From Darkness to Death

Chapter 1

Hawk

The golden pastry crumbled under the light pressure of my fork. Sticky caramel and apple goo bubbled from the edges. The extraordinary thing about Jessie's pies wasn't the perfectly golden crust or the thick, delicious paste of juice cooked from the apples or even the sweet caramel. It was the apples. I don't know how she baked those pies so tender and juicy and impossible to eat without a cup of strong coffee to cut through the rich flavor yet still managed to turn out crisp apples inside, but she did it.

The woman was a miracle worker with pastry. She wasn't all that hard on the eyes either. I didn't mind the slight crinkle in the corners of her eyes when she smiled or that her hair was the brassiest red in the entire county. Hell, a little color was a welcome sight. For as long as I'd been in this town, we'd been without the varied shades of spring and summer or anything that wasn't the drab color of blown dirt.

Jessie kept a spotless diner, and for a bachelor like me, she was the closest thing to a good woman waiting with a hot meal on the table at the end of the day that I'd ever get.

Cerulean eyes twinkled at me. You gonna eat that pie Hamm or just stare at it all night?

Half the joy of eating dessert is anticipation. I could never resist winking at her. It made her cheeks pink enough to clash with that red hair of hers. She hated it, too, threatened on a fairly regular basis to go down to the five and dime and get some of that hair dye that the cheap women in the world used.

Just you wait, Hammond Hawkins. Next time you come in here, I'll be one of them raven haired beauties you boys can't resist.

She said it at least twice a week — usually after I said something that embarrassed the dickens out of the poor girl. I had a great big soft spot for her, even though she was a good many years my senior, at least according to her. She sure didn't look it to me. Reminding her that I certainly didn't find her too old for my tastes sent her apple-cheeks into scalding flames.

I scooped the first bite of pie onto my fork while she topped off my coffee — using any excuse to hang around for my rumbling appreciation over another masterpiece. It was half way to my lips when the door to her diner flung open and Dicky Wilcox rushed inside. He was as red-faced as I'd ever seen him and sucking air like a man about to be overcome and drown in his own sweat.

Hawk — he paused only to pant and wheeze. Chief Melville wants you out at the fairgrounds pronto.

I come by the nickname Hawk honestly or so I'm told. Not only do I have a knack for seeing what others miss, I've been told that I look downright predatory, never more so than when somebody tells me something I don't want to hear. Wilcox had obviously been warned. His shoulders hunched close as the bulk would allow, chin creasing into three as it rolled chest-ward with an expression that spoke of lemonade without the sugar.

Melville knew damn well that I wanted no part of the so-called festivities at the fairgrounds. In the first place, it was too damned hot. Our nightly low had hovered around 90 for the past month. Anything that could grow withered up and blew away with the dirt in our Black Blizzards.

Wilcox's uniform had turned from dark blue to black in a swath down the front of his chest and in deep loops beneath the arms. The rest was covered in dust.

You run all the way into town from the fairgrounds? Dogwood Hollow wasn't a sprawling metropolis, but we weren't exactly a speck on the map either. Jessie's place was about three miles from the fairgrounds.

Tuck gave me a lift to the station.

I chuckled and sipped my coffee. Poor old Dicky couldn't even handle half a mile in the heat without looking like his ticker was on the verge of bursting. Fred knows I'm off duty tonight, Dicky. Have him call one of the other boys out there if he's run into some problem that requires our intervention.

No way Hawk. He said I was to drag you there by force if necessary. I'd rather not.

My eyebrow might've tickled my hairline, I'm not sure. It was amusing at best, probably more of an insult to my strength as a man if Melville really believed Wilcox could force me to go anywhere. I carried a revolver, after all. So what's the big emergency? Did somebody snatch the mayor's wife's purse?

