Arson Takes a Dare: The Third Marisa Adair Mystery Adventure (Marisa Adair Mysteries Book 3) (12 page)

Landis darted after him. “Give me back my phone!”

The clown stopped against the building near the open double doors. He used his teeth to peel off a white glove and spat it to the ground. His big, rubber red nose followed it to the gravel. The fingers of the bare hand flew over the phone. “I deleted the video.” He triumphantly tossed the phone to the officer.

Landis shook his phone in the painted face. “It’s already viral. Deleting that video is like grabbing a drop of rain and thinking it’ll stop a torrential rain storm.”

Dreamus grunted. “Are you a philosopher, Officer Landis?”

The clown growled. He bent over, the artificial flower in his buttonhole inches from Landis’ red face. Water streamed from the flower directly into the officer’s face.

Landis sputtered. “You’re under arrest for assaulting an officer!”

“Landis, do you really want to go before a judge and explain this?” Dreamus shook his head. “It’s just a little water. Let it go.”

As the officer fumed and water dripped down his enraged face, the clown scooped up his glove and rubber nose. He darted into the building.

* * * * *

Miss Daisy’s signature red-and-white-striped top had built-in, flopping breasts, each one the size of her head. The strands of a blonde wig curled down her back. Her pants were candy-apple red, with folds of material touching the uneven plank floor. The long black shoes crossed in an X as if to mark the spot. Her face was covered in thick layers of greasepaint, her long fake eyelashes crawling like caterpillars against the white paint. Her mouth was painted in a happy curve, at odds with her body language. She glared at Lieutenant Camden from her seat at the rickety dressing table, the light bulbs alternating with missing sockets the only source of light in the dim room.

Dreamus refrained from glaring back at her. “Tell us what happened, from the beginning.”

Landis pulled out his phone and sat in a folding chair perpendicular to the rodeo clown. His fingers poised over his phone.

Daisy snorted in derision. “You look like a college boy on the trail of a hefty scholarship with your fancy suit and white shirt, not a police lieutenant. Your stenographer may be wearing a police uniform, but he looks like he should be back at the middle school taking notes in math class. Recess is almost over.”

“Tell us what happened.” Dreamus dragged a folded chair from the corner. “This chair has a big dent. It probably got slammed on a wrestler’s head.” He opened it and tested it before putting his full weight on it.

The rodeo clown didn’t look festive when she buried her face in her hands. Landis opened his mouth. Dreamus motioned him to be quiet.

She raised her head and twisted her hands in her lap. “I was in my dressing room. I got into my costume. It always takes time, and I get hot. After I’m ready for the show, I always head to the break room for my water bottle. That’s exactly what I did today.”

Dreamus scanned the room. “Why don’t you have a refrigerator in here?”

She snorted. “Are you kidding? The management is too cheap.”

“You got into your costume and went to the break room. Then what?”

Daisy shook her head. She took a deep breath. “I guzzled the water. Then I felt dizzy, like I’d been drinking all night in a honky tonk. I think I fell to the floor. When I woke up, I was lying in the janitor’s closet. I was still in my costume. I staggered back to my dressing room. Slick Rick burst in and told me what happened.”

Dreamus raised his brows. “Slick Rick?”

Landis answered. “Slick Rick Paprick. He’s fairly well known around here as a show promoter. He arranges local area talent like bands and non-local shows like traveling circuses and… evidently rodeos.”

The door burst open and slammed against the wall. The tall, orange- wigged rodeo clown in the western shirt and plaid flannel trousers who’d earlier grabbed Landis’ phone ran to Daisy. He bent nearly double to put his arm around her shoulders.

Landis sprang to his feet. “You!”

The clown ignored him. “Daisy, you need to go to the hospital. Someone drugged you earlier today. And now you’re hysterical with grief.”

Daisy’s mouth, painted impossibly wide and red, curved into a humorless smile. “No, Bert.”

Bert angled his body between Landis and Daisy. He faced Dreamus. “Daisy is innocent. She didn’t kill anyone.”

Daisy wearily dragged the blonde wig off, exposing flattened brown hair scraped back from her painted face into a ponytail. The narrow border between her hairline and the greasepaint was pink and vulnerable. She pulled open the long drawer in front of her.

