Catch a Falling Clown: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Seven) (18 page)

After an hour of walking, we came to a few houses and a pier. Not much of a pier, a concrete breaker worn away by the ocean. There was a path up from the beach and we took it, holding hands and hiding the cuffs under my baggy jacket sleeve. We were two ridiculously dressed lunatics in love if anyone saw us. If our description had gotten to this town already, there would be no denying it. Our disguise was only for the indifferent or uninformed. I had a few dollars in my wallet, not enough to buy our way out of this but enough for coffee and a few sinkers.

The houses, old adobe and cracking wood, came closer and closer together until we got to what passed for downtown. The smell of the ocean helped make the place seem more quaint than decaying. It certainly wasn’t full of activity.

A few signs in store windows let us know that we were in Quiggley, California. The grocery store and post office, which also had a soda fountain, displayed a sign that told us Quiggley was “The Fifth Leading Producer of Artichokes in Southern California.”

A few farm kids were sitting at the fountain drinking Green Rivers. They looked at us, poked each other, and made it clear that they were holding back giggles.

“Finish up and off you go,” said a woman behind the counter. She was gray from hair to smock and as thin as string. With a see-what-the-world-has-done-to-me little smile, she asked us what we wanted. I ordered coffee for both of us and some doughnuts.

“Got some fresh-made pecan rolls,” said the woman.

“Sounds fine,” I said, giving Agnes a loving look to account for our tightly held hands.

“Renting a place down by the beach?” the woman said, moving slowly to get our order.

“Right,” I said. “Just a few days. Place a few miles up the coast. We just strolled down to see what Quiggley was like.”

“And?” asked the woman, reaching to turn on the radio behind her next to a metal sign with a picture of a smiling girl holding up a Coke bottle to the sun.

“It’s nice,” said Agnes, looking around the store.

The place was old, cluttered, and full of the smell of moist wood. I liked it. The radio suddenly warmed up, and Dr. I.Q.’s voice came on with a question: “For ten silver dollars,” he said, filled with enthusiasm, “where is the Island of Kwato?”

“New Guinea,” said Agnes, trying to figure out a way of splitting her pecan roll with one hand. “There’s a little blue snake in Kwato that turns itself upside down to get its vemon out.”

“That a fact?” said the woman behind the counter. Agnes dipped the whole pecan roll in the coffee.

“The Caribbean,” said a woman on the radio, and Dr. I.Q. responded with his, “I’m awfully sorry. The Island of Kwato is part of New Guinea, but a box of Milky Ways to that lady.”

A couple of women came in to buy stamps, and I urged Agnes to hurry. She did, and I left half a buck on the counter. We didn’t wait for change.

“See you,” I said pleasantly as we walked around a display of Uneeda Biscuits for ten cents a box.

The gray woman and the stamp customers looked over at us, and I heard one of their voices say, “Strange, Walter says spies are …” Behind them, Dr. I.Q. started a tongue twister that began, “My mother’s monkey makes …”

“I’m still hungry,” said Agnes as we went down the street. We would soon be out of the town, and I had no plan, just some wild ideas that made no sense. In short, my usual state. A brown car pulled around a corner and headed toward us. There were a few cars on the main street of Quiggley which was, not surprisingly, called Main Street. This car, however, had a little light on the top.

We were standing near a lawn in front of a small wooden building marked RR Station. I didn’t know if it was still in use or what call Quiggley had for a railroad, but I pulled Agnes toward the door. It opened easily, and we stepped in. I looked back through the dingy window of the door to watch the police car go past.

Someone was in the station. I didn’t look. Instead, I walked to the blackboard I spotted at the corner of my eye, pulling Agnes with me. It told what trains were coming and going through Quiggley. There weren’t many. The next one out was to Phoenix at three in the morning.

“If anyone asks,” I whispered, “we’re going to Phoenix and we’ve already got our tickets.”

“And no luggage,” said Agnes. We sat on a wooden bench.