That's what I do most of the time. People can't make a decent living these days. Those that haven't packed up and moved on to greener pastures have resorted to petty theft to survive. When the complaints come across my desk, I run here and there basically trying to keep the peace between good neighbors who've fallen on hard times. You mark my words. Rain'll come back one of these days. The crops will grow. President Roosevelt is doing his level best to turn the economy around. The only constant will be our friends and neighbors. If those bridges burn, folks will be well and duly hurt in the end. The rest is just temporary.

He said he'll fill you in on the particulars when you come over there, Hawk. Dicky's voice crawled an octave lower. I can tell you this much. It's surely the worst thing I ever did see. Beg pardon, sweetheart. He tipped his hat in deference to Jessie who I'd almost forgotten was still standing beside the table with a coffee pot dangling from her fist.

I shook my head. Not good enough, Dicky. I believe I'll hear the details now.

His forehead scrunched down like I'd rattled off a French poem by Baudelaire instead of asking for facts.

The particulars, Jessie said. For heaven's sake, Dicky. Can't you speak plain English?

I reckon I speak it just fine. I can't help it if Hawk talks like one o' them blasted Eastern Yankees. And beg pardon, love, but what I got to say ain't fit for a lady to hear.

His gentlemanly sensibilities prevented Dicky from saying just about anything in front of the fairer sex. I wasn't so delicate. Hell, women understand more about life and death and pain and suffering than any ten men lumped together. I figured she'd handle his news better than I would. I was the one who'd miss out on a slice of perfection in the form of dessert after all.

She perched one hand on her hip. You could at least let the man finish his dinner, Dicky. Same goes for Chief Melville. And stop callin' me those blasted pet names. I ain't your love, honey, sweetheart or doll. I swear, you've got no manners at all.

It cracked a smile through the grim expression that settled over my face. I watched Jessie disappear behind the counter. Somehow my pie seemed unimportant. Dicky was far too serious, and I figured it was a sign that I'd like his particulars even less than I appreciated the interruption of dinner.

He slid into the chair across from me. This is what I know. They got a body out there, Hawk. Now I didn't see it myself, but Fred did, and I never saw the man look so green around the gills.

Local?

Dicky's head wagged from side to side. No, he drawled. He ain't from here, Hawk. This fella's one of them performers in the show they been runnin' out there this week. He's been real popular with the kids, and that ringmaster Mr. Cymbals says the man ain't got an enemy in the world.

"By body, I'm assuming you mean a dead one."

The wag shifted gears into a bob. Doc Dunlop is already out there, Hawk. You know Dunny. Last year when Jimmy Joe Jonesy hung hisself from the old dead tree out around that curve on the way to Beaverton and had birds a' peckin' on him for three days 'til his head snapped clean off, Dunny didn't so much as flinch at the sight. No foolin'. The man's out there white as a ghost mutterin' to himself 'bout the depravity of mankind. It's real bad. Chief wouldn't have called for you if it wasn't.

I just wanted my pie. Couldn't a man get a couple hours at the end of the day for one pleasant pastime? In my case, the answer was definitely no. I pushed the plate away. Well we'd better get out there. My car's on the street. Are you heading back out with me or down to the station?

Chief wants every hand out 't the fairgrounds. Tuck's probably got every man roused from what they's doin' by now and every warm body from the station house out there to boot.

Best not keep Fred waiting. I'd hate to have him think you had to pull me out there by force. I cupped my fingers into a wave that beckoned Jessie back to the table. Be a dear and put my tab on Fred Melville's account, sweetheart. Don't forget to add a fat tip for yourself.

Dicky chuckled all the way out to the curb where my '28 Model A Coupe was parked. Chief ain't gonna find the humor in that one, Hawk. Even if I reckon he owes you for draggin' you into this. I rightly 'spect he'll be shocked to see you show up without a scrape or a fat lip. He said you want nothin' to do with our fair this year.

He's right. Would it be better for your image if I let you take a swing at me?

Hell no, Dicky chuckled. Just don't look too happy to be there once you get a load of what's goin' on out there.