With his body, Landis tried to push Bert out of his way. “Hands! Get your hands where we can see them!” He fumbled with his holster.

Daisy froze. “I was just reaching for my makeup remover.” She held up a large glass jar. She took off the lid with one hand and reached for a tissue with the other one. She scooped some of the white cream onto the tissue, and expertly and quickly cleaned her face.

Dreamus rose. He pushed Landis back into his chair. “Calm down, boy.” The lawman backed to his own chair, keeping his eyes on Landis.

Landis’ eyes widened in horror.

Dreamus sprang to his feet.

“She’s stripping!” Landis’ hand moved to the holster.

“We don’t shoot people for taking off their clothes, Landis. Do I have to send you to the car?”

Daisy’s laugh was bitter. “Don’t worry, kid. Your virginity is safe.” She pulled off the striped costume top.

Landis flushed.

“See? I have on jeans and a tank top under my costume.” She pulled off the huge shoes but left on her thick white socks. They looked like pristine snow against the age-darkened hardwood floor. She shimmied out of her flowing pants.

Dreamus grabbed the discarded clothes. He looked for a clear surface, was defeated by the clutter, and then settled for his chair as an impromptu table. He placed his battered briefcase on the floor next to the chair, and popped it open. He pulled out a pair of purple latex gloves. With his gloved hands, he carefully spread the clothing out on the metal seat. He pulled an object from the pocket of the red clown pants. “What’s this?”

Landis joined him. “I think it’s a real bull’s horn.” He stared at the smooth end. “It appears to have been cut.” He shuddered. “I hope the poor creature was dead when she hacked off his horn.”

Dreamus carefully turned it over in his gloved hand. “It’s covered in blood and dirt.” He extracted a handful of plastic evidence bags from his case and pulled a bag free. He slid the horn inside, labeled it with a marker, and put it to the side. He dug into the other pocket and held up crumpled, stained fabric. “White clown gloves, now dirty and bloody.”

“I don't know anything about that horn or the blood on the gloves.” Daisy sounded frightened.

“Someone is trying to frame Daisy,” Bert insisted.

Ignoring the clowns, he bagged and labeled. He rummaged in the briefcase and tugged a large trash bag free. He slid the pants, shirt, wig, and big shoes into the bag and tied it shut.

The door opened. A man in a large white hat, form-fitting western shirt, and skin-tight Levis strode into the room. His boot heels clicked on the plank floor and stopped at Daisy’s chair. He turned to Landis. “I’m Daisy’s husband, Cole. She didn’t mean to do it. She thought she was helping me by killing my rival.” His fingers clenched Daisy’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, honey. I’ll find you the best defense attorney in the world. Johnnie Cochran can get any murderer acquitted. We’ll get him to defend you.”

Daisy eluded her husband’s clenching fingers. “He’s dead, you idiot. And you just told the police you think I’m a murderer.”

Bert growled, bent at the waist, and head butted Cole in the stomach. The rodeo rider crashed into the wall, taking down a laden table with him. Daisy leaped to her feet.

“That’s enough! Bert, outside. Cole, keep quiet until we ask you to talk.” Although he was much shorter, Dreamus forced the tall clown into the hallway. He slammed the door in the angry, painted face. The lieutenant’s gaze fell on Landis, who had helped Cole to his feet. Landis was staring at the husband and wife.

“What is it, Landis?”

“Look, Lieutenant. Daisy and her husband are nearly the same size. She’s tall for a woman and he’s short for a man. Without his big hat and high-heeled boots, he’d be the same height as his wife.”

Cole clenched his fists. “They’re genuine cowboy boots, not high heels. This isn’t broke butt mountain. And I’m not short. I’m average.”

Landis frowned in concentration. “They’re close to the same size. Except for their feet. Cole’s feet are larger and longer.”

Dreamus’ breath caught in his chest. “Cole Sawyer, remove your boots.”

The blood drained from Cole’s face. “No.”

Dreamus strode to the door and flung it open. “Bert!”

His arms akimbo, the tall clown appeared in the doorway.

“Daisy needs you. Round up your clown friends who will do what you tell them without asking questions.”

