Big Top Treachery Read online

  I kept my head down until I got to Bernie’s. It would have been hard to mistake because someone had left flowers out in front of his door.

  Quickly, I checked both ways and then climbed the stairs. No one was coming. I grabbed the doorknob and twisted.

  Locked.

  Of course. What was I thinking?

  How can I get in here? I briefly considered climbing in through the window. The thought made me roll my eyes. Here was the second cabin I was breaking into in just the same amount of days. I was becoming a criminal, I swear.

  Someone laughed in the distance. What was I doing? I couldn’t just wait here on the stoop. I skipped down the steps and hurried around the corner of the cabin. My heart pounded in my chest. I’m not sure what someone would have thought if they’d seen me try Bernie’s door, but it would be hard for me to say it was a mistake.

  I glanced above me. There was the window, cracked open just enough to call my name. The logistics of reaching the sill had me stumped for a moment. It was so far above my head. It’s not like I could ask someone to give me a boost.

  As I stared up at it, I tossed around the idea of doing just that by asking Jerry. But I wasn’t sure I wanted to freak him out by doing something so crazy. I really liked the guy. No, I had to think of another way in.

  One of those smaller fake Christmas presents might work. I didn’t give myself time to talk myself out of it, instead ran to the Christmas forest and picked one up. It was unwieldy, and I felt like a real elf as I trundled down the winding path with it in my arms. I knew I had to look suspicious. I planned to make this quick.

  I stuck it under the window and climbed up. The window slid all the way open with a push. I had to jump, but I made it to the sill and wiggled my butt in. Not so much like a mouse. More like one of Jerry’s fat little circus dogs that leaped about.

  Still, I managed to get inside, only to fall gracefully like a heap of dirty laundry to the floor. I stood up and brushed myself off, grateful that there was no one around.

  The light from the window was bright enough to see inside. I had to admit, it was creepy to see his bed unmade and his dirty laundry on the floor. Everything was waiting for him to return.

  I pulled open his drawers, feeling kind of icky at snooping. I’m trying to find out who killed him, