Clowns and Cowboys (A Miranda and Parker Mystery Book 3) (7 page)

On a flat patch of dirt, a pack of young, tan, shirtless dudes with assorted tattoos and rock hard abs shot a basketball through a hoop hung on a tree.

A Hispanic-looking guy with a single dragon tattoo on his shoulder missed his shot and the ball bounced in the dirt toward Miranda. She caught it, took aim, tossed and sank it.

The whole group turned to look at her.

A couple of them whistled in admiration.

Single-Tattoo caught the ball as it came out of the net and gave her and Parker the once over with a surly eye. “You two with the show?” Thought they were new hires.

She shook her head. “We’re PIs.”

“PIs?” A burly, rough-looking white guy took a step toward them for a closer look. He had so many tattoos on his arms and torso he looked like he’d been dipped in an ink bottle. “You here about what happened to Tupper?”

“We are.” Parker nodded to him. “What can you tell us about him?”

They looked at each other.

A dark-skinned dude with a pencil mustache and no tattoos shrugged. “Not that much. We’re on the ring crew. The performers mostly hang out with each other.”

“Surely you had some interaction with Mr. Magnuson.”

“Magnuson? Was that his last name?”

“It was,” Parker said.

“We only knew him by Tupper. Terrible what happened to him. Everybody’s shaken by it. Yeah, he’d say hi to us, maybe tell us a joke or something. But we mostly keep busy taking care of the facilities.”

“Yeah,” Single-Tattoo grinned. “The tent doesn’t go up without us.”

“And the port-a-potties don’t get emptied,” the over-inked guy chimed in with a smirk.

Miranda was getting frustrated. “You see Tupper hanging out with anyone in particular?”

“You mean another performer?”

“Uh huh.”

Single- and Uber-Tattoo looked at each other. “Laaay-la.”

She decided to play dumb. “Layla? Who’s that?”

“Tupper’s girl,” Pencil Mustache grinned. “She does a silk aerial act. Man, she’s hot.”

The others chimed in their agreement with the sounds males made in reaction to attractive women.

Parker smiled along with them as if sharing their lust then his face went deadpan. “When was the last time you saw her?”

“Layla?”

They all looked at each other again and shrugged.

“Night before last during the performance, I guess,” Single-Tattoo said. “We were busy breaking things down after the show. Had a shower, went to bed.”

The others nodded that they’d done the same.

Miranda decided to throw out a hook. “We’ve heard Layla’s missing.”

Uber-Tattoo’s mouth opened. “Really?”

Single Tattoo shuffled the basketball from hand to hand. “That’s weird. She’s a headliner. How do you know?”

“We don’t.”

“We’ll you can check out her trailer. It’s down that way.” He pointed to where the nicer RVs were parked, closer to the tent. “In fact, that’s the area where all the performers live. They’d be able to tell you more than we can. They knew Tupper better.”

A school bell like chime rang out over the trailer roofs.

Pencil Mustache jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the sound. “Lunch time. Sorry. We gotta go.”

“Yeah,” said Single-Tattoo. “If we don’t get there right away, Tiny will eat all the food.”

They weren’t going to get much more from this bunch. “Thanks for your help,” Miranda said as she watched them trot away, leaving the basketball lying under the tree.

She turned to Parker. “We’re off to a terrific start.”

“They told us Layla might not be missing.” Proving Sam’s suspicion wrong. Parker would love that.

“Unless they’re hiding something.”

“True.”

She gazed at the lane that ran down to the trailers near the big top, the area where they’d been last night. “Let’s take the crew’s advice and talk to some of the performers.”

“Very well.”

###

They strolled along the grassy path, traversing the maze of various sized RVs and campers, most of them with breeze fans or window A/C units going full blast.

Each vehicle was parked to leave enough space between it and its neighbor to make a yard about fifteen or twenty feet wide. In each yard a range of belongings was sprinkled about, similar to what you might find in any typical neighborhood with kids. Shoes piled up at one door, bikes lined up against the wall. Strollers, a small wading pool like the one Miranda’s father got her when she was little. Planters hanging from under awnings.

Families lived here.

Amazing how folks could make themselves at home even when they had to pick up and move every other month or so. Kind of reminded her of the way she used to live. She never cared for having a lot of things. Most of her belongings used to fit in her old car.

