious," I said over a quick nibble of cotton candy. "What made you hesitate back there? You were about to mention you saw her husband coming out of Cherise's tent, but you stopped and, as my phone would say, rerouted. Did it have anything to do with the perfume smell and satisfied grin Carson Stockton was wearing when he stumbled out of the fortune teller's tent?"

  Jackson reached for a pinch of the sugar. "And that's why you are an awesome journalist, Bluebird. You never miss a note."

  Chapter 4

  It quickly dawned on me that the announcement of the Spring Fair Queen was not a surprise or highly anticipated contest where people waited to hear who had won the coveted rhinestone crown. A statuesque girl, with long brown bangs hanging over almond shaped blue eyes, stood near the stage, being admired and adored by a group of friends. Her makeup looked professionally done, although anyone's makeup looked professional next to my haphazard slashes of mascara and dots of blush, so what did I know.

  Carnival goers were starting to fill the metal fold-up chairs that had been set in semi-circles around the stage. A grandly decorated throne, a carpenter's attempt at a regal seat, sat in the center of the stage waiting for its royal bottom.

  Jackson and I decided to stand behind the rows of seats to get a glimpse of the ceremony.

  He leaned his head so I could hear him over the excited murmur coming from the audience. "Were you ever a homecoming or prom queen?" he asked from the side of his mouth.

  I couldn't stifle a laugh. I glanced up at him. "Oh, you were serious with that question. Sorry. Thought you were being facetious. I was more the most valuable player type. Emily was the queen of her prom, of course," I added. "Although, she never really liked the notoriety. But frankly, she was born for the role."

  "I wish I'd seen you play ball. I'll bet you w
ere pretty formidable on that pitching mound."

  I nodded. "I did notice the occasional batter walking toward the box with a quivering bottom lip. I'll win you that unicorn after this."

  Carson Stockton had changed into a dress shirt and teal blue coat and tie, but he was still wearing the same faded jeans we'd seen him in earlier. He spoke into the microphone a few times before sound blurted out, along with an ear piercing whistle.

  Everyone's shoulders rose up in reaction to the annoying sound.

  "Why do microphones do that?" I asked wiggling my finger in my ear. "Is it some kind of requirement in the microphone rules of engagement handbook?"

  Jackson laughed. "No, I think it's just really old equipment and a squirt of feedback."

  I leaned my head so it rested against his arm. "I've deduced that the queen already knows she's got this thing in the bag. I see a very confident, young woman with the haughty air of nobility standing off to the side of the stage."

  "Not exactly sure how they pick the queen, but yes, that girl does seem to know the crown is already hers."

  Just then, a tall, dark haired man wearing a neon pink shirt emblazoned with Wright Electric joined the group of girls. The future queen's face lit up, and she threw her arms around him.

  "Looks like Prince Charming just arrived in the traditional neon pink t-shirt," I noted.

  "That's not Prince Charming, but his family does have a nice stash of money. They own Wright Electric, a very successful company. The future queen must be his girlfriend. The founder of the company, Sutton senior, died about five years ago, an accidental electrocution on the job. There was a big story about it going around town. Apparently, Sutton senior always wore a lucky hat on the job, and the day he died, he couldn't find it."

  I peered up at Jackson. "They think he died because he couldn't find his lucky hat?"