The Skeleton Haunts a House (13 page)

“It's about word use in Romantic Era poetry, so it doesn't seem likely. Besides if there were anything that was going to cause a stir, Mom would have warned her about it. Dissertations are supposed to be original, but students are steered away from outright controversy.”

“How about a competitor with a similar project who's afraid Roxanne will beat him or her to the punch?”

“Given how long she's been working on this thing, anybody who wanted to beat her to the punch could have done so a long time ago.”

“Then maybe somebody really hates Roxanne. You have to admit, she's kind of annoying. I've never even met her face-to-face, and she annoys me.”

“All grad students are annoying when they get this close to finishing their dissertation. When I was in the middle of mine, I went out to dinner with a friend of mine the day she got a book contract—an actual ‘I've sold a book to a New York publisher and it's going to be published' moment—and all I talked about was my research topic. If that had been a viable murder motive, I'd be dead.”

“Still,” Sid insisted, “there might be something in Roxanne's background to make somebody despise her.”

“Okay, we can check into that, but even if we find an enemy, that won't explain why somebody would frame Linda. Why not just kill Linda? Or Roxanne, for that matter.”

“To cover his tracks. Nobody would expect a plot so complex.”

“That's a point.” I know I didn't expect it to be true. “What's the other result?”

“I bet the haunt will reopen.”

“Weren't we thinking the murderer wanted to close the haunt?”

“Right, right.” He drummed his finger bones against the desk. “What if the secret McQuaid heir killed Kendall to get the haunt closed so he can claim the property? The Quintet found out about it, but won't go to the police for fear of besmirching the fair name of McQuaid. So they're framing Linda to get the haunt reopened without the secret heir coming into it, so the heir will slink away in disgrace.”

“How did they get the bloody gloves?”

More drumming. “One of them broke into the heir's hotel room and stole them.”

“Then why frame poor Linda?”

“She beat one of the Quintet kids out for the math award at PHS? Or maybe they know Roxanne and think it'll be funny if she doesn't ever get her doctorate. Or maybe—”

“Sid, just stop. I'm not saying your theories don't make sense.” They didn't, but I wasn't saying so. “The thing is that we don't need more theories—we need some facts or evidence or proof.”

“Yeah, I guess we do.” He started drumming again, and I thought I saw his bones loosen a touch.

“Don't worry,” I said, patting his scapula. “I don't know what we can find that the cops didn't, but—”

“Georgia, if you say that one more time, I'm going to bite you. Haven't we solved murders before? If you don't take your abilities seriously, at least take mine seriously!”

“I'm sorry, Sid,” I said, surprised by his vehemence. “I don't mean to disrespect you, but this murder feels different from the other ones. Then there were things we knew that the cops didn't. Now it seems as if they know everything we know, plus they've got the forensics and all that going for them.”

“But with all that, they've still got the wrong person, don't they?”

“We don't know for sure . . .”

He snapped his teeth threateningly.

“Yes, they've got the wrong person.”

“Which proves that we already know something they don't, right?”

“Right.”

“Okay then. Now you go get some sleep, and I'll troll the Web and see what else I can find that the cops missed.”

“If it's there, you'll find it, Sherlock,” I said, and leaned over him to plant a kiss on his skull. Kissing bare bone is an odd sensation, but no more so than when I kissed my first car when nobody was looking, and my car didn't smile afterward the way Sid did.

I followed his advice, and though I didn't wake up inspired Thursday morning, at least I was well rested, which was a good thing because the first news of the day wasn't promising. Sid had prepared more dossiers overnight, this time on Roxanne and Linda. Roxanne did so little other than work that she hadn't had time to create enemies, unless you counted the person who claimed she'd co-opted her carrel at the library. Linda was the opposite, with lots of on-campus activities, but she seemed well liked. In other words, Sid had found nothing
that would show why somebody would want to prevent Roxanne's doctorate or get Linda thrown in jail.