I looked down as if I were tired and saw blue linoleum squares with white flecks. The linoleum was scuffed and worn through to dirty wood in spots. The walls were covered with plaster put on in uneven layers and painted over gray-white like a strip mine.

There was a young man behind the ticket booth in the corner. From what I could see of him, he had a dark mustache and hair Wildrooted to submission. The black lettering on the pebbled glass above his booth had worn or been scratched away so that only “TI KE S” remained. The radiators were old, ornate, and painted black. A black-on-white sign above the door we had come through said, “No Loitering.” There were some gray steel lockers and a few windows painted over at the top in flecked black. The wooden benches were high-backed. The garbage can in the corner was full, as was the ashtray a few feet from us.

We weren’t the only customers waiting. An Oriental family shared the station and drew most of the looks of the ticket taker. The father and the pregnant mother looked young. She was lying on the bench with her eyes closed. The father, a thin man in a denim jacket, looked at us with a small apologetic smile. All four of the kids had runny noses. The oldest was about seven. The father clutched a small radio in his arms.

One of the kids walked over to Agnes and me. He was about six and carrying a crumpled Captain Marvel comic book. His black hair tumbled over his eyes.

“We’re Chinese,” he said, “not Japanese.”

“Great,” I said. “What’s your name?”

“Miles,” he said and then whispered, “but my real name is Tetsuya.”

I wasn’t sure of my Oriental names, but I didn’t think Tetsuya was Chinese. What he was, was the product of his father and mother’s real fear. They were on the run and probably didn’t know where they were heading, as long as it was away from California and the camps where Japanese-Americans were being herded.

“My real name is Tobias,” I said, holding out my left hand. My right hand was otherwise occupied holding Agnes and hiding handcuffs.

Miles took my hand, shook it, and informed us that a nickel was stuck in the public telephone in the corner. His brothers and sister climbed the benches and gradually made their way to us. I wondered, while exchanging silly looks with them, what would happen when Agnes or I had to go to the rest room. At one point, Agnes glanced at the ladies’ room. I ignored her and my own bladder and played with the kids. The father looked worried, and I had the impression that the pregnant mother was only pretending to be asleep.

After an hour or so, two of the kids fell asleep. Miles went to the telephone with the remaining brother to work on the nickel, and I ignored Agnes and the eyes of the ticket taker by picking up a movie magazine. The magazine had the cover torn off, and I didn’t really want to know about the Stage Door Canteen shows, but I flipped the pages slowly, as if reading them. Agnes dozed, waiting for me to come up with an idea, and then the idea came up with me. It was on the page right in front of me.

“Son of a …” I began.

“What?” Agnes said droopily.

I stuffed the magazine in my pocket, pulled Agnes to her feet, and hurried to the door.

“Where are we going?” she said.

“I’ve got some answers and ideas,” I said. “Let’s go.” I waved left-handed to Miles and his brother and hurried Agnes out into the day.

“Back to Mirador,” I said. “I think I have some evidence for the state police.”

We didn’t want to go back to the gray lady’s grocery and post office, so we stopped at the town diner, where we caught a suspicious look or two, bought a few Whiz bars, and headed back to the beach.

“I need a bathroom,” Agnes said as I hurried her along away from the last touches of Quiggley civilization.

“So do I,” I said, “but …”

“Bushes, eyes closed,” she said. “Now.”

The rest of the walk, all two hours plus of it, gave me Agnes’ real life story. I didn’t listen to most of it, just nodded, smiled when it seemed right and kept on going, trying to make sense of what I knew. It was late in the afternoon when I recognized the stretch of beach where I had last seen the running elephant. Another two hundred yards and we were at the spot where I had found Rennata Tanucci’s body.

“What kind of place is this?” Agnes asked, looking around at the unfinished buildings.

“Ghost town,” I said. “Let’s get up there and get some help.”

