At midmorning the carnival had a residue of depleted energy and foggy purpose. The jack with the spiked stick was spearing empty popcorn cartons, cigarette packs, and the little paper spindles on which cotton candy was spun. Someone else was stocking cheap stuffed toys onto the shelves of an arcade. In another, a shirtless man with a large spiderweb tattooed on his lean chest was partially inflating tough-skinned little balloons from a compressed-air tank, affixing them to a square of particleboard, where most of the darts that hit them would bounce off. At a booth where for a buck you tossed baseballs to knock over a stack of milk bottles, there was no one around, so I gave in to curiosity. The balls were light and squishy and hit the canvas backdrop with a listless thwack. The bottles were made of wood, with weighted bottoms. What did I expect?
I wandered among the tents and booths and food concessions, most of which were shuttered. Farther back, away from the traffic area, was the encampment of vans and small mobile homes where the carnival workers lived. Judging by the number of satellite dishes, they didn’t want for much. I made my way in that direction. A woman in pink curlers, several clothespins protruding from her mouth like weird teeth, was hanging
ratty stockings and sequined costumes on a line strung between two trailers. I approached a man and a woman who were sitting on the steps of one of the trailers, having a cigarette. The man was making gestures with one hand. I introduced myself and told them why I was there.
“If Pop says y’all are okay, it’s fine by me,” the woman said. “Me and Red were just talking about it. I’m Penny Bergfors. This here’s Red Fogarty, from Bangor.” He was a big, rough-complexioned redhead with a hand that felt like lumpy rawhide when we shook. “Red works the Tilt-a-Whirl, and drives truck when we roll.”
And apparently didn’t speak for himself. Penny looked around forty, with dark roots showing in her blond hair and the Deep South oozing out of her voice. “No, sir, I don’t know what-all to think. I mean, you work with a guy, you like to reckon you know him some. Personally, I like him. He keeps to himself, but he’s friendly enough, and he works hard. Wouldn’t you say so, Red?”
The redhead made some hand gestures again, which I realized were sign language. Penny turned to me. “He says, ‘A-yuh.’”
We all smiled. “Was the victim familiar at all?”
“Poor thing.” Penny clicked her tongue. “No, she wasn’t. Though I gather Troy knew her.”
“The police claim that he was here with her yesterday sometime. Did you see or hear anything, arguing maybe, or raised voices?”
“It’s pretty noisy around here anyway. With the rides going, you get shrieks and screams all the time. I don’t reckon I’d have noticed.”
“I did,” someone else said.
I turned. A lean man who didn’t look much older than twenty, though weathered, drifted over. He wore a red-speckled, tie-dyed T-shirt that made him look like he’d been shotgunned and was bleeding out of many holes. He had small gold earrings. “Heard you askin’ about Pepper,” he said. I gave him my name and told him what I was up to. He was Tito Alvarez. “You talkin’ about the woman,” he said. “I seen the two of ’em yesterday, and on Saturday, too. She come over both days. Beats me, man, what was she doing, but I got my ideas.”
“You saw them, Tito?” Penny Bergfors asked.
“Oh yeah. They didn’t hang around chewing the fat. Went on into his trailer.”
“Do you remember what time that was?”
He thought about it. “Morning. Late.”
“Did you ever see her before this week?” I was jotting as we spoke.
“Like on the road, you mean?”
“Or anywhere outside of Lowell?”
“No. I think I’d remember her. She was a bonita muchacha. Pepper, man, he’s a little strange. Quiet. He don’t mix much. In the time he’s been with the show, I can count on two fingers the times he’s ever drunk a brew with us. Wouldn’t you say so, Red?”
Red Fogarty pinched the stub of his cigarette, dropped it into a red can, and nodded.
“And that’s only when someone buys a case and we sit around here,” Tito added. “I don’t think he’s never gone to no bar with us.”
“Maybe he’s on the wagon,” Penny said.
“No, c‘mon, you’ve seen him havin’ a brew.”
“So maybe he just doesn’t enjoy the company,” she teased.
“Yeah, right. No, I’m thinking some of the bars we find are pretty rough. I wonder maybe he’s got a glass jaw?”
“He certainly looks like he can handle himself if he had to,” Penny said.
“No lie, I’ve seen rugged guys couldn’t take a punch.”
“Which trailer is Pepper’s?” I asked.
Penny indicated a cream-colored camper with a chrome strip along the side. “That’s it yonder.” It was hooked onto the bed of a gray pickup truck with a New Jersey tag. I copied the number into my notebook.
“Do any of you think Troy Pepper killed that girl?” I asked.
Penny Bergfors’s brow crinkled. “I don’t think he did,” she said tentatively; then, with more certitude, “‘Cause we ain’t like that.” The two men agreed, though with something less than firm conviction. I made sure I had their names in my notebook and thanked them for talking with me.
Pepper’s camper trailer was half the size of Sonders’s motor home. There was a set of metal stairs in the down position, and police tape on the door. The department techs would already have examined it but hadn’t released it yet. Meecham would likely request permission for us to look it over, too, but we’d have to wait our turn. I did peer through a little
louvered window in the back door, but it was dark in there and I couldn’t see anything. I wandered around the carnival site some more. As I did, I had the sensation of being watched. It was one of those feelings you sometimes get, but when I stopped and did a slow 360 I didn’t see anyone. I walked toward the haunted house.
By daylight, Castle Spookula was about as macabre as a plastic jack-o’ lantern. A few hundred feet beyond it, though, there had been real horror. I kept outside the yellow crime scene tape and tried to see it as I’d seen it last night—and as I was likely to go on seeing it for some time to come. Phoebe had been so shaken by the experience that she had phoned a girlfriend and asked me to drop her there to spend the night. I hadn’t suggested that she come to my place. We hadn’t gotten that far yet, and anyhow, since my move, I still hadn’t unpacked much beyond clothes and my day-to-day needs. My living room was stacked with cardboard cartons, and going to remain so for now.
Birds sang in the autumn-tall grass, telling me nothing. A large dead pine tree stood about fifty feet back, and far beyond that, woods. I thought of the torn-open blouse, the knotted scarf. According to the Sun, the police believed the woman had been strangled in Pepper’s trailer. I judged the distance from here to there to be a hundred yards, give or take. A fair distance to carry a body—though she was small, and he was strong. The area was too trampled by the activities of last night to make much of it. I’d leave evidence gathering to the police. I’d stick with looking for answers—though at the moment I didn’t have any of those, either, only the challenge of finding some.
As I headed for my car, jotting a final question in my pad, I had the perception again that I was being watched. I stopped. When I glanced about, I noticed a shimmer of reflection on one of the crazy mirrors on the side of Castle Spookula and turned to look behind me. In an alleyway between trailers, some distance away, a large bald man wearing green work clothes was looking my way. I couldn’t tell his age. Seeing me notice him, he turned abruptly and went into a stubby Airstream trailer parked apart from the others. On the door, painted in a gaudy red and gold circus script, was a sign: ROGO THE KLOWN.