Extra Sensory Deception (3 page)

Once they were on the coast road the air conditioner kicked in, and by the time they reached the turn heading inland, she felt comfortably cool.

During the ten minutes it took to get to the fairgrounds, they had a lively discussion on the differences between the early hard-boiled mysteries and the contemporary ones. They both finally agreed that it was all a matter of taste, and had switched to talking about the new Hill Top Resort by the time they arrived at the fairgrounds where the rodeo was being held.

Rick parked the truck and opened the door for her to climb out. “Wes told me to ask for him at the box office. It’s over there.” He nudged his head at a booth that stood near the entrance.

Clara followed him, taking in her surroundings. She had been to the fairgrounds many times. The Memorial Day weekend festival had been held each year since long before she was born. She and Stephanie had looked forward to it every spring, originally with their parents, then later by themselves—until Clara had left to attend college in New York in a vain attempt to escape the infamous Quinn curse, as she called it.

She was teaching students with the intention of becoming a professor when she met Matt. She fell hard, and when he proposed, she was quick to accept. On the evening of her wedding she was devastated to learn he’d left town with his young assistant. She’d returned to Finn’s Harbor, and it had taken her over a year to come to terms with her mistake.

Even now, she felt an ache when an unbidden memory surfaced, which prodded her to take things slowly with Rick. She had been so sure of Matt, and even the Quinn Sense hadn’t warned her of his betrayal. Or maybe it had and she just hadn’t listened, which would account for the fact that she had told no one, not even her mother, that she’d planned to get married.

Glancing at Rick’s sturdy shoulders, she felt warmth erasing the memories. Rick was a far cry from the man who had treated her so badly. She was happy to be with him, and happy to be sharing this first performance of what would probably be an annual event at the Memorial Day festival.

Prepared to see big changes to the fairgrounds, at first all she could see was the familiar large building that housed the merchandise vendors. As usual, a scattering of booths alongside offered cotton candy, ice cream and soft pretzels, among other tasty snacks.

As they rounded the corner of the building, she could see the arena and the stands. The sight reminded her of her vision, and she suppressed her shiver of apprehension. The original stadium, often used for sporting events, had been widened, and she could see where a row of chutes had been added in front of the entrance.

Clara’s pulse quickened. She wasn’t sure how she felt about the evening’s entertainment. Watching men risk their necks on the backs of angry bulls wasn’t exactly her idea of a good time. Yet she couldn’t ignore the tingle of anticipation at the thought. It would be interesting, to say the least.

Apparently Rick had been given some directions by his friend, as he beckoned to her and started walking toward the chutes. She followed, trying not to think about a chubby clown tumbling headfirst down the steps.

On the other side of the arena stood a large stage where concerts were held. Clara smiled, thinking of the warm nights she and her cousin had sat listening to the music of local bands hoping to make it big.

The aroma of smoked meats and barbecue sauce wafting from the food tent made her feel hungry. She dodged between spectators, some of whom munched on corn dogs and pretzels, while others carried tubs of popcorn and cups of beer.

As she approached the back of the chutes, the stink of sawdust and manure made her forget about food. Reaching a large fenced area, she paused next to Rick and gazed at the men in jeans, checkered shirts and cowboy hats trotting around on horseback.

“Welcome to the warm-up corral,” a voice said behind them.

Clara spun around.

The man facing them wore a wide-brimmed hat pulled down over his forehead. Blue eyes in a darkly tanned face smiled at her. “You must be Clara. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Clara smiled back. “I hope it was complimentary.”

“Yes, ma’am. You’d be flattered, I promise.”

“This is Wes,” Rick said hurriedly, sounding a bit rattled. “He’s going to show us around. Right?”

This last was directed at the cowboy, with a warning scowl.

Wes’s grin widened. “Sure. Follow me.” He fell into step beside Clara as they walked toward the holding pens. “So how long have you been dating Crafty?”

Clara glanced at him. “Who?”

On the other side of her, Rick grunted. “It was my nickname in high school.”

“Oh! Is that where you guys met?”

“Yeah.” He exchanged glances with Wes. “We met our freshman year and graduated together.”

