Falafel Jones - The Kewpie Killer (3 page)

It took me a moment to realize what Lucy said and it creeped me out. Her doll from the carnival was plastic but mine was ceramic… like the dead Farmer’s. It made no sense for someone to murder him and leave a doll by his body. Killers make great efforts to remove evidence. They don’t generally bring something just to leave it behind.

Too busy for games, I put the tape back on the doll, stuck it in my desk drawer, and got to work. Robby gave me enough new information for a follow up to my poor excuse for a story. Now, here was a chance to do it right and additional facts could make the difference. It was time to do some research.

I grabbed my bag and took the two-block walk to the County Office Building. Dad made a good choice when he selected a downtown location for the Chronicle offices. Everything was close by.

In the building lobby, I stopped in one of Waalbroeks few remaining phone booths. An antique, it boasted a windowed, folding door made of wood, a working phone and an intact phone book. I attributed this unusual condition to the continual presence of a County Police officer seated nearby.

I copied Morgan Finley’s address from the phone book and then took the marble stairs up to the Records Office. When I got to the counter, Marilyn Adams, from High School rose from a desk to greet me.

“Raquel Flanagan. I didn’t know you were back in town. Geez, it’s been years. I haven’t seen you since the school paper picnic, graduation weekend.”

“Yeah, just got home last week. How you been?”

She raised then lowered a shoulder. “Eh, not exactly doing what I expected, but it’s a living. You?”

“Umm, I just started a new job.”

“Good for you. Where?”

“Here in town.”

“Doing what?”

“Working for Mom.”

Her left eyebrow went up. “At the Chronicle?”

“Umm, yes.”

“Go-fer?”

“Reporter.”

“Oh… well, I guess contacts help. What can I do for you?”

I told her and she gave me copies of the documents she had on Finley. I thought she might ask why I wanted them but she just dropped the pile abruptly on the counter, excused herself and left the room.

The only place Finley owned was his farm and the deed showed he bought the place from Ethan Maupin’s estate about 20 years ago on May 20. Nothing of use there.

Records also confirmed he married Mildred Finley. Her death certificate was on file but viewing was restricted, so all it did was confirm poor Millie passed many years ago. Nothing new here either but at least the effort verified my facts about his home and marital status. Hardly worth seeing Marilyn again.

The Chronicle has a faithful readership with long memories. It wouldn’t be good to embarrass myself by not knowing what we already printed about the Kelly Carnival. It was time to look them up too, so I went back to the Chronicle Building.

On my way to my desk, I saw Walt Grimley, one of the Bulldogs. He stopped in front of me and blocked my way. Then, he dipped his tea bag in his cup and asked, “Have fun at the circus, Kid?”

I didn’t know how to take his question, so I stopped, stared at him and waited.

He grinned at me with a perfect set of dentures. “You know ‘Breaker’ Burke?”

I shook my head.

“A local bookie slash loan shark. Did a story on him ‘bout a year ago. Cops found him in a field near the carnival grounds. Fatal head wound. Considered the death an ‘occupational hazard’ but couldn’t figure which deadbeat client beat him dead.”

Then he paused and smiled at me with what seemed to be anticipation so I said, “What?”

“Next to him, with the head snapped off and dressed like a riverboat gambler – a Kewpie Doll.”

I gaped at him with my mouth open.

He toasted me with his teacup, but before he walked away, he said, “Your Dad gave me a break when no one else would.”

Too strange to be coincidence. Two years, two dead carnival patrons. Each victim next to a Kewpie Doll with the head broken off… and now mine waited blindfolded and gagged in a desk drawer. I didn’t know who sent the doll but it was clear they wanted me to leave this story alone. They didn’t cover this in my Journalism classes. Maybe my editor would have some advice.

Uncle Bill’s office door was open but he was on the phone so I waited by his window. He saw me and waved me in and over to one of the chairs facing his desk.

He yelled into the phone, “Yeah? Same to you!” hung up and shook his head. “Damn layout folks. They’d have it so nothing happens anywhere after 10:00 am. The bastards. Can you imagine the banner on the New York Times reading, ‘All the news that’s fit to print by ten’? Sorry, Kid. What’s on your mind?”

I told him about the New York carnival deaths and my theory these could be serial killings.

