Elaine Orr - Jolie Gentil 03 - When the Carny Comes to Town (13 page)

We talked for a couple minutes more about the houses and Scoobie, and then I left.  As I drove I realized I’d have to look in the Monmouth County courthouse for the house in Manasquan.  Usually I’d do it the same day I did the house, but the courthouse would be closed on Saturday.  I wouldn’t mind going to Manasquan twice, and piously assured myself I would not charge Harry mileage for the second trip.

I WAS DRIVING to the hospital Saturday morning when it hit me.  If someone killed Penny for that money they’d still be looking for it, and they might know she’d been to the hospital to visit Scoobie.  They wouldn’t know the stupid woman never talked to her son or left him as much as a get well card.

A plan began forming in my head.  I know enough about myself to know that’s not always a good thing.  But still…

Scoobie was walking in the hallway with a physical therapy staff member when I got there, so I helped myself to a page from his steno pad and one of the pens on the table by his bed. 

What I know

Scoobie is getting better

The carny guy was Turk/Stefan

Penny’s been in prison

Penny likely knows some carny people

Penny was up to something

The carnival is in Asbury Park

Morehouse and Aunt Madge would be ticked at me if they saw this list.

What I need to know

Who hurt Scoobie?

Why did they hurt him?

Why did Penny come to the hospital?

Where did Penny get all her stuff?

Who killed Penny?

Why was A upset about Scoobie?

Did whoever killed Penny know Scoobie was her son?

I studied the list.  Someone else might say Penny came to the hospital because her son was hurt, but I thought she was a narcissistic woman who would only come if she saw something to gain.  I left this off the “what I know” list because there was no way to know.  I figured Scoobie would agree with me.  Not that I planned on showing him the list.

“Yo, Jolie,” Scoobie and his walker came slowly into the room.  I watched the therapist help him into bed and replace the large, stiff collar with a softer one. 

“Thanks,” I told him as he placed Scoobie’s walker near the bed.

Scoobie had his eyes closed for a half-minute, then looked at me.  “I saw you slip that paper into your pocket.  What are you doing?”

“It’s my grocery list.”

“Bull.”  He stared at me for several seconds.  “You better leave this one alone.  I won’t be available for ass-saving for probably a few weeks.”

Scoobie has every right to take some credit for my well being, but that doesn’t mean he’s my boss.  “I’m not going to do anything dumb.”

“Yeah, right.”  George Winters came in and walked toward the bed.  “Had a brain transplant, Jolie?”

I was about to suggest he leave when I noticed Scoobie seemed really pleased to see him.
What is that about?

“Thought I wouldn’t come by too often ‘til you got your sea legs again,” George said, looking directly at Scoobie.  “Morehouse was actually sharing some info, so that helped me out.”

“Yeah, he’s been by a couple of times.  I keep telling him I don’t remember anything after I got hit or pushed or whatever it was.”

Since I wasn’t needed, I said I was going to get a cup of coffee and, to be polite, asked if Scoobie or George wanted one.  George did.

“And I won’t offer to pay, since my new phone costs about $120.

Gulp.  “Uh, why so expensive?”

“Cause I’d only had it a few months and didn’t buy insurance.” 

“That might be a good thing to buy in your business,” I said.

At this he turned toward the chair I was in, just across from the foot of the bed.  “I’ve been a reporter for more than ten years.  Guess how many phones I broke?”

I was about to give a smart-ass answer when I noticed Scoobie looked pained by the conversation.  “Tell you what George, I’ll buy you coffee every time you come by.”  And then I’ll leave. 

He just grunted.

I sat in the cafeteria nursing my coffee for about ten minutes, and then headed back to Scoobie’s room.  The door was open, per usual, so I walked in.  George and Scoobie were sitting with their heads close together talking quietly.  Unsure if I should barge in, I backed out.

After a few second, Scoobie called, “Come on in, Jolie.”

George was standing and he pushed shut the top drawer of Scoobie’s bedside table as I walked in.  I handed him the coffee.

“One down, 119 to go,” he said.

“Don’t push it.”  I said. 

“Catch you later, Scoob,” he said, and left.

“Scoob?” I asked.

“Don’t push it,” Scoobie said.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

IT WAS A GORGEOUS MAY day and seemed to say summer would bring a lot of tourists to Ocean Alley very soon.  There was a gentle breeze from the ocean so that when I walked to Java Jolt to get coffee for my drive to Asbury Park the air smelled marvelously clean.  I felt a little guilty for being glad I wouldn’t be at the hospital as much, and told myself I only thought that because it was Saturday.

I walked back to Cozy Corner and was on the road by eleven-thirty.  The house in Manasquan was a large cape cod, but the site visit was quick, even though the owners were there.  They were mildly annoyed that I had asked to come on a Saturday and I hoped they wouldn’t mention this to Harry.  Ordinarily if someone implied they wanted a different time I would accommodate them.  Harry would expect me to put the customer first. 
I put Scoobie first.

I was en route to Asbury Park and its carnival by two o’clock.  On the seat beside me were a New Jersey Knicks hat, large sunglasses, and my trusty digital camera.  I decided I wouldn’t tell Morehouse what Alicia said, I’d get proof myself.  What other teenager am I around besides Alicia?  He’d figure it out and talk to her.  Half of me wanted to keep my promise to Alicia and the other half wanted to dodge Megan’s wrath if she learned I had talked to Alicia about something so important behind Megan’s back. 

I thought the carnival should be crowded enough that no one would pay attention to me.  The town of Asbury Park had made it easy to find the carnival; there were signs at every possible corner telling me which way to turn.  I pulled into the large parking lot that abutted the carnival, then pulled back out and parked on a side street about three blocks away.  I had my sleuth thinking cap on.  If a carnival worker followed me to check out my license plate, I wanted to make it hard to do that.  A worker probably would not walk a few blocks away from his post.

