Elaine Orr - Jolie Gentil 03 - When the Carny Comes to Town (28 page)

MY CAR WAS PARKED ON THE street closest to the carnival entrance.  It was five-thirty and I had promised Sgt. Morehouse I would go home, but since I hadn’t had a police escort I was sitting there burning gas by turning the air conditioner on and off. 

I could see the carnival entrance, but there were too many people going in and out for me to have much chance to see Scoobie.  I simply wanted to be close.  I was still having an internal debate about whether to enter the carnival, but I figured the police would spot me and I wouldn’t put it past Morehouse to think of some reason they should arrest me.

I kept going over what I knew and what I thought I knew.  I had thought Turk might be involved in Penny’s murder somehow.  I couldn’t figure out how, but when Aunt Madge said that Penny sometimes sold ride tickets at the carnival it seemed logical.  And then we saw Penny on the tape, following Turk.  Now, however, it seemed that murdering Penny was not part of his plan.  Her son, yes.

In a million years I would not have suspected Marcus of anything criminal, much less violent.  It wasn’t just his disguise, though he had done a pretty good job with white hair dye and glasses, among other efforts to change his appearance.  He fit my image of a writer, seemingly distracted at times, maybe a couple of crabs short of a bushel.  And the book cover.  It was awful, but just realistic enough for me to think a publisher really had given him a mock-up of his cover. 
Cash Out for Murder
.  Lame. 

And Penny.  Scoobie had not seen her in the Sandpiper, but it’s L-shaped and always crowded.  Penny saw him.  I could only think of one reason for her not calling an ambulance after she followed Scoobie and Turk from the Sandpiper in the wee hours of Saturday morning.  It was dark and she was just enough behind Turk after they left the Sandpiper that she missed Scoobie climbing onto the boardwalk and Turk pushing him down the steps and apparently dragging him under the boardwalk and injecting him with drugs. 

But Penny must have suspected something, to have followed Turk from the Budget Inn back to the boardwalk a few hours later.  She called the ambulance when she finally did find her son.  Why didn’t Penny want anyone to know she was the one who called?  Maybe because she used a stolen mobile phone.  Maybe because she hadn’t checked in with her parole officer.  Or maybe she thought her presence would make the police suspect her, though she knew Josh and Max and seen her rush up after they ran Turk off.  From all I had heard about her and her awful behavior at the hospital, it was possible that following Turk and calling the ambulance were her only selfless acts on behalf of Scoobie.  Too bad it came so late, said a small voice in my head.  Better late than never.

It was hotter than blue blazes, as Aunt Madge would say.  I turned on the air conditioner again, which meant I had to start the car.  Somebody beeped from the street, and I rolled down the window and motioned they should pass so they’d know I was not going to leave the parking space.  I was rewarded by having a man who looked older than Aunt Madge flip the bird at me. 
Nice.

After another twenty minutes I was thinking about driving to the police station so I’d be there when Scoobie and the officers got back there.  I hadn’t been given any specific orders not to do that, though I could be pretty sure Morehouse would regard “stay at Madge’s until I call you,” as just that. 

I sighed and turned on my blinker to show I was going to leave the parking space.  As I looked up and down the street for traffic I saw a familiar figure coming toward me.  Turk was walking fast down the street, but not running.  He hugged the parked cars and every five or ten steps he would look over his shoulder.  As he got within a few car lengths I sunk low in my seat and wished I had a pimpmobile with dark windows. 

I didn’t even have time to consider whether it was a good idea.  I probably would have done it either way.  As he got to my car’s front fender I swung open the door and he rammed into it and landed on his butt on the sidewalk.  He jumped up, furious, and I just had time to close and lock the door before he recognized me.