But Parker had come along and changed all that.

They reached a spot where several groups of performers were practicing their acts. A couple of young muscle-bound men in tight red T-shirts and blue jeans tossed colorful rings back and forth. Beyond them, a large man in white tights with a big black mustache and a Russian accent barked stern instructions to a young woman walking a narrow bar barefoot.

“Not too fast. Do not look down, Feya. It make you look like amateur.”

Her scowl said she didn’t appreciate the correction, but she quickly covered it before he saw it.

“That is it, Bobo. Good boy!” cooed someone in a French accent.

In front of one of the nicer RVs a bubbly woman with bright red curls piled atop her head led a cute shaggy white terrier around in a circle on its hide legs. Two other pooches sat on brightly painted overturned buckets watching the woman and the terrier, and looking like they would love to join in the antics. But it wasn’t their turn yet.

Seemed odd for the place to be so animated while the death of a fellow performer still hung in the air. Guess you had to keep in practice no matter what the circumstances.

Miranda looked around wondering which one to talk to first when she spotted a small, delicate looking woman in jeans and a black T-shirt with the UBT logo in gold under a vinyl awning across the way. She was getting a couple of little boys settled at a picnic table.

“Want to try her?” she said to Parker.

“As good a choice as any.”

She stepped over to her through the tall grass. “Excuse me.”

The woman looked up, surprise on her face. “Can I help you?” She spoke with an Eastern European accent.

“Maybe.” Miranda cocked her head at her.

Apparently people from all over the world came to work in the circus. If someone wanted to knock off a clown and head back to the Old Country to hide for a while, who’d be the wiser? But she was getting ahead of herself.

Extending a hand, she stepped up to the woman. “My name is Miranda Steele and this is my partner, Wade Parker. We’re investigators looking into the incident that occurred here night before last.” She purposely left out the word “private” hoping the woman would think they were cops.

The woman shook her hand, frowning suspiciously, gave Parker the once-over common to anyone missing a Y chromosome. “You mean Tupper?”

“Yes.”

The woman ran a hand over her head to smooth her curly brown hair. Close up she seemed tinier, coming up just to Miranda’s shoulder. Her arms and neck were thin. And though her flyaway hair hid it, Miranda noticed her forehead protruded just a tad.

“The police were here that night. We saw them over there.” She gestured around the corner several trailers away.

“That was Tupper’s place?”

“Yes.” It was where Miranda and Parker had been last night. Another point for Sam’s honesty score.

The woman eyed her closely. “Didn’t they get everything they needed?”

So much for the idea of making her think they were cops. “We’re private investigators,” Miranda told her. “A member of your staff hired us.”

The woman rubbed her arm. “Oh? Who?”

“Mama, I’m hungry.” The smaller boy pounded his little fits on the table. He couldn’t have been older than four and his brother beside him three. Both had their mother’s curly brown hair.

“In a minute, Grigori,” she told him.

He poked his lip out in a pout while the woman busied herself setting out plastic plates and utensils.

Miranda used the distraction to dodge the question. “We’d just like to talk to you a few moments about the deceased.”

She laid a plastic fork next to the younger boy’s blue plate. He picked up the plate and started to lick it.

“No, Vasya. Put it down.” She glanced at Miranda. “I’m not sure what I can tell you.”

“Did you work closely with him?”

“Me? Well, we weren’t in the same act, if that’s what you mean. I assist my husband. He’s the human cannonball.”

A real human cannonball? “That’s impressive.”

Keeping her gaze down she half smiled. “We were all in a few dance numbers together, but most of the cast is in those.”

Miranda blew out a breath of frustration and nodded to Parker. Maybe he could loosen this woman’s tongue. She was female, after all.

Parker shot her one of his to-die-for smiles. “How well did you know Tupper Magnuson, Mrs....?”

“Varga. Dashia Varga.” She was unmoved by Parker’s charm or maybe just too busy. Without looking up or offering a hand she laid out napkins for her sons. One blew away and the smaller boy ran after it.

She sighed aloud and folded her arms. She didn’t run after him but kept a watchful eye on the boy to make sure he didn’t stray too far. “I knew him pretty well, I guess. As well as I know most of the other performers. We’re all family here.”