“Walt Grimley told you about this other doll?”

“Yes.”

“…and you believe him? You know how he likes to mess with the new kids.”

“I know, but this time, he seemed sincere.”

“Walter?”

“He told me about me it because Dad ‘gave him a break when no one else would’.”

“Oh.”

“You think that means anything?”

“Yeah, I do, besides, it’s easy enough for you to catch him in a lie, but even if it’s true. So what?”

“What do you mean?”

“Raquel, Raquel darling. What carnival doesn’t have Kewpie Dolls? Unfortunately, people die every day. Especially bookies with enemies. Drunks fall all of the time. They bang their heads. They choke on their vomit. They…” He lifted his shoulders and eyebrows for a moment. “It’s not pretty but it’s common. Maybe you’ve been reading too many novels. Some competitor or client may have offed the bookie but there’s no serial killer here.”

“What about the Kewpie Dolls? Each man had a Kewpie Doll matching his profession.”

“You think that there’s something odd about people with dolls matching their livelihood?” Uncle Bill looked at me over his glasses and pointed his pencil across his desk to a Hummel-like figurine. Next to his Rolodex sat a newspaper editor wearing an eyeshade, holding an oversized pencil and sitting hunched over a desk. “My sister-in-law, your mother, gave me that. You think maybe she’s a killer too?”

“Of course not, but something’s not right… don’t know what it is yet, but there’s something here.” I told him about the doll in my desk drawer.

He sat quietly for a moment. “Are you in danger?”

“Probably not… no, I’m not. If someone wanted to hurt me, they could have done that instead of sending me a Kewpie. It may be just a prank… maybe from one of the Bulldogs. You know how those guys act.”

Uncle Bill chewed on his lip then said, “OK, Kid. Look into this… see where it goes.”

“Thanks. Uncle Bill, did you know the Police identified the dead farmer as Morgan Finley? He owned Finley Farms.”

He smiled, “Oh yeah? I remember his farm. We used to go there for pumpkins and Christmas trees.”

“Do you remember him?”

“Not really, but I do remember that before Finley bought the place, Old Man Maupin owned it. Did you know that when Maupin had it, the carnival used to set up on that farm?”

“No, you mean Kelly’s Carnival?”

“No, before Kelly’s. Another outfit. Can’t remember the name. Wait, Medicini, no Medici’s. That’s it. Then Maupin died. The new owner, Finley, cancelled the contract with the carnival… at the last minute… wanted to get his pumpkin crop in. Big story back then. Folks wanted to lynch Finley. Surprised no one did.”

“So when did Kelly’s start coming?”

“Oh, wasn’t till a year or two later… when they finished the fairground.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“This is all old news and it’s getting late. Better get me that carny copy before I get another call from layout.”

“OK, Uncle Bill.” I headed for the door.

“Hey, Sweetheart?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t forget. You haven’t failed to find something until you give up looking.”

“Dad used to say that.”

“Yeah… he did.” Uncle Bill sat still for a moment. Then he clapped his hands together twice and yelled, “Get outta here. Get back to work,” and I did.

I went back to my desk and uploaded my carnival photos to the newspaper’s server. These pictures would go well with my Sunday feature article. I had nice shots of families enjoying themselves and some colorful Carny workers.

I completed my copy about Farmer Finley and sent it to editing. My draft only briefly mentioned the dead “Breaker” Burke but contained nothing about the Kewpie Doll. I didn’t want to write about it until I knew what it meant.

Finally finished with my assignment, I could snoop a bit and search for other news about carnival deaths. I found two reported in Florida papers.

The first article mentioned a pair of Kewpie Dolls and a murder-suicide at an unnamed carnival around twenty years ago. I dismissed it, as that killer was obviously dead.

The other story took place two years ago. Police found a murdered clown but the article said nothing about a doll. This killing was different as the New York victims were patrons not employees and the Clown didn’t have a Kewpie… or did he?

My story didn’t mention a Kewpie either. Just because the Florida story didn’t mention a doll didn’t mean there wasn’t one. A few keystrokes on the computer located the Achalaca County Police Department and their phone number. I dialed and after a few transfers, a man said, “Homicide.”

“Hi, I’d like to speak with the detective who handled the death of that clown two years ago.”