That would be no stretch for my acting skills. I wanted nothing to do with this.

The town decided that after a few years of financial and weather-related misery that everyone deserved a celebration to lift folk's spirits. Problem was, nobody gets anything for free in life. Those who could afford the fair were tickled pink about the circus coming to town. For those who couldn't put enough food on the table to feed too many hungry mouths, all that celebration did was rubbed their noses in the fact that they were barely surviving. My misery throughout the hottest week in August was tenfold over any other the summer because of this nonsense.

Mostly, I anticipated that the have-nots would be going to town snatching anything that wasn't nailed down at the houses of the well-to-do all week long. I had a hard time finding any sympathy over stolen chickens or looted cellars. The folks being robbed could afford to buy more. The lack of enthusiasm about solving crimes this week surged and spilled over to this case I still didn't know enough about to care what really happened.

You's awful quiet, Hawk.

I told Melville it was a mistake bringing all these odd folks into town while times are so hard. Did he listen?

I reckon not. Folks that have been out to the shows are pleased as punch. And even the townsfolk who can't afford to go more'n once still get the parade every day.

Yeah, I muttered. The parade was nothing more than a live advertisement for the main events that cost dearly. It was a tease, another drag of poor noses through the dirt. I couldn't summon an ounce of sympathy for whoever died. To my way of seeing it, the whole mess was circus business. Let them hire somebody to find out whodunit. I didn't give a damn.

The fairgrounds were packed with more people than I expected. Quite a few families I knew couldn't spare the cash to attend were there anyway. I'd have to take a closer look at any theft complaints first thing in the morning. Maybe they weren't all so benign after all.

I parked my aging car — a luxury indulgence purchased exactly one year before the crash in '29 — and followed Dicky around large tents. The ground was covered with mounds of golden hay. Puddles littered various places. We hadn't seen a drop of rain in ages. The stench of ammonia told me it wasn't water polluting our parched ground.

Behind the tents were more tents. I assumed it was where the performers stayed when they weren't entertaining the masses. Everything was brightly colored — reds, yellows, oranges. I was so used to living in a brown and gray world that it startled me a little bit to see the vivid colors that not even dim torchlight could mute.

Several train cars were behind the tents that housed performers. Some were open cages, no doubt for the safari of animals hauled from town to town. Others were painted in bright colors with fancy images of performers, men with whips and exotic animals, barely dressed women with slanting, come-hither eyes and large print announcing that the event of a lifetime was rolling into town. Come one, come all and all that nonsense.

Dicky hadn't lied about Melville. Even at a distance his skin had a green hue that reminded me of day-old pea soup even in the black of night. His arms waved wildly. The recipient of his impassioned speech wore white knee britches and gleaming black boots. His coat was deep red. He had a top hat tucked under one arm and mopped his brow with a white handkerchief. Doc Dunlop — or simply Dunny as he was known around town — was nowhere to be seen.

I perched my fedora on my head, pulled low enough to shield my eyes while not impairing what I could observe. Dust coated the cuffs of my suit pants. The middle button on my suit was fastened. Half my job was looking officious enough to scare people into understanding that I meant business. If that meant adopting the style of the creeps breaking laws left and right in big cities, so be it. Besides, my mother had seen to it that the adage about the clothes making the man was ingrained long before adulthood.

Melville saw me approaching.

This is my most experienced detective. Hammond Hawkins, this is the ringmaster, Mr. Cymbals. Truth was, I was his only detective.

I ignored the outstretched hand and pulled pen and paper from my breast pocket. So what's the all fired rush to get me out here? My shift was done three hours ago, Fred.

The ringmaster's scowl could've peeled the paint off his fancy train cars. I'll have you know that one of my people has been murdered. I demand —

Whoa there, Cymbals or whatever your real name is, I interrupted with every ounce of irritation I felt. It isn't murder until I say it is.

I'm afraid Dunny has already determined that this man's death was no accident, Hawk, Melville said.