We climbed the road and went to the first house on the ridge overlooking the beach. It was a two-story brown brick place in this, the classier part of town near the ocean. The grounds were well maintained, and the wall was low and matching brick. It would have a phone, and it might have a reasonable owner of some position in Mirador, someone who might mediate between Agnes and me and the law. The sun was setting on the horizon, and the first chill of February night roared by when I knocked at the oak door. There was a light on upstairs, so I knocked again. Then the footsteps came, heavy and slow, and the door opened.

There is good luck and bad luck and no luck at all. I never knew which would be there when a door opened. This time it opened on the double-faced Thomas Paul.

“Mr. Peters,” he said. “To what do I owe this surprise?”

There wasn’t much choice, and besides, I was pretty sure now who my murderer was, so I took the chance.

“Your sheriff is after us for murder,” I said.

“Yes, I know,” he said. “The young woman down on the beach. Won’t you come in?” He stepped back, and I led Agnes in behind me.

The hallway was dark, but the last of the sunlight was enough to see by as we followed Paul to the right and into a living room. The furniture was comfortable, soft and dark, and the walls were covered with paintings, circus paintings: clowns, jugglers, aerialists, elephants, even a band.

“I told you I wanted the circus in Mirador,” said Paul, watching my face. “I have deep feelings for the circus, deep feelings. And you, young lady, you are Helene, the charming snake charmer. I saw your act yesterday.”

“I saw you seeing my act yesterday,” said Agnes, sitting on a sofa and pulling me down with her.

Paul’s right hand went up to his face. “Yes,” he said, “I’m rather difficult to miss. Now, what can I do for you? As you know, I want to make relations with the circus as cordial as possible. I cannot, however, harbor killers.”

“Accused killer,” I said. “I know who the real killer is, and I can prove it.”

Paul looked at me with one side smiling and the other side of his face twisted in what looked like hatred. “Good,” he said. “I’d like this settled, and I don’t want any trouble. Can I get you something to eat and perhaps a file or saw?”

“Great, and get the state police here,” I said.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” replied Paul, walking out the door and closing it behind him. “I’ll take just a few minutes.”

“Up,” I said. She sighed, pouted, and got to her weary feet. We walked on the Persian carpet to the rear of the room, to a wide bay window that looked down at the beach. I could see the spot where Rennata had been killed and Nelson had found me over the body.

“Don’t you wonder why he closed the door behind him when he walked out?” I said.

“No,” she answered. “He said he’s getting the state cops and a file. That’s all I care about.”

“He didn’t say that. I asked him to do it, but he didn’t say he would. Come on.”

We went to the door of the living room, and I opened it. I could hear Paul’s voice at the back of the house through another closed door. We followed the sound, walking softly. The hallway was dark and the door thick. I could hear Paul’s voice behind it but not the words. So I pushed the door gently. It gave. I put my fingers on Agnes’ lips to keep her quiet and heard him say, “I’ll simply have to, that’s all. No, you call the sheriff. Tell him to get to my house quickly, that Peters is here threatening to kill me. When I hear the sheriff’s car pull up, I’ll shoot them and put a gun in Peters’ hand, a gun with a bullet recently fired. No, I’ll be careful. There’s still too much more to do.”

I closed the door and led Agnes back down the hall.

“That bastard is going to kill us,” she said aloud. I clamped my hands over her mouth and shook my head negatively. I got her back in the living room, told her to lean back and pretend to sleep, and I sat rubbing my eyes.

Paul, massive and now deadly, came back in the room carrying a huge plierlike black steel tool.

“This should do it,” he said. I held up my right hand and Agnes’ to reveal the handcuffs. His story to the police about having to kill us would go better if we seemed less hopeless and he more vulnerable.

Agnes looked up at him with more hatred than fear, and I gave her a look designed to keep her from giving anything away. Paul fit the pliers over a steel link and pressed down with both hands. His body shook under his gray suit, and then the link snapped, and Agnes and I came apart. We each still had a bracelet, but the sense of regaining our own separateness was a nice shock.