“You!”  His anger turned to fear and he looked back over his shoulder.  It took him a few seconds to realize that the clown running toward him pointing a gun was probably a police officer.  His shoulders sagged and he put his head on the hood of my car.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

PRETTY MUCH A LET DOWN, was how Scoobie characterized his short conversation with Turk.  Scoobie had gotten Turk to say he hoped that there “were no hard feelings,” but that was about it.  Turk played dumb very well, but Scoobie was sure Turk suspected Scoobie had not just stopped by to say hello.  Even so, Turk wouldn’t have given the police much reason to arrest him on the spot if he hadn’t left the carnival.

“Guilt by running,” Morehouse said at the time.

IT WAS A COUPLE DAYS AFTER 4th of July weekend and Scoobie and I had again taken Josh and Max to dinner, this time at Burger King.  It looked as if Max thought this should be a regular thing.  I didn’t know how long I could keep paying for their meals and Max’s nervousness was wearing on me.

Scoobie and I had just made tea for Aunt Madge and helped ourselves to leftover muffins.  We were discussing the ‘carnival wiretapping’ again, as Scoobie called it.  “Turk didn’t even turn off the Ferris Wheel when he left,” Scoobie said.  “About the fifteenth rotation some little kid threw up from almost the top…”

“More than we need to know, Adam,” Aunt Madge said.  She was on her sofa reading a book, something she doesn’t often do.  Usually if she’s reading it’s to skim a home repair magazine looking for projects.  Apparently she was still healing from her ordeal, or she had decided life was too short to skip some good books.

Turk’s stash of pot and miscellaneous pills was hidden in the same spot it had been when I had spotted it at the Asbury Park carnival.  Police in several towns had been observing him.  They hadn’t arrested him yet because they were trying to catch him meeting with his supplier. 

In addition to gathering evidence in Turk’s attack on Scoobie, Ocean Alley and the state police thought there might be a link between Turk and the taller blonde carnival worker.  The police seemed to think they worked together to do some pick pocketing during the carnivals, and that they might have committed home burglaries in several towns.  I didn’t care what they could charge Turk with as long as it was a lot so he’d be in prison a long time.

I still had not figured out how to “heal” completely from the tumult of the last few weeks.  I could have lost Aunt Madge and Scoobie, two of the most precious people in my world.  How is a person supposed to deal with that? 
There must be something I could have done to keep them from getting hurt
.  I kept asking Scoobie what I should have done differently, and he kept asking me why I felt guilty.  It was starting to tick me off.

George was still barely talking to me.  He thought I should have called him to say “what was going down at the carnival,” as he put it.  He also still maintained I should pay for his replacement mobile phone, and he was getting quite testy about it.  He had retaliated for not being “in the loop on the carnival thing” by referring to my action with my car door as “risky behavior that should be left to law enforcement professionals or actors, neither of which is Ms. Gentil.”  He did this in a reflective column the editor let him write about how it felt to be part of the story instead of just writing about it.  I thought it was a stretch to work me into it.

George did tell Aunt Madge and me that he had learned that Marcus/Masterson had clammed up, and maintained that he and Penny were just old friends who had reconnected.  George had learned that the state police were showing their two pictures to pawnshop dealers up and down the Jersey coast, and many recognized them. 

Plus, the police found Penny’s purse in Masterson’s trunk, so the police thought they “had him on that one,” as Morehouse had said.  And the room he took Aunt Madge to was not one he had registered for.  It had been Penny’s room during her last stay, and the key was in her purse.  Apparently he was either cheap or trying not to leave a paper trail.

One way or another, Masterson was going to get what he deserved. 

Ramona really wanted to go to Masterson’s room at the hospital and demand to know if it was his gloved hand that had pulled her to the ground.  However, as Scoobie pointed out, she had sold her drawing of a gloved hand for a pretty penny, so if he said it was his hand she might have to give him something for the inspiration.  She was not amused.

Scoobie was loading a couple of Aunt Madge’s extra muffins into his knapsack when the front doorbell rang.  I went to answer it, assuming it was a new B&B guest, since most of them come in the side door once they check in. 

“George, what are you doing here?”

“Scoobie and I are taking you somewhere,” he said, and walked in.