“Crafty?” Clara raised her eyebrows at Rick. “Was that a compliment, or were you devious when you were young?”

“It’s not what you think.”

Wes laughed. “We called him that because he was the best craftsman in the class. When the rest of us were goofing off our senior year, he spent most of his time in woodshop.”

Intrigued, she wanted to ask them more about their high school days, but decided this probably wasn’t a good time. They’d reached an area fenced off into several squares, with large gates at one end.

“This is the rough stock area,” Wes said, waving at the empty stalls. “This is where the broncs and bulls wait to go into the arena. They’ll be out here soon.” He pointed at the gates. “See how sturdy they are? When those are opened, they form a safe passageway for the stock to pass through to the chutes.” He looked at Rick. “You’ve heard of the world’s most dangerous bull?”

Rick nodded. “Bodacious. He was around in the nineties, right?”

“Right. That bull could leap six feet in the air with all four feet off the ground. He was wily as a fox—used to buck his riders forward, then bring his head up to smash into their faces. More than one rider ended up with a broken nose. That bull was one mean dude.”

“No kidding.”

“Yeah, well, we’ve got one of his offspring. Ferocious. Just as mean. Make sure you keep out of his way.”

Clara shivered. It was unlike anything she’d experienced before. She could imagine the bull, snorting and stamping impatiently while he waited for his turn. Looking at the gates, she hoped Wes was right and they were strong enough to hold a raging bull if things got out of hand.

Wes was talking about the bronc riders, and how some used saddles and some rode bareback. He paused to wave at a couple of women strolling by, explaining that they were barrel racers. “You gotta know how to really handle a horse in that event,” he said, watching the two women depart. “It’s fast-paced, and a lot depends on the horse’s strength and ability. Those gals gotta know how to follow the pattern and hug that barrel as they go around it.”

Clara concentrated on what he was saying, beginning to feel a tingle of excitement at the prospect of watching the competition. “It sounds dangerous.”

Wes grinned. “That’s what puts the thrill in it. It’s a spectator sport, and you gotta give the public something for their money. Trust me, those racers are a lot tougher than they look. They’re good at what they do.”

Clara was about to answer him when another voice spoke from behind her. “Don’t listen to him, hon. He’s full of BS.”

Clara turned, and felt a chill chase all the way down her back. She was looking into the painted face of the clown in the poster. Seen in real life, he looked even more formidable. Dark eyes stared out at her from the red circles and the web of lines drawn inside them. His yellow lips looked huge and deformed, and his red nose gleamed against the mask of white paint that covered the rest of his face. He wore the same outfit he wore in the poster, with his black cowboy hat pushed to the back of his head. “Didn’t mean to give you a start, little lady.”

Realizing that she was staring at him with something like horror on her face, Clara quickly transformed her expression. “I didn’t see you there.”

“Meet Marty Pearce,” Wes said. “Also known as Sparky the clown. He entertains the crowd while they wait for the next event.” He looked at the clown. “This is Clara and Rick. They’re good friends of mine, so be nice.”

“I’m always nice.” Marty held out a white-gloved hand to Clara and bowed. “I’m privileged to make your acquaintance, ma’am.”

Clara tried not to shiver as she hastily shook the hand and let it go.

Wes rolled his eyes. “He never does anything half-assed.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” The dark eyes seemed to penetrate right through Clara’s skull. “I hope you’re staying for the performance?”

“Yes, I’m looking forward to it.” Clara gulped. A vision of the clown’s body flying through the air had flashed through her mind. Was she about to watch Sparky the clown being gored by a bull? Desperately she sought for words to warn him, yet could think of nothing to say that wouldn’t make her sound like a raving lunatic.

As if reading her mind, Wes said, “Don’t expect him to chase after a bull. He gave that up a while ago. He just keeps the kids entertained now.”

Clara thought she saw a spark of resentment in the dark eyes, but it was gone so fast she figured she’d imagined it. Still, she felt obliged to say something nice. “Well, I’ll enjoy being entertained.”

Marty’s whole face broke into a grin. “Thank you, kind lady. I’ll be sure and wave to you when I’m out there entertaining the crowd.” He nodded at Rick. “Nice to have met you, sir. I hope you enjoy the show.”