Asbury Park is a good bit larger than Ocean Alley and the beach area is twice the size of ours.  The businesses close to the municipal lot, which housed the carnival, were the same as Ocean Alley’s.  Beach apparel, small food vendors, tarot card readers, and saltwater taffy outlets.  And of course, the casino, which I’m pleased Ocean Alley does not have. 
Like I need any reminders.
 

There was also a fairly large storefront church, which I didn’t recall seeing on previous visits.  A large sign in the window read, “God is everywhere, keep your pants up.”  They were apparently going for the teenage and young adult crowd.

I sat on a bench a couple hundred yards from the carnival entrance.  It looked as if there was a roped area around the entire carnival, except for that one spot.  I couldn’t see the back, of course, but since the Ferris Wheel was there I couldn’t imagine an entrance just next to it.  If kids today were anything like I was, there would be an occasional peanut drop from the top of the wheel, so it’s not a good place for people to congregate.

The size of the carnival was larger, and I saw a kiddie roller coaster that had not been in Ocean Alley.  I supposed it made sense to put up fewer rides in smaller venues.  A city bus pulled up on the street nearest me and disgorged about ten kids, ranging in age from about eight to fifteen.  I followed the kids and caught up with them as they walked in. 

“Get your footlong dogs,” boomed the overhead speaker. 
I should have brought a BB gun.

I took out my camera so it wouldn’t look like the only photos I was taking were of Turk or whatever his name was.  Two younger teenage boys immediately asked me to take theirs in front of the pop-a-balloon-with-a-dart game.  They wanted me to email them copies of them with the stuffed animals they had won.  For a few seconds I was irritated, then it occurred to me it would be good to look as if I was with some of the kids. 

“Why don’t you put the tiger between you?” I said, getting into the spirit of things.

“Because it’s a cocker spaniel,” said one of the boys.

“Really?”  I looked more closely.  As with the stuffed animals Scoobie had won for Ramona and me, it was oddly shaped.  I took a couple photos and stopped when they started sticking their tongues out. 

One of the boys wrote his email address on an envelope I pulled from my purse.  Damn, I meant to mail that.  Oh well, the student loan people were going to get paid a couple days late.

A cursory look around did not show Turk at any of the rides.  Maybe I wasted the better part of an afternoon.  I was sitting on a bench to drink an iced tea when I spotted him leaning against the rail that surrounded a ride across from the Ferris Whe
el.

It didn’t take long to figure out his routine.  He called out to clusters of kids, seemingly daring them to go on a ride called the Inverter, which turned them upside down.  When my two stuffed animal buddies got close he did his spiel, and then added something.  They stopped to talk to him, then shrugged and moved on.  He did the same thing to a couple of tall girls, then again to a group of three kids who might be termed misfits.

I chided myself for the term, especially since I was one in high school in Ocean Alley and had been really unhappy about it.  But, I was seeing a pattern.  He zeroed in on young people who, on the surface, were not part of the ‘cool crowd.’  Kids who might think his attention was special.

About ten minutes and another iced tea later, Turk took over operation of the Ferris Wheel.  I couldn’t see where he would keep a supply of anything to sell.  Then I noted he often wiped the steel bar that went across riders’ laps.  Every now and then he set the cloth on a tiny table, then picked it up again.

I was roasting.  I never wear hats, certainly not with my hair folded into one.  Aunt Madge’s face drifted into my mind, with her telling me to wear a hat in winter because twenty percent of a person’s body heat goes out through their head.  Mine was stuck there.  And now I had to go potty.  My two iced teas, bought to help me stay cool, were having an unintended consequence.

One last look before I went in search of a restroom told me what he was doing.  He slid the bar over the two tall girls’ laps and one of them passed him what looked like a piece of green paper.  OK, he has the money, now what?  The wipe rag was still in his hand and he fooled with it for a couple seconds as he watched the riders.  He walked over to the lever that would slow or stop the ride, and reached behind it.  When he stood up, Turk was holding the rag differently.

That’s all?  Something that simple?
  I wasn’t sure what I had expected, but could not imagine that he could keep a small stash of anything right at his work space.  As the next couple chairs of riders got off he shook their hands, pointed back to the chairs as if urging them to ride again.  When it was the two girls he shook one of their hands with both of his.  As they walked away, the girl kept her hand at her side and they went toward the haunted house. 
They’ll be in the dark.  No one will see if they look at it or take a pill.

I just made it to the port-a-potty before I peed my pants.  At St. Anthony’s the bathrooms near the church community room are easily accessible, much to my distinct pleasure after I pulled George into the tank.  Here they didn’t even have wipe-and-dry disposables.  Yuck.  I bought a bottle of water and washed my hands. 
Don’t touch anything. 

I took my small camera from the pocket of my capris and took a couple pictures of kids on the Merry-go-Round, waving at them as if I was with them.  I ambled toward the Ferris Wheel.  I wouldn’t get a photo of any money or products, but I thought I could show Morehouse how Turk’s system worked, and he could share photos with his police pals in Asbury Park.

It was annoying to take pictures with my big sunglasses on, but no way would I take them off.  I got one of Turk reaching behind the lever and another of him shaking hands with my two stuffed animal buddies as they got off the chair. 
Is it that easy to sell this crap?
 

Satisfied with my feat, I bought a candy apple to eat as I walked back to the car.  I was taking a bite when a tall man carrying a bunch of helium balloons bumped into me. 

“I’m so sorry,” he said, and kept walking without a backward glance.

I’d gone about ten steps when I remembered the guy’s stolen cell phone in Ocean Alley, and reached into my pocket.  No camera.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN