Tears of a Clown Page 11
are busy serving containers of Caramel Frappuccinos and Cinnamon Dolce Lattes inside and out in the front of the store, others are sitting quietly at little wooden square tables surfing the internet or writing the next Great American Novel. Laurel, taking a sip of her peppermint chocolate latte, lays it aside momentarily and looks at her visitor.
“That’s the story in a nutshell,” she avows.
“I see,” the PI nods.
“I’ve known Chip all my life, Mr. Mar Vista.”
“Hm. Something still doesn’t seem right.”
A barista comes over carrying a tray with a coffeepot on it. “Ready to order?”
“I’ll just have another one of these, please,” Laurel requests, holding up her cup.
“Cappuccino for me,” Mar Vista orders.
“Sorry. Our foam machine is down at the moment.”
“Low fat mocha latte, then.”
“I don’t even know what that is. We have a Peppermint Mocha and Caffe Latte.”
“What kind of backwater place is this?”
The server is a little annoyed. “Don’t you antagonize me mister. I’m just a barista.”
Mar Vista grabs the coffeepot off the tray. “This will have to do.”
He pours himself a cup, and sips it. The barista turns and stomps away.
“Why do you have to be so mean?” Laurel asks him. “She’s just doing her job.”
“I apologize. I’m always in the habit of pushing other people’s buttons. That’s how I get the truth.”
“You need to learn how to turn that off.”
The special investigator takes a sip of his drink without saying another word.
An hour later, Mar Vista, standing at the front door of a small Spanish-style home in the middle of a quiet suburban block, gives himself two Binaca blasts and rings the bell. No one answers. The house, sorely in need of a paint job, has exposed wood everywhere. The lawn resembles the irregular overgrown floor of a Brazilian rain forest. There’s enough trash near the house to call it a landfill.
After knocking on the door again, he turns to leave. A drunken, small-framed Asian woman in her 50’s, Mrs. Tan, answers. Her hair, filled with rollers, could use a little adjustment.
“Yes?”
“Mrs. Tan? Can I speak to Beverly please?”
She eyes him curiously. “You from the press?”
“No. I’m an investigator from Jefferson County, and I…”
“Well, she ain’t here anyway.”
“Isn’t Beverly your daughter?”
“She doesn’t act like it. Treats me like a leper, you know.”
“I see. Well, do you know when she’ll…?”
“I dunno. She’s got a mind of her own. Soon as I get the money I’m shipping her off to Hong Kong to her grandparents. Ungrateful bitch.”
Mar Vista hands her his card. She reads it.
“When she returns,” he requests, “can you ask her to call me at that number?”
“Yeah.”
Mar Vista turns to leave.
“Why don’t you look for her in the woods?” Beverly’s mother suggests.
“Who? Beverly? Why?”
“That’s where all them whores go to make money.”
“Can you tell me why you and your daughter don’t get along?”
“Oh, we get along fine, but she’s ignoring her duties! Look at this house! Look at this lawn! It looks like a Vietnamese jungle! She ignores my birthday! I gotta beg her to bring food to the house because she claims she’s always so damn busy with those cheerleaders! I swear. I don’t think she’s my daughter at all! There’s no way she’d behave like this back in Hong Kong.”
“Where’s her father?”
“That drunk! Who knows? Probably sucking down a vodka bottle in a whorehouse.”
“If I see Beverly, I’ll encourage her to help around here.”
“Hah! Fat chance!”
The angry old crone abruptly returns inside and slams the door shut. Mar Vista shakes his head in disbelief and mumbles.
“Bizarre.”
Beverly, walking up the long, winding hilly drive to the county jail with a shopping bag slung around her shoulder, sees the throng gathered outside up ahead. There’s a news van with a satellite dish on it off to one side. A reporter from a local TV station is interviewing a few citizens for the noon report at the station. At least 100 anti-clown protesters are either shouting their vitriolic opinions or simply enjoying the media circus. At the entrance to the jail, Beverly is met by two police officers.
“Who are you going to see?” the first officer asks her.
“Chip Atwater.”
“I’m sorry. He’s met his quota of visitors for the time being.
“What? Already? I’m his girlfriend.”
“I’m sorry, Miss…”
“Beverly Tan.”
“Miss Tan. It’s not my decision. I’m sure you can understand they don’t want none of this madness inside.”