“I’m sure we will.” Rick looked amused as Marty wandered off. “He seems like a nice guy.”

“Yeah.” Wes tipped the brim of his hat back with his thumb. “He used to be a bullfighter—it’s what we call the clowns who distract the bulls when the riders come off them. But Marty got in the way of a bull’s horns once too often. He was in a hospital for weeks. Now he just fills in the gaps in between events. The crowds love him. He’s a great entertainer.”

“He misses performing with the bulls,” Clara said.

Wes looked surprised. “Yeah, I guess he does.”

Rick gave her an odd look, but said nothing as Wes added, “I gotta go and get stuff ready for the show. See you later?”

“Sure.” Rick clapped a hand on the cowboy’s shoulder. “Good to see you, buddy. Thanks for the tour.”

“Yes, thanks,” Clara added hastily. “I really enjoyed it.”

Wes grinned. “A pleasure, ma’am.” With a wave at them both, he hurried off, leaving them to find their way back to the arena.

Rick took Clara’s hand and tucked it under his arm. “How do you do that?”

She looked at him, immediately on guard. “Do what?”

“Know what people are feeling or thinking.”

She managed a fairly convincing laugh. “I don’t. It’s just guesswork.”

“Pretty good guesswork if you ask me. No wonder you’re so good at detecting.”

They were on dangerous ground, and she quickly changed the subject. “I’m starving. Can we eat?”

Rick grinned. “There you go again, reading my mind.”

Fortunately they’d reached the entrance to the tent, and she was saved from answering.

The smell of hot dogs and hamburgers filled the warm, sticky air inside. Rick headed for a stand near the back of the tent, where a couple of young women were serving chicken wraps.

“Look good to you?” he asked, and she nodded. Right then she would have eaten anything he put in her hand.

They found a vacant table and Clara sat down with the wraps while Rick wandered off in search of the beer booth. He came back moments later with two cups brimming with ice-cold beer. “Now this,” he said, as he sat down opposite her, “is what I call dining in style.”

She gave him a lopsided smile. “Obviously, you don’t get out much.”

“I have my moments.” He reached across the table to squeeze her hand. “And this is one of them.”

She squeezed back, feeling a rush of pleasure at the warmth in his eyes. “I’m glad you’re having a good time.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Of course!” She wished she could be more enthusiastic, but the dread lurking in the back of her mind dampened her spirits. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was going to witness something bad happening to Sparky the clown.

The feeling stayed with her throughout the performance. The pageantry of the opening parade impressed her. Women in glittering vests and chaps cantered into the arena bearing flags and were followed by cowboys on horseback twirling lassos. She couldn’t contain a shiver, however, at the sight of the clowns tumbling alongside.

Sparky brought up the rear of the parade, juggling bright yellow and red clubs that he constantly dropped, sometimes on his head, which brought shouts of laughter from the younger members of the audience.

As time went by, Clara sat on the edge of her seat as one competitor after another hit the sawdust hard. It amazed her that they all scrambled to their feet, apparently unhurt by the violent contact with the ground. She enjoyed the barrel racing, but watching the clowns being chased by the hefty bulls made her mouth go dry. Between each event Sparky appeared in the arena, telling jokes or turning clumsy cartwheels, bursting balloons and making the audience giggle.

During the intermission, he performed a lengthy routine, which involved pretending to be chased by someone dressed up as a two-legged bull. Sparky ended up in the stands, hiding behind various children, amid shrieks and screams of laughter.

Apparently the clown’s antics didn’t impress Rick, as he took off to get more drinks, leaving Clara alone to watch the show. She was surprised when she saw Wes loping up the steps toward her, his bright red shirt a splash of color among the crowd. “Rick’s gone to get a beer,” she explained as Wes took the empty seat next to her. She checked her watch. “He should be back any minute.”

Wes nodded. “I just came up to see how you’re both enjoying the show.”

“It’s great!” Clara tried to sound genuinely excited rather than nervous and preoccupied. “I loved the barrel racing. Those women really know how to ride.”

“They sure do.” Wes stretched his long legs out in front of him. “I don’t know what’s wrong with Marty tonight, though. He seems off his game.”