Where's the body? It wouldn't do me any good to argue with Melville. He was acting every bit the politician he was at the moment. Ringmaster Cymbals was on the verge of apoplexy from the look of it. If he dropped dead at my feet at least I wouldn't need Dunny stepping into my job and pronouncing a damn thing before I could reason with him.

Over there, Melville pointed with a trembling finger. Behind that red tent yonder, Hawk. I'm warnin' you — it ain't a pretty sight.

We'll see. Wait here with Cymbals. Have the men keep everyone out here. I don't want to spend the rest of my life tracking down anyone who might've seen this so-called murder take place.

I trudged off in the direction of the red tent. Dunny was around the corner sucking on a cigarette like his life depended on it.

Fred ignored me of course and followed ten paces behind.

Glad you're here, Hawk. Hell of a thing.

You're sure it's murder?

This ain't no accident. You'll see. His gaze fell onto a body slumped over a rain barrel, the face resting just out of sight in the barrel. Wisps of sable hair clung to waterlogged clothing.

Well are you gonna stand there smoking all night or do you plan to show me this tragic and wrongful death?

Dunlop pulled the shoulders back out of the rain barrel. On average it takes a hell of a lot to push my gut into revolt. It was probably the most disgusting sight I'd ever seen. The guy was a clown. That alone put me on edge. When I saw his face half torn away from his skull I had to turn my head.

I sucked the dry hot air in my lungs. It was saturated with the fetid stench of animal waste and human sweat.

You see what I'm saying Hawk? This ain't natural causes.

No shit. One eyeball hung from a shattered socket. In spite of the sagging skin, torn muscle and shattered bone, I could still make out the swollen bulge at his temple. It was a hue between red and purple with an odd mottled cast webbed around it.

I pointed. Is that what killed him?

Dunlop pushed his spectacles up from the pointed tip of his nose with his free hand. He grunted and dropped the body back into the bloody water. Reckon it could be. We'll get him down to my office and have a look-see just to be sure he ain't been shot or stabbed. Hell of a thing. I wonder how he got so torn up.

Dunlop and I often had questions and thoughts that overlapped into each other's turf. Sometimes it helped me. Tonight it pissed me off. He wasn't finished speculating.

What sorta deranged fella does this to a clown? They're harmless.

Sure they are. I never trusted a man in disguise, whether by name or by costume. I bit it back. Dunny could pontificate 'til the stars fell. Clowns have always been evil and always will be. You mark my words. Some genius will prove it someday.

What should we do next, Hawk?

Like I said. The Fred Melville I'd come to know hadn't ever thought like a cop.

One of my shoulders bunched into a knot. No way did one of our own do this. Best thing we could do is run them out of town. It's a circus matter. Let them deal with it.

Fred's perpetual wad of tobacco lodged in his throat. I wasn't sure if choking turned his face purple or my suggestion. He hacked once before Dunny smacked a withered claw between his shoulder blades. Tar and phlegm flew out of his mouth and missed my mutilated clown by a fraction of an inch.

Hamm you ain't serious. We can't send these people off without answers. And you can't say for sure that a local didn't do this.

I guess you'll have to get one of your other men on the case. This isn't for me.

The devil I will. I'm givin' you a direct order. Detective Hawkins, you'll solve this case or by God I'll keep these people here until you do.

Bluster wasn't gonna work this time. Then I guess we'll have some interesting new faces around town. Don't know how you plan to stop them from moving on, though, Fred.

Do you want me to fire you?

It might be the only way to get my slice of pie in peace. If he fired me, I'd be in the same boat as every other poor unemployed stiff in town. It was what Melville thought, what I needed him to believe.

You're not firing anybody tonight, Fred. To my way of seeing this, it still could've been an accident. What kind of animals do these oddballs cart around the countryside? I bet one of their big cats could've ripped that guy's face half off.

That don't explain how he ended up face down in a barrel of water, Hamm.