Beverly groans. Just then Mayor Crenshaw pulls up in a reserved parking space. A few of the residents run over to interview him. Attempting to avoid them, he walks quickly to the jail’s entrance. Beverly sees him.
“Hi, Jim.”
The mayor takes her to one side and whispers in her ear. “Bev, when we’re in public, it's Mr. Crenshaw.”
She salutes him. “Yes, sir, Mr. Crenshaw, sir.”
The mayor returns to the entrance. Beverly runs up to catch him just before he enters.
“Mr. Mayor, can you tell these officers who I am so I can go in?”
The mayor turns to the officers. “It’s okay. She’s with me.”
The first officer nods. “Yes, sir.”
The second law enforcement official holds the door open for Crenshaw and Beverly.
“Wait a minute,” the first officers pronounces.
Beverly and Crenshaw stop.
“Can I see what’s in the bag, please?
Beverly opens the bag. The first officer reaches in and pulls out a football. On it are the words ‘Come Home Soon #ChipAAA.’ The officer squeezes the football, examines it carefully, returns it to the bag, and waves them on.
In the vestibule, Beverly and Mayor Crenshaw stroll past a group of attorneys, correction officers, and police officers conferring by a water fountain. Speaking in hushed tones, they are discussing the topic of the day – the possibility that the clown killer has been captured.
Crenshaw stops and looks at Beverly. “I’ll see you later, Bev. Let me talk to these guys for a minute.”
“Gotcha, Mayor.”
She winks at him. He sighs.
“Why don’t you come by my house later?” he requests. “I’ll be there in about one hour or so.”
“Anything you say, big boy.”
Minutes later, inside the visiting room, Beverly is sitting in a booth with her left hand holding the phone to her ear and her right palm flat against the glass. Chip is doing the same on the opposite side except, of course, his left palm is pressed against the glass with the phone in his right. A handful of prisoners are also on phones talking to their visitors. Beverly looks worried, as if she was out in the middle of the ocean in a dinghy with black clouds looming in the distance. Chip, sure that he will be exonerated, is more relaxed
“I’m scared for you, Chip,” she tells her paramour. “A lynch mob is forming outside.”
“Bev?”
“Yes?”
“You’re full of shit.”
Shocked, she drops her hand off the glass. “What?”
“You don’t care about me.”
“Where did that come from? That’s the worst attitude to take.”
“You’ve stood me up so many times I may as well be alone.”
“I don’t believe this. I walked all the way up that mile long hill to see you.”
“Let’s face it: you can’t be trusted.”
“You’re crazy. What? Somebody already turned you out in here? That was quick. What’s his name?”
“See ya later, Bev. I got too much things on my mind right now.”
Cradling the phone, he gets up to leave.
“Wait!” she calls, tapping the glass.
Chip sights, returns to his seat and picks up the phone. “What?”
“Here,” she claims, holding up her bag. “I brought you a present.”
Chip watches as she takes the football out and shows it to him.
“What am I supposed to do with that?” he begs.
“Something to keep you occupied. What do you think it’s for?”
“Thanks. Hope it didn’t break your bank.”
“It didn’t. Somebody dropped it off at my house with your name on it.”
She returns the ball to the bag and hands it to the correction officer. “Can you see he gets this, please?”
The officer opens the bag and examines the content briefly.
“The inmates already have sports equipment,” he informs her. “You can take this back.”
“Okay, but I was with the mayor. He got it approved by the warden.”
“Hold on.”
The officer walks over to a desk phone and dials the warden. They converse for a few seconds then the CO returns to Beverly.
“It’s okay,” he claims, reaching for the bag.
“Thanks,” Beverly nods, surrendering it.
She turns to Chip. “See you around. Don’t stress, ya heard?”
“Yes, gangsta. Later.”
Several prisoners, most of them in prison orange, some of them topless, are enjoying the sun by playing basketball, doing pushups, lifting weights, or simply standing around planning their next crimes. Chip enters the wide-open yard, also populated with several CO’s, tossing the gifted football up and down. Across the yard, he sees he has a clear line to a makeshift goalpost. A balding prisoner in his 50’s wearing glasses and carrying a book approaches him.
“Hey,” the prisoner calls to Chip, “I know you. You’re Chip Atwater, the All-American football player from CCH. They call you Triple A.”
“How’s it going?”
They shake hands.