“Really? Seriously?” Bert’s painted mouth dropped open. “Are you telling me to send in the clowns?”

Dreamus nodded.

Bert rolled his eyes. “For Daisy.” He straightened himself to his full height, the top of his orange curly head nearly reaching the spotted ceiling. He saluted and dashed away, his feet slapping the floor.

Cole opened his mouth.

“Quiet.” Dreamus glared.

Landis opened his mouth.

“You, too,” Dreamus said. “Just wait.”

The dressing room filled with rodeo clowns in various forms of dress and makeup. Despite their gaudy costumes and garish face paint, they were grim.

Dreamus addressed the exotic group. “I don’t have time for a warrant. The evidence, if it even exists, is very time sensitive. If I or my officer pulls off Cole Sawyer’s boots, it will be an illegal search and seizure, and not admissible in court. If you do it, it’s a prank.”

“A prank.” Bert nodded. “Give us the exact idea. We want to get it right.”

Hoping he wasn’t about to make a colossal fool of himself, Dreamus nodded and pointed at Cole’s boots. “I think it would be hilariously funny if you pulled off his boots and socks.”

“No!” Cole ran for the door.

The clowns converged on the bull rider. They grabbed his arms and legs, with several clowns grimly grasping each limb. The garish smiles and high eyebrows were a sinister parody of humor. They dragged him to the floor and held him in a prone position. Cole twisted and turned. He yelled for help.

Bert pulled a gigantic polka dotted handkerchief from his pocket. He jammed the fabric into Cole’s mouth, cutting off the noise. He nodded in satisfaction. “Hold him still.” The tall clown bent double to yank off first one boot and sock, and then the other.

Dreamus tore open the trash bag holding Daisy’s costume. He dug out the huge shoes. “I noticed when I put these in the bag that Daisy’s smaller sneakers are nestled inside the big clown shoes.” He compared the inside of the canvas shoes to Cole’s bare, jerking feet. “The marks on his feet exactly match the inside of Daisy’s sneakers. Landis, use your phone to get plenty of pictures before those marks fade away.”

Landis’ mouth hung open. He shut it with a click. “How did you figure it out, Lieutenant?” He held up his cell phone.

“You pointed me in the right direction, Landis. Your comments about the differences in their feet sizes gave me the idea. The big clown feet are made to accommodate Daisy’s sneakers. There’s no way Cole’s boots would fit inside the clown shoes.”

Daisy sank into her chair. “The clown shoes were custom made for my shoes. They snap over my sneakers with fasteners.”

Dreamus nodded. “Cole drugged your drink and took you to the closet. He dressed in your costume. You’re close to the same size, and it fit. He had to force his feet into your canvas shoes to wear the clown feet when he killed Breathitt Crain, and they marked his feet with creases.”

Landis chimed in. “After the murder, Cole rushed into the building, changed the unconscious Daisy back into her costume, and hid in his dressing room until someone told him what happened.”

Bert straightened from his position by Cole’s feet. “Cole Sawyer tried to frame Daisy for the murder he committed.” He walked around the prone man and the still-as-statutes clowns holding the squirming man in place. His tread was slow and deliberate. “In the process, he tried to sully our profession. Clowns are funny. We are comedy, with outlandish antics and belly laughs.”

Landis fidgeted. Dreamus motioned him to be still.

Bert’s voice was as heavy as the gloom in a mausoleum. “Like the Ying to the Yang, comedy has a darker side. The counterbalance is tragedy.” He raised his arms. “I call upon the shadowy powers to administer rough justice—”

Landis blurted, “The patron saint for clowns is Genesius of Rome.” He shook his phone at Bert. “According to Wikipedia, ‘Genesius was a comedian and actor. He performed in plays that mocked Christianity. One day while performing in a show that made fun of baptism, Genesius had a religious epiphany on stage. He refused to renounce his new faith, even when ordered to do so by Emperor Diocletian…’.”

Bert sounded as if his teeth were clenched in annoyance. “I’m not talking about the patron saint. Rather, the opposite of the saint.” His voice deepened into a monotonous chant. “In extreme circumstances, the clowns may call upon the demonic embodiment of tragedy.”