I glared at Melville. He would pick now to start thinking like a cop. I dug my heels in a little harder. "We won't know that until Dunny gets him over to the office and looks at what we've got. In the meantime, I'm gonna treat this like the accident I suspect it is. Your men can collect names of the townsfolk so I can talk to everybody if need be. I assume Mr. Cymbals will cooperate making his people available."

I'd suggest you get an earlier start, Hawk. Take a look around the place before you duck out tonight, Fred said. His words suggested. The tone was a direct order.

I scowled but nodded assent.

Chapter 2

Mila

I was hardly what anyone considered top billing for performances at the circus. In fact, mine was a small tent among others selling more personalized shows to the public turning up at fairgrounds all over the United States.

The flap on the tent still opened and closed so frequently before and after the main show that it was enough to make me cry myself to sleep every night.

Cymbals — a man those who worked for him knew by his real name, Josiah Edwards — was more than eager to hire me to replace my predecessor. Try as I might, I couldn't get anyone to tell me what happened to the previous psychic whose tent I now occupied. All I knew for certain was that his friends called him Mykos. Nobody was big on using their real names. They were less eager to divulge anything of a personal nature at all — specifically, anything that related to life before their acts were born.

For that much, I was grateful. I had many questions but was determined to never answer those asked of me.

Josiah poked his head inside my tent. How's it going tonight, Mila?

I shrugged. Lots of people wanting to know their fortune, their future, if the end to their misery is just around the bend in life's road.

He grinned at me, a mere glimmer that lasted half a second before it faded. We need to speak as soon as the final show is finished tonight.

Have I done something wrong? Let me guess — the woman with the gaudy jewels complained about my reading.

Nothing like that at all, Mila. All of our guests adore you. No, I'm afraid I've got some sobering and tragic news that I must share with the troupe before night's end. We'll decide together as we do all things — where to go, what to do and when we will depart this place.

All right.

It's a horrible event, I'm afraid. I fear we'll lose people tonight. I hope that I may count upon your loyalty, even though you've been with us so few weeks, Mila.

I shrugged. What could I say to reassure him? I came for answers, not to use my so-called gifts for profit. I never spoke the truth to anyone who entered my tent anyway. No one really wanted to hear the events I foresaw naturally. My eyes zeroed in on Josiah. His future flickered on the backs of my eyelids: an old man, sitting in a rocking chair that creaked long before finally coming to rest, slipped peacefully into the next life. His pipe dropped to the floor beside him, the coals popping out of the bowl and smoldering briefly before dying too. Josiah got a better end than most I saw.

What is it? he asked.

Nothing. I'm tired from all the fortunes. I forced a smile that didn't come close to reaching my eyes. It is curious how these poor souls who cannot afford to feed their families find the money to come seek a glimpse into the future, yes?

Thank God they do, Mila. Without them, we would be hungrier than they are. Anyway — you've got another line forming. The last show should be done within an hour. See to it that you're closed for business by then. We'll meet in the main tent just as soon as the crowd disperses.

The next customer stepped through the canvass flap. He had to duck to enter. I stared at the dark hat he held in his hands. My flesh crawled. Something in me recoiled away from the aura that surrounded him.

The words were automatic. Please... be seated. What questions can I answer for you tonight?

The stranger's mouth slanted downward. I'm not here for a —

My hand extended to him, though I couldn't explain why. I hated touching people — all people. I could sense too much with casual exposure, like what I experienced with Josiah not two minutes ago. What was even more inexplicable was that in spite of his unfriendly eyes and a twisted down mouth, he clasped my hand.

Cheap gold bracelets jangled and drowned out the gasp when I jerked my hand out of his grip. I usually saw the end of life. What flashed through my mind went far beyond simple demise, to a moment of pain and misfortune he survived. If it could be called survival. I shuddered. There was nothing warm or inviting in the cold steel eyes staring down at me. Sadly, I understood why.

You're Mystic Mila, correct?