“Ma’am. That’s no way to talk about the dead.”

“No. I mean yes, but I’m asking about a real clown. He died at a carnival.”

“Oh, just a minute.” I heard a slight pause, a muffled laugh and then a different voice spoke, “Detective Franklin. To whom am I speaking?”

“Raquel Flanagan, a reporter with the Waalbroek Chronicle.”

“Waalbroek? Where the heck is that?”

“Central New York. Where the heck is Achalaca?”

“Central Florida. Is there something else or did you call for a geography lesson?”

“Do you know of a case two years ago where a clown was killed at a carnival?”

“Yes.”

“Was a Kewpie Doll found at the scene? Perhaps a clown doll?”

The line went quiet. Then, “Who is this?”

“Raquel Flanagan from the Chronicle. Well, was there one?”

“We can’t discuss the case. It’s still an open investigation. Good bye.”

So much for police cooperation, if I wanted information, I’d have to get it elsewhere. The carnival seemed like a good place to start. I could also stop to see that apartment on the way.

* * *

When I arrived at the Brookview Gardens management office, I asked to see the advertised apartment. A young blonde woman got up from a desk and handed me a business card.

“Thanks for coming by. I’m Suzy Weston, the rental agent.”

I looked at the card, “I think you’re the only business in Waalbroek that doesn’t spell ‘brook’ ‘b-r-o-e-k’.”

“Used to, before construction started. We spelled it ‘B-r-o-e-k-ville’ but when somebody mispronounced it as ‘Brokeville’ at an investors meeting, well… ”

Suzy showed me a huge one-bedroom unit with a washer\dryer. Freshly painted, it included a modern kitchen, a dining area large enough to seat eight people and a six by ten foot balcony off the plushy carpeted living room. It came with a reserved indoor parking space and utilities for a rent that I could just afford. I was thrilled and said, “I’ll take it.”

Suzy said, “Oh, I’m sorry. This one’s taken. The cutest newlywed couple signed the lease this morning, but we’re taking names in case there’s a problem with their credit check. We also expect to have another unit available soon.”

“Soon?”

“Oh, yes, we have a couple of leases expiring over the next few months.”

“Few months?”

“We can place your name on a waiting list. Give me your number and I can call you when the next one is available. These go fast.”

I left my name, waved good-bye to what could have been and dragged myself away to my car.

* * *

The carnival must have been doing big business. When I arrived, I couldn’t find any place to park until I drove around the lot a few times. After my second loop, I noticed a yellow and red camper van also looking for a spot. I thought that maybe I saw that van at Brookview Gardens. It looked like everyone was going to the show today.

As I traipsed across the grounds, I saw the carnival showed no signs of last night’s death. Folks wandered the walkways, fed food into mouths, gathered at games and waited for rides. I followed the mob until I came to a group of trailers and campers behind the biggest tent. It seemed like a good spot to look for the owner.

I heard a sound, something like “Pfffhht.” Then, a few seconds later, heard it again, and after a bit, again. Next, there was silence followed by angry voices. The voices led past a trailer to my left into a circle of motor homes and campers. Inside the circle, a large wooden rectangle covered with gaudy red and yellow paint leaned against a post. Knives stuck out of the wood and a couple stood in front of them. The man held a fist full of fierce looking blades and argued with the woman facing him. They stopped fighting when they saw me.

The woman asked me, “What do you want?”

“I’m looking for the owner.”

The man pointed to one of the trailers, “The silver one with the red flag on the roof.”

I thanked him and walked away, but could hear the woman yelling, “Why did you answer her. She spoke to me. You have to flirt with every good-looking woman you see. You bastard.”

The man yelled something and then they went back and forth. When the trailer with the red flag came into view, it was good to be out of earshot. I knocked on the door and a moment later, Leonardo opened it.

“Hi, remember me? Is the owner here?”

“Yeah, Raquel, right? You were here taking pictures when that drunk farmer fell in the dark, then we met at the coffee shop. It’s good to see you again.” He showed me that fantastic smile.

“And you’re Leonardo. Are you the owner?”

“No, Pops owns the carnival, but he’s out now. Maybe I can help you?”

“Hope so. I’m working on an additional story for the Chronicle and wanted to ask some questions.”