I will always appreciate what George did for Aunt Madge, and I’ve come to understand some aspects of his humor.  But I didn’t like him just stopping by.

“Actually, we just got back…”

Scoobie stuck his head out of the kitchen.  “Just be a minute, George.”

“Grab your purse,” George said.

“Are we talking ice cream?”  I asked, trying not to sound irritated.

“Maybe my cell phone store.” he said.

“Get a life,” I said.

I told Aunt Madge I wouldn’t be long and got my purse and followed Scoobie and George out of the house.  We’d driven for a couple minutes when George pulled into the parking lot at St. Anthony’s.  I looked at Scoobie, and he gave me a noncommittal sort of grin.  There were a couple other cars in the lot, so I guessed we were going to play bingo and wished I’d insisted on not coming.

They got out of the car and I followed, slowly.  I figured I could walk back to the Cozy Corner if I needed to, though St. Anthony’s is on the far end of town. 
I should have brought my car.  I hate depending on anyone.
  “What’s up, guys?” I asked.

“We’re giving you a helping hand,” Scoobie said as he held the door for me.  George followed me in.

It took a second to get used to the dimmer light.  A sign on a stand in front of us said “Twelve Step Meetings Downstairs.”

I looked at both of them.

“Serenity prayer in action,” Scoobie said.

“This,” George said, “is where you start to learn to deal with what you can’t control.”

Ten thoughts went through my mind concurrently.  Or maybe it was twelve.  First, who did they think they were, bringing me to a twelve-step meeting?  Not that there’s anything wrong with them.  Second, give me enough flexibility and I can control almost anything.

“I’m happy to be in charge of my life,” I said, stiffly.

“You aren’t in charge of any of the big things in your life, or other people’s lives,” Scoobie said, and started down the steps. 

George gestured that I should follow Scoobie and I did so, reluctantly.  I only walked downstairs to be polite.  Contrary to their thinking, I managed my life pretty well.  Hadn’t the last few weeks shown that?  Wait, they didn’t. 

We got to the bottom of the steps and signs pointed to Al-Anon, AA, NA, GA, and All-Anon.  Scoobie was intent on where he was going, so I looked back at George.  “What’s All-Anon?”

“For any family member or friend of anybody with any kind of problem.”  He grinned.  “Take your pick.”  More seriously he added,  “I’d suggest All-Anon.  We’ll go to that one with you, then you’re on your own if you come back.”

We walked into the All-Anon room and a woman took a pillow off a shelf and put it on a seat for Scoobie.  He talked to her for a moment and then walked back to me.

“Anonymous, remember?” he said quietly.

“I’ll get you for this,” I murmured, but I nodded.

He shrugged.  “Take what you like and leave the rest.  Or leave.”  He grinned.

I saw a couple of people I knew only slightly and nodded to them, but I didn’t feel like talking to anyone.  I’d seen Alcoholics Anonymous meetings depicted on television, but they never showed anything except somebody saying “I’m John Smith and I’m an alcoholic.”  I didn’t know what to expect from what the sign on the wall said was a “friends and family group meeting.” 

George was helping himself to coffee and I studied his profile for a minute.  I’d heard Scoobie say several times that he went to Narcotics Anonymous meetings, but I had no idea if George usually went with him, or to other meetings, or this one.  Or if he just helped Scoobie corral me to this meeting.  I remembered George quietly putting something in a drawer in Scoobie’s hospital room.  It looked as if he and Scoobie knew each other better than I thought.  Or differently, at least.

Chairs were set up in a large circle, and people began to sit down.  I deliberately did not sit near Scoobie or George.  The woman next to me handed me a small book called Courage to Change.  I thumbed to the back and read the twelve steps of Al-Anon with the group.  Apparently there was no book for All-Anon.

“Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.” 
Who says my sanity needs to be restored?
  Besides maybe Aunt Madge.  Or Harry.  Or Ramona.

I was angry with Scoobie and George.  How could they take me here without asking me? 
Because they knew I wouldn’t come if they asked.