Fortunately for my peace of mind, the day got more interesting later on. After my first class, I received a text from Deborah.

Beatrice called. Haunt reopening Friday. Meeting with crew and cast @McHades @6. Tell Madison.

Before I could respond, she sent another.

Want to come?

I was checking my schedule to make sure the timing would work when yet another appeared:

Bring Sid.

If she and my parents had that much confidence in our detective work, maybe I should, too. I texted back that we'd be there, then let Madison and Sid know that I'd pick them up at five thirty.

P
hil was right about the news of Linda's arrest having spread. When I went to the adjunct office after class, I was immediately approached by people asking if the rumor was true. Once I gave the bare-bones account of what had happened, I claimed I had more work to do than I actually did and got busy on my laptop. Of course, that made no difference to Sara Weiss. She showed up a little after eleven, and even before she sat down, said, “Is it true?”

I was tempted to mess with her by pretending not to know what she was talking about, but since she might know something useful, I didn't want to annoy her. “About the arrest? Yeah, the police arrested a sophomore named Linda Zaharee for the haunted house murder.”

“Handcuffs and everything? In your parents' office?” She sounded aggrieved that it had happened in a place to which she had no access.

I nodded.

“Did she resist arrest?”

“There were four cops. What could she have done?”

“I don't know. She could have still had the murder weapon.”

“The baseball bat was left at McHades Hall,” I said without thinking.

“How do you know? Do you have a connection at the police department? Did they release more details?”

Great. If I told her I'd been one of the first on the scene, she'd want to know all the gory details, and there'd been more gore than I wanted to remember. So I hedged. “That's what somebody told me. What have you heard?”

For the next twenty minutes, Sara bombarded me with rumors, facts, and total speculation mixed together indiscriminately. I know she must have breathed during that time—she wasn't Sid—but I'd have been hard-pressed to say when she had the opportunity. Unfortunately she had no useful facts except the fact that the ninja, the cowboy, and Scooby-Doo were still unidentified. She wound it up with, “I'm just glad they've got the killer behind bars. I know I'll sleep a lot easier tonight.”

“I don't think Linda is guilty.”

“Of course she's guilty.”

“I don't know her well, but I taught her, and my sister, mother, and daughter know her. She doesn't strike us as a killer.”

Sara gave me a pitying look. “Good grief, Georgia, don't tell me she pulled the wool over your eyes? You can tell from her picture in the paper that she's a stone-cold killer. She's got dead eyes, like a shark. Why do you think she worked in that haunted house? I mean, what kind of weirdo spends all night scaring people?”

“People like my daughter and my sister.”

I thought that might give her pause, but I hadn't reckoned
on Sara's insatiable hunger for gossip. “Really? Did they see the body? Was there a lot of blood?”

I'm not often speechless, but that time I was. How tactless could one person be?

“Hey, Georgia!” a voice behind me said. “Are you ready for our lunch date?”

It was Brownie Mannix, and as far as I knew, we hadn't made a lunch date, but when he gave me a wink, I got the idea.

“Is it that time already?” I said, packing up my things as quickly as I could. “See you later, Sara.” I think she was starting to ask if she could join us when we went through the office door, moving just short of a run until we were sure she wouldn't follow. Then we slowed down to a more normal pace.

“Thanks for the save, Brownie.”

“No problem. It looked as if you were ready to slug her, and though that would have been entertaining, I didn't want you getting into trouble.”

“It's my own fault. I answered a question about the arrest in my mother's office, and that got her started. Then I made the mistake of admitting that I know something about the murder that she doesn't.”

“I wonder what she'd say if she knew I was in the haunt when it happened?”

“Have you ever seen a lamprey?”

He laughed.

“Anyway, the least I can do after my rescue is buy you lunch.”

“Thanks, but one of the perks of having the show right outside campus is that I can eat at the cook shack for free.”

“Another time?”

“Or you could join me instead. It's not fancy, but Stewpot is a good cook, and Thursday is chicken and dumplings day. Plus you can't beat the price.”