I nodded. One image in particular wasn't drifting away from my mind's eye. The tall man with jet-black hair and icy-gray eyes was dressed in a dark blue suit. Red blossomed from a gaping wound in the chest of a man lying directly below the aim of his gun. His eyes weren't so cold. In fact they almost looked like violets, sort of lavender with a hint of silver streaking through them. Tears leaked from the edges. A single whispered word echoed in my head.

Why?

It had fallen from his lips into my mind.

I'm afraid your real name will be required miss — and if you don't mind, I'd prefer that you remove your disguise while I ask a few questions.

My disguise?

He pointed at my face.

I forgot about the scarf that masked everything but my eyes. Dark kohl intensified the look. For a moment, I forgot that the scarves hid more than the rest of the mystic costume. The form-fitting underclothing didn't hide a curve on my body even though I was draped in yards of sheer fabric sheathing my bare skin and opaque clothing beneath. I wrapped my arms around my waist, naked and exposed.

Yes, the scarf. He reached for it.

I ducked out of reach. Who are you? What do you want from me?

I'm Detective Hammond Hawkins, miss.

Detective for whom? The sheer material covering my chest fluttered in wild time with my pounding heart. Dear Lord — was someone looking for me?

The Dogwood Hollow police. May I? Hawk's hand extended toward my face again. Why was he so curious?

I'd rather you didn't. You still haven't stated your business Mr. Hawkins. I'm working, in case you didn't notice the line waiting outside my tent.

I sent them away.

You have no right! If I don't make money, I don't eat.

I felt his eyes burning the sheer gauze off my body. Only one corner of his mouth slanted now. His face transformed into a demon mocking me. I stumbled backward two steps.

I doubt you'll starve from the last of our town's lost souls seeking hope being turned away. What do you tell them? When it will rain next? How much money they'll make on next year's crops? No, you probably tell them that true love lurks around every corner — all they have to do is look around to find it. Am I right?

What do you want from me?

Not a damn thing but the truth. Do you remember what that is?

The urge to tell him what I saw almost strangled me. I bit it back and tasted blood drawn from my lower lip. I swore I would never tell the future as it was revealed to me ever again. Not after what I told my brother. All bets were off where the detective's past was concerned. I'd give him a glimpse of what I could see.

"Who was the man in the cream suit? You shot him... killed him. You looked sad — not like you look now. Now you're just angry and bitter. Did you really think he could answer your question, Detective Hawkins? Why." I echoed the word he spoke in the vision.

Hawkins blinked rapidly. I don't know what kind of game you're running here, lady, but you're messing with the wrong rube.

You don't belong here anymore than I do, I shook my head slowly. When you killed the man in the white suit, it wasn't some country town. It was a city. Where was it? Chicago? New York?

Tell me about Raphael Jupiter.

I stared. Who?

Disgust snorted from the detective's nose. Is that how you people plan to play this? Fine. If you don't give a damn about who murdered one of your friends, I won't bother caring about it either.

The canvass flapped in the hot August wind in his wake. Murder? I choked on the word in the time it took me to realize the cold eyes were gone. I grabbed two fists of wispy skirt and dashed after him. Detective!

Hammond Hawkins turned in the cloud of dust around his feet. What? he snarled.

Who was murdered? Josiah's summons flitted through my mind. Surely this was the tragedy he wanted to discuss with the troupe of performers. I swear — I don't know anyone named Raphael Jupiter. Was it someone who came for his fortune to be told tonight? I perversely prayed it was a customer. It could mean that the horrors I saw were coming to an end, or were strictly my imagination.

"I believe you people called him Smiley, though my first introduction to the unfortunate fellow was less than jovial."

"Smiley — the clown?"

What is it with you people, the detective muttered. The man had a real name for crying out loud. Would it be too much trouble to know it or use it?

My spine stiffened. We respect each other enough to use the names that everyone prefers. Is that against the law Detective Hawkins?