“I’m Charlie,” the stranger introduces himself. “How come you’re in this joint will all these low lives? Shouldn’t you be in Juvie?”
“I’m 18.”
“Oh. And still in high school?”
“I had meningitis when I was 14. Lost a year because of it.”
“That’s tough. Hey, you’re the talk of the town, man.”
“Don’t believe it, though. I was set up.”
“Yeah, just like me, just like everyone in here.”
“What are you in for?”
“Eh, some bullshit. Man 2, possession with intent, bank fraud, check washing…”
“You’ve been busy.”
“Yeah. Too bad luck’s like toilet paper – it always runs out.”
Chip nods. “Can you do me a favor?”
“What do you need?”
“Hold this ball on the ground over there. I wanna kick it through those uprights.”
“No problem.” Charlie shoves his book in his back pocket, takes the football and positions it on the ground about 12 feet in front of Chip.
“This good?” his holder asks.
“Yeah,” the punter nods.
Lining himself up for the kickoff, he acknowledges the invisible members of Special Teams, runs to the ball, brings his right foot back and gives a good, strong kick.
BOOM!
The ball explodes.
Both Chip and Charlie are thrown into the air and backwards to nearly 15 feet by the explosive powdery blast. The prisoners and CO’s immediately duck for cover as a plume of smokes bulges from the spot of kickoff. An alarm goes off. Some of the CO’s order all the prisoners to return to their cells. The remaining few officers trod cautiously towards the explosion. They see Chip and Charlie, grossly disfigured from the blast, with scores of small nails protruding from almost every inch of their lifeless bodies.
Julia is at home practicing a difficult Corelli variation by Rachmaninoff on her inherited piano. Running her lithe fingers up and down the soundboard, she extracts tones from the instrument that would please the Russian composer himself. Her smartphone chimes. Sighing, she continues playing till she gets to the end of the vivace piece. Finally, she stops and answers the intruding piece of electronica.
“Hello?” she intones. “Jean from the station? How’d you get my number?...Oh, I’d forgotten about that…I did?! I really won? Cool!...You can? When?...Well, come by any time. You have my address on the form. Just knock on the door. My mother will let you in. I’ll probably be up here practicing…Bye.”
She turns off her smartphone and stares at the pensive bust of Beethoven sitting on the piano, trying her best to stifle the exuberance emanating from her face.
“You heard that?” she exclaims to the Genius from Bonn. “I finally won something in this stupid town, I mean besides these piano competitions.”
She presses a triple forte cluster chord on the piano using all ten fingers; the extremely loud but jubilant vibration nearly knocks the bust off the instrument. “Oh, oh,” she realizes. “It’s really Jean Lynwood. I’d better hurry and get dressed.”
Mar Vista, standing with his back to the blue door of a modest white Cape Cod house on a suburban street, is smoking a cigarette. This home, he notices, is outfitted with a camera on the front porch and surrounded by high hedged fences. In the driveway sits a late model Lincoln Town car and two classic automobiles, a red ’57 Ford Mustang and a light blue ’55 Chevy Belair. He turns when the door opens. Mayor Crenshaw, casually attired, answers the door.
“Yes?”
“Hi. I’m special investigator Lincoln Mar Vista from Jefferson County. Can I speak to your father please?”
“My father? He doesn’t live here.”
Mar Vista looks at the address on the door.
“Hm. I must have the wrong house. Sorry.”
“Who were you looking for?”
“Mayor Crenshaw.”
“I am the mayor.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. You seem kinda young.”
“They say age and experience goes hand in hand, but that’s not always the case. Won’t you come in?”
After they shake hands, Crenshaw shows Mar Vista to the living room.
“Have a seat. I’ll go bring us some coffee.”
“Thanks.”
When the mayor exits through double doors to the kitchen, Mar Vista, instead of sitting down right away, scrutinizes the room. His roving eyes “read” the politician’s accoutrements: luxury curtains with paisley ripple fold drapes, cloud-soft gray marbled carpets, designer lights and imported lamps, a radiant wood-burning fireplace with an arched, black-painted frame, polished oak bookshelves, a high-end vacuum tube stereo system, 4D curved HD LED TV, an Alienware laptop, Italianate furniture, silver-framed wall photographs, and other items that spells, “Don’t Touch. You Can’t Afford This.” Afterwards, he sits down in a chair that probably costs more than his car. Seconds later, the mayor returns with a sterling silver platter of crackers, coffee and cups and sets it on the glass center table with carved, oak, lion-inspired legs.