“Isn't it against the rules for you to sneak me in?”

“My mother owns the carnival.”

“In that case, I would be delighted.”

As we walked across the quad to the main campus gate, then onto Elm Street where the carnival was set up, I admit to curiosity about the people Brownie worked with outside of academia. Carnivals have always struck me as being contradictory. On one hand, people take their kids there for fun and excitement. On the other, most people I know assume that the carnies running those merry-go-rounds and Ferris wheels were at best uneducated, and at worst unsavory. I had no idea of what to expect.

What I did not expect was to find Dr. Charles Peyton ensconced in the center of a small ring of tables and chairs next to a trailer from which wafted tantalizing smells. He was sitting with a woman with short, silver hair and eyes the same blue as Brownie's and a man with wispy gray hair escaping from his Red Sox cap. Both were wearing the purple polo shirts that identified carnival employees.

Charles saw the two of us approaching and beamed. “Georgia, College Boy, please come join us.”

Brownie sighed, but bowed to the inevitable. “Georgia, you may remember my parents. Mom, Dad, this is Georgia Thackery, one of my colleagues from McQuaid.”

“Glad to see you again, Mr. and Mrs. Fenton.”

Mrs. Fenton smiled, but Brownie's father said, “It's Mannix, but just call me Treasure Hunt.” He eyed me. “How do I know you?”

Brownie said, “Georgia came to the lot about a year ago, checking on the provenance of a specimen.”

“Right. How's the skeleton?”

“Still dead.”

“Did you ever lick it?”

It was Treasure Hunt who'd shared the tried-and-true way of determining whether or not a skeleton was a reproduction. A real skeleton is porous, so if you lick it, your tongue sticks. At least he said so—I'd never tested it myself. “A lady never licks and tells.”

Treasure Hunt made a noise which I can only describe as a guffaw. “Sit down, Georgia. College Boy, are you going to let this gal starve to death? Go get her something to eat.”

Brownie made the exact same sound I made when my parents embarrassed me in front of friends and said, “One plate of Stewpot's chicken and dumplings coming right up.”

While he was gone, Charles said, “Treasure Hunt and the Boss have been educating me on the use of carnival lingo.”

“Not me,” Mrs. Fenton said. “I usually find English is good enough.”

“I use English,” Treasure Hunt protested. “I just think that only a comic book idiot wouldn't bother to learn the right way to talk to people.”

“Comic book idiot,” Charles repeated, rolling the words around in his mouth. “What does that mean?”

“That's a carny so lazy and stupid that he'd rather read a comic book than tend to paying customers.”

“Or we could just call him lazy,” Mrs. Fenton said.

“Where's the fun in that?” Treasure Hunt protested.

I could tell this was an old argument between them.

“Nice to see you again, Georgia,” she said, “but I should get going. Somebody has to work today—not all of us are comic book idiots.” She gave Treasure Hunt a quick kiss on the cheek that took the sting out of her remark.

Treasure Hunt watched her go with a grin. “That's my girl!”

Brownie arrived with a tray holding two canned Cokes and
two plates of food. He put one of each in front of me, along with paper napkins and plastic cutlery. “Bon appétit.”

“It smells wonderful, but there's no way I can eat all of this.” The dumplings were piled high and wide on the oversized plastic plate.

“Just try a bite.”

I did so, and immediately started thinking about seconds. “This is amazing.”

“Family recipe,” Treasure Hunt said. “Stewpot said his grandmother was the meanest woman he ever met, and his grandfather left her more times than he could count, but he'd always come back for those dumplings.”

Charles patted his stomach. “I've never eaten so well in my life as I have during my days on the lot. Treasure Hunt, are you sure I can't pay for my board?”

The older man waved. “Your money's no good here, Britannica.”

“Britannica?” I asked.

“My new nickname,” Charles said proudly. “It's because I mentioned to Treasure Hunt that I specialize in the Pax Britannica period.”

