Admittedly, I'd been braver in theory. It took me a good long minute, after Jackson left the crime scene, to get used to the idea of being alone with a murder victim. Rather ridiculous, considering I had breakfast with a dead man every morning and often shared the day's anecdotes with him in the evening. Of course, Edward was no longer flesh and bone, and more importantly, he wasn't covered in fresh blood.
Cherise was slumped against the tall back of the chair. Blood and mats of blonde hair obscured most of her face. I was grateful for that. It probably would have been less disconcerting if I hadn't sat at Lana's kitchen table with Cherise just the night before. It was always hard to swallow the notion that someone could be warm and lively and sparkling in a gold coat one minute and cold, lifeless and dead the next. It was a stark reminder of how fragile life was.
I calculated that I had only five to ten minutes before the teams of professionals streamed into the tent. It was a small enough space that I'd be in the way, so I needed to snoop around quickly. Since Jackson had done a fairly thorough survey of Cherise and the table in front of her, I decided to focus on the surroundings. I was more than happy to steer clear of the corpse.
I'd already discovered what I was sure would be a monumental clue—the words written in blood on the mirror. I circled the inside perimeter of the tent, at least where there was room to walk. I had to navigate my way around extra chairs and end tables set up with gaudy silk topped lamps. The heavy, vintage lampshades reminded me more of an old-fashioned bordello than a fortune teller's lair.
A small stack of shelves that looked as if at one point it had been nailed on a wall, leaned against the canvas. The shelves were stacked with colorful boxes of incense, patchouli, lavender, white sage. There was even a box labeled Dragon's Blood. I stepped closer to read the rest and crunched something beneath my foot. I hopped back, not wanting to get in trouble for disturbing evidence. A pile of incense sticks were strewn on the floor as if dropped suddenly. It seemed the killer might have walked in on Cherise and startled her. It was strange, considering her tent was in the center of a crowded circus. She should have been expecting customers. Unless, of course, the visitor was someone she had hoped not to see. Maybe someone she knew she'd angered. A jealous wife, perhaps?
With the exception of the one stick I broke with my shoe, I left the incense undisturbed. I circled around the table, keeping my eyes averted from the body. Like I'd bragged to Jackson, I'd been to a few murder scenes, but this one was making me uncomfortable. It might have been from standing in such close quarters with the victim or the way she was still seated at the table as if she was about to read the Tarot cards under her hand or maybe it was because I'd actually met and spoken with Cherise. Whatever the cause, I had goosebumps running along both arms. I hurried my investigation.
It seemed I hadn't needed to touch a thing. My shoes were doing all the work today. My right foot moved freely, but my left foot was stuck to the rug beneath the table. It was a dark floral printed area rug that was faded and dirty from use. I peeled my shoe off the sticky substance on the rug and crouched down to get a closer look. I'd made a promise not to touch anything, but I saw no harm in running my fingers lightly over the sticky spot. Little nubs of worn yarn rolled under my hand as my fingertips gently adhered to a sticky substance. I lifted my fingers but couldn't smell much past the lingering odor of incense and blood.
I pushed to my feet and tapped around with my cleaner right shoe. There were more sticky spots as if someone had tracked syrup into the tent. The tent was located in the center of a carnival that was brimming with sticky treats like maple covered funnel cakes, syrup drenched snow cones, ice cream and cotton candy. Any one of Cherise's clients could have tracked it in. Only, it seemed, whoever it was had walked past the visitor's chair to the fortune teller's side of the table. Unless the stickiness came from Cherise's shoes.
I dreaded the idea and knew I'd be breaking my promise to Jackson, but I had to know if the sticky spot was a clue or just a mess left behind by the victim's shoes. I stooped back down next to the table. The shimmery silver tablecloth nearly touched the ground. I lifted it and found that Cherise liked to wear sandals just like Raine. I'd always assumed the sandals just went with Raine's colorful Bohemian style, but maybe it was a psychic thing. Either way, it made me sad to see Cherise's pale white feet resting in cute leather braided sandals. She had taken the time to paint her toe nails orange with little yellow stars. Fortunately, the position she was sitting on the chair made it so that her toes were pointed up, exposing the soles of her sandals a few inches.
I swept my finger beneath each sandal. They were gritty but not sticky.
As I pulled my head out from under the cloth, something shiny caught my eye. I knew I was breaking my promise again, but it was all in pursuit of Cherise's killer. I reached into the darkness toward the shiny speck. A teensy piece of shiny metal stuck to my fingertip. On closer inspection, I concluded that it was a piece of confetti. I ducked my head under and lifted the tablecloth higher to allow more light in. A few more pieces of shiny confetti glittered in the rug.
I scooted out from under the table but stayed crouched near the ground. There were at least a dozen pieces of confetti strewn about the rug. I pushed to my feet. Jackson and I had watched as Carson tossed an unwelcome bucket of metallic confetti on the Spring Fair Queen. Melinda had a difficult time getting it out of her hair. I would have to make a trip to the stage, where they'd crowned the queen, to see if the confetti had been cleaned up. If not, which, with the way the carnival was maintained, I felt might be the case, it meant any person walking near the stage could have picked up confetti bits on their shoes. Especially if the shoes were sticky with syrup.
Voices rumbled outside the tent, including the deep, melodic one I'd grown to recognize anywhere. The tent flap opened, ushering in the cool outside air. It suddenly beckoned me to step out for a fresh breath. Jackson seemed a little surprised and not too pleased to see me still inside the crime scene.
"I was just leaving," I said quickly.
"Too late." Jackson held the flap wider. A man and woman, each wearing white coroner coats and carrying leather bags, stepped inside. An assistant with a camera around his neck and carrying a tall, portable light followed the medical examiners.
The coroner looked confused and then askance at me. I looked to Jackson for help out of the awkward situation.
"Sunni, thanks so much for your help with keeping any curious onlookers from peeking under the tent," Jackson said calmly. He placed a hand against my back and escorted me out of the tent. I was relieved to be outside, away from the smell of blood.
"That was quick thinking, Detective Jackson," I mused. "Guess you developed that skill working for the police department."
"Nope, I learned it when I was a teenager and I needed a quick, plausible excuse for doing stuff I wasn't supposed to be doing." He led me past the team of officers waiting to go in for evidence collection.
They had done an admirable job of clearing the carnival of visitors. Even the workers had been moved out of the radius of the crime scene.
"I've got to get back in there," Jackson said. "Are you taking off?"
"Now when have you known me to just wander away from a murder investigation?"
"I haven't. I was just hoping that ten minutes in a small tent with a dead woman might have made you lose your taste for murder."
I shook my head once. "Nope. If anything, I'm more intrigued." I hopped up on my toes and kissed him lightly on the mouth. "Thank you for the ice cream. I'm sure it would have been delicious. I'll see you later, Detective Jackson."