“What was he like?” Miranda asked.

She turned back to face them. “Tupper? Oh, he was a joker. A funny man. He was a clown, you see.”

“So we understand,” Parker said in a practiced tone that made you want to say more.

Mrs. Varga pushed her hair back again and smiled wistfully. “Most clowns, you know. They’re only entertaining in the ring. Tupper, he was on all the time.”

“You mean he was a phony?” Miranda said.

“Oh, no. He was very genuine. He cared about everybody. That was real. I just meant he could always make you laugh, no matter how down you might be.”

Miranda pursed her lips at Parker. She could tell he was thinking the same thing she was. Didn’t sound like the type of guy to commit suicide.

Just then the flap on the RV door pulled back and a man appeared with a plate of hotdogs. He was tall, thick-necked and muscle-bound, and dressed in a black leotard like his wife. He might be the human cannonball but he could have doubled as the strongman.

Not the type you’d want to meet in a dark alley.

At the sight of the dogs, the older kid jumped from his seat and started hopping up and down. “Oh, boy! Oh, boy!”

“Quiet down now. Grigori, put that in the trash,” the man said to the younger one who was waving the runaway napkin he’d fetched off the ground. The man set the dogs down on the picnic table and frowned at Miranda and Parker. “You didn’t tell me we had guests, Dashia.” He also had an accent.

“These are private investigators, Yuri,” his wife told him. “They’re here about Tupper.”

There was a look of shock on his face, then his expression turned dark. “I hope you can find out what really happened to him.”

Miranda eyed his face trying not to stare. He was bald, with thick black brows. He couldn’t have been more than mid-twenties but a long scar ran from one side of his head, down his forehead and across his nose, which was wide and flat. Another scar ran down the side of his neck. Miranda knew scars. She had a couple of her own that would never go away and so did Parker. The cannonball’s looked particularly nasty.

“Do you share the theory it wasn’t natural causes?” she asked him.

He slipped a protective arm around Dashia’s shoulders. “We don’t have a theory. We heard a rumor the police weren’t sure how he passed away. We only want things to be made right, whatever happened.”

Interesting comeback. “What about Layla?”

“Layla?”

“The silk aerial artist? How well do you know her?”

Dashia glanced up at Yuri as if asking permission to speak. He gave her a slight nod.

“We don’t know her very well,” she said.

“Didn’t she date Tupper?”

Her eyes widened as if she was surprised Miranda knew that little tidbit. “Well, yes. But she was very private.”

Uh huh. “Can you tell me Layla’s last name?”

“Last name?”

“Surely you know it. I understand she was from Eastern Europe.”

Dashia glanced up at her husband again. Miranda knew she was about to lie.

“There you two are!”

She spun around and caught sight of Sam jogging up to join them. He had on a dark blue Harley-Davidson T-shirt, khaki cargo shorts, and a camouflage cowboy hat to replace yesterday’s Stetson. His big silver belt buckle gleamed with the image of a longhorn and the embossed words “Cowboy Up,” southwestern for “man up.”

“Sam,” she said when he reached them. “What are you doing here?”

He frowned at her. “I live here, like everybody else.”

“I mean what are you doing right here?” She pointed to the ground.

He raised his palms. “Coming to help you two out. Did you talk the police?”

She didn’t answer. “Right now, we’re talking to this gentleman and his wife.”

Sam folded his arms. “I can see that. Have you met? This is Yuri Varga. He’s our human cannonball.”

“So his wife said.”

“His act is absolutely amazing. He flies over sixty feet in the air at sixty-five miles per hour. Nothing scares Yuri. He missed the net once. That’s how his face got messed up.”

She scowled at him as if that remark was the rudest thing she’d ever heard.

“Oh, ole Yuri brags about it. Those scars are badges of honor. Right, big guy?” He gave the man a punch on the arm.

Yuri forced a smile. “I’m only grateful I lived. Sam, did you hire these detectives?”

“Yes, I did. I want to find out what happened to Tupper.”

“We all do.”

So it was Sam the cannonball had heard the rumor from.

Miranda wanted to give Sam a shake for spreading it. And for bumbling into their investigation and ruining the rhythm of their questioning.