Crenshaw pours a cup of joe for the PI then a cup for himself. Mar Vista examines the highly-decorated porcelain vessel before taking a sip, then gazes at the Mayor for its brand name.
“Versace,” Crenshaw reveals.
“Of course.”
Picking up one of the remote controls from the table, the beau monde host turns on the alternative music station on the radio.
“Nice place you got here, Crenshaw,” Mar Vista complements him. “Very stylish.”
“Thanks. I try.”
“Let me guess…your folks are lawyers, right?”
“One’s a dentist.”
“Of course. So, how long have you been mayor?”
“Two years and change.”
“Do you have prior experience?”
<
br /> “I served on the City Council for a few years.”
“Where’d you go to school?”
“Stanford. BA, Fine Arts, Masters in International Comparative Education.”
“International, huh? Like the stuff in here.”
“I’m just going after all that life has to offer. Time’s short, you know.”
“Yes, it is. Still, pretty big job for a young man.”
“The mayor of Lane County just turned 23,” Crenshaw alleges. “It’s not as stressful as you might think. Everyone works together here, especially now with this clown maniac on the loose.”
“So, you don’t believe Chip Atwater is the serial killer?”
“Didn’t you hear?”
“Hear what?” the PI asks.
“He died a few hours ago.”
Mar Vista chokes on the broken cracker in his mouth. “What!? How?”
“Exploding football.”
“Come again?”
“He had a ball that was rigged. It’s being investigated.”
“So, I was right.”
“About what?”
“His innocence. Was the ball jail property?”
“No. A visitor brought it to him, his girlfriend, or ex, as the case might be.”
The doorbell rings. Crenshaw rises.
“Excuse me,” the mayor apologizes. “Probably an update from the sheriff.”
He exits the living room and walks out on the porch, closing the door behind him. Mar Vista gets up quickly, scoots over to the smooth, signature Mappa Burl & Walnut business desk in a corner, and quickly peruses the various papers there, including those in the lower drawers. Then, hearing a clicking noise, he quickly returns to his seat. Mayor Crenshaw enters.
“You got company?” Mar Vista questions him.
“Nah. The paperboy. Finally caught me. I’d been avoiding him for weeks.”
“I see.” Mar Vista rises.
“Leaving already?” Crenshaw asks. “You didn’t get what you came for, I’m sure.”
“This whole new Chip episode actually changes everything. I am surprised, but I must say it wasn’t totally unpredictable.”
“How do you know? You’d ruled him out as a suspect?”
“Really, it was just a hunch. He didn’t seem like the right material for it. Killers have a certain behavior, a vibe they give off which they can’t control. Call it egotism or narcissistic typology, but Chip lacked their depravity. It wasn’t in his eyes. Anyway, I still have a couple of other people to see.”
“I understand. Well, I hope I was some help.”
“You were,” Mar Vista promises.
Crenshaw walks over to the front door and holds it open for the PI.
“Feel free to drop by any time you wish,” Crenshaw insists. “Mi casa es su casa.”
“Thanks. I’ll take you up on that offer.”
After Mar Vista exits, the mayor returns inside, locking the door behind him. Beverly enters the living room from the kitchen.
“Is he gone?” she asks.
“Yes.”
The two lovebirds kiss.
“Beverly, you know,” the mayor worries, “you’re jeopardizing my career by being here. We might have to cool it for a while.”
Beverly places his hands on her small but shapely breasts. “Are you sure?”
Crenshaw gulps; the cheerleader smiles.
Julia, seemingly in a trance, is softly playing the adagio from Beethoven’s Pathetique Sonata. Her fingers tiptoe across the keys as gently as spring rain on a flower bed of mimosas. A half empty glass of champagne sits on the piano next to the Beethoven bust. On the other side of the sculpture is the framed Jimi Hendrix poster she won from the raffle at the fair. Behind her, sitting in an easy chair, is Jean Lynwood, completely lost in the romantic music.
Both ladies seem to have found a communion, almost as if their souls were intertwined. Soon, the music ends. Jean applauds her number one fan.
“You’re better than I thought,” the DJ acknowledges. “I love Beethoven. His Missa Solemnis gives me