"In the real world where people don't wear masks and hide behind costumes and scarves and fake names, it's normal to go by the name given at birth Mystic Mila. If you have a real name, I'd like to know it now."

Sarvo, I whispered. Milana Sarvo. Again, I felt naked under his hard stare.

Well at least it's a little bit of progress. Next time I talk to you, I expect you to be out of costume, Miss Sarvo. The gaze dropped to my left hand. Or is it missus?

I'm not married.

He snorted a soft indictment that I assumed was against my moral character — a single young woman traveling alone with a bunch of circus performers. What else could I be other than a woman of ill repute? I wrapped my arms around my waist again and wished I was wearing something less revealing. Conscience reminded me that there was a purpose in my job. A police detective could be helpful. Not this one. He judged with his eyes, with movements that spoke of contempt for me and everyone else in the troupe.

Hammond Hawkins acted like a man who figured Smiley the Clown got what he deserved — what all nomadic performers had coming to them. I shuddered and took keen interest in the dust on his shoes.

I don't think I can tell you anything helpful, I said. I didn't know Smiley well. I don't know anyone here well. Mr. Cymbals —

Would that be Josiah Edwards?

I nodded. He knows everyone best. Mostly we keep to ourselves.

Hawk grunted. So I've heard. I find it difficult to believe that you people work together, travel from town to town living in close quarters and all swear you know nothing about each other's personal lives.

Do you really? My eyes lifted for a direct gaze. Perhaps you judge us like the rest of the world. For that reason, we hide who we are.

I'm not even sure what that means.

Smiley was a gentle soul who would never harm anyone.

"Then you did know him."

As much as I know anyone, Detective Hawkins. My voice dipped to a low whisper. I fought to speak the words in English and not my family's native tongue. You are no different. I hide in the circus. You hide in the middle of nowhere. But you've only moved from darkness to death.

Chapter 3

Hawk

It wasn't Chicago or New York City. How the little con artist recognized me was no mystery, even if it left me feeling like I'd been cold-cocked. Milana Sarvo had to be from Philadelphia. The story was front page news for weeks. There was no other way she could've known about it. As for that last bit of nonsense, it was just that. Utter gibberish. What did that even mean? Moved from darkness to death. Absurd, that's what it was.

I shook off the feeling of unease and let my bad mood sink back into its familiar place. I had a good mind to drag Fred into the fray of misfits and outcasts and see how far he got questioning them. Josiah Edwards was cooperative up to giving his real name. After that, the man clammed up and said he'd prefer to talk to his people before I started questioning them.

That translated into one thing in my world — Edwards planned to discourage their cooperation. I overheard half his conversation with Mystic Mila. To my disgust, he asked her to stick around with the troupe and not pack up at the first sight of trouble like some of the others inevitably would. It was the polar opposite of what I wanted.

Edwards was under the big top, his booming voice floating through the dusty night air. I'd wait for him. The last thing I wanted was for this guy to tell everybody what happened to poor old Smiley before I got to gauge reactions while questioning suspects.

A clown with a sad face shuffled out of the tent and walked in front of me. My hand shot out in front of him. Hold on there, friend. Friend — in the loose greeting sort of sense, that is. The guy made my skin crawl. His face was covered in thick white grease. A large black frown bled over his lips down his chin. I could see through the makeup enough to notice that the painted expression came naturally to the guy. He scowled at me.

Get outta my way —

Detective Hawkins with the Dogwood Hollow police. I need a moment of your time.

One side of his mouth slanted farther south. He crossed his arms over his chest. What for?

How well do you know Raphael Jupiter?

The black lips split to reveal white teeth. Raphe? Why? What's he done this time?

He's not under arrest if that's what you're getting at. Has he been arrested before?

The clown shrugged one shoulder. "There was talk of theft in a couple of towns we went through this summer. People pointed fingers at Smiley the Clown. They always blame the clowns first."

And your name?

Henning, he said