“No, it's because he talks like he swallowed an encyclopedia.”

“I like it.” I noticed Treasure Hunt eyeing me speculatively, and I was worried that either he was going to bring up Sid again or bestow a nickname on me, so I said, “What other words have you been learning, Charles? I mean, Britannica.”

“A clem is a gullible local, particularly in a rural area. Other terms for those not with it—meaning people who are not part of the show—are towner, townie, chump, or rube. As in, ‘Hey, rube!'”

“Don't say that too loud,” Treasure Hunt warned.

“My apologies.” Charles lowered his voice and said,
“‘Hey, rube,' is the traditional call when a carny finds himself in dire need of aid. All showmen within hearing range are honor-bound to drop whatever they're doing to come to his assistance. Though I understand some shows now use the phrase, ‘It's a clem!'”

“Or they just use their walkie-talkies,” Brownie said.

“What do you know?” Treasure Hunt said dismissively. “You screw the carnival and then come eat for free.”

“He isn't saying that Brownie was dishonest,” Charles assured me. “‘Screw the carnival' means that he left the show before the season was over.”

“Which I haven't,” Brownie said. “Was I screwing the carnival when I took over as talker for the merchandise wheel, or spent an hour finding a short in the popper?”

Treasure Hunt shrugged. “Maybe working at the egghead farm hasn't completely ruined you. Yet.”

Brownie shook his head ruefully—obviously this was another old argument. While Charles asked for an explanation of the new terms, I was happy to finish emptying my plate.

“So I hear they arrested one of your students yesterday,” Treasure Hunt said.

Brownie looked chagrined. He'd rescued me from Sara only to have his father get onto the same topic.

“They did,” I said, “but I think they've got the wrong person.”

“Wouldn't surprise me none. Cops always go for the easy answer, whether or not it makes sense. Our patch has been working overtime squaring things so they don't try to blame one of us. Cops love blaming carnies.”

“A patch is like an ombudsman for the show,” Brownie explained. “She takes care of customer complaints, and liaises with the police for permits and so forth.”

“We should never have come to Pennycross anyway.”
Treasure Hunt looked disgusted. “Hockey Puck Wilson usually takes this stand, but he burned the lot last year.”

“I don't remember a fire,” I said, “so I'm guessing that means he made the lot too hot somehow.”

“Got it in one. Hockey Puck's show was infested with grifters, short-change artists, and pickpockets, which added up to unhappy towners. So the sponsors found us, and the Boss accepted without asking me. I never did like this town—no offense. Besides, we should have canceled after what happened at our last stand.”

“What happened?” I didn't really think a murderer had been stalking the carnival, but it wouldn't hurt to ask.

What Treasure Hunt described was considerably less fatal. “I caught a first-of-May eating peanuts at the duck pond, and when he saw me coming, he tossed the shells right on the ground! After that, I knew we'd never make our nut here.”

Charles and I looked to Brownie for a translation.

“For a carny to eat peanuts in his tent is supposed to be bad luck, especially if he throws the debris on the ground. And ‘making our nut' means covering expenses, which we've been doing nicely, no matter what my father says.”

“The stand isn't over yet,” Treasure Hunt said. He stood and stretched. “Well, maybe you academic types don't mind spending all day sitting and talking, but I'm a working man. I'm going to take a visit to the donniker, then go get busy.”

“That's the restroom,” Charles explained, though I'd kind of figured.

“So now you've had a chance to see the glory that is my family,” Brownie said after his father left. “Eccentricity defined.”

“Are you kidding? My parents are English professors, my sister is a locksmith who runs a haunted house for fun, and my daughter is an otaku slash science fiction geek. Eccentricity is my life.” And that was leaving out Sid.

“Nonsense,” Charles said. “Both of your families are perfectly charming. But what is an otaku?”

That moved the conversation away from carny to the equally confusing vernacular of nerd culture, and I think that by the time we headed back to campus for afternoon classes, we could all agree that my family was just as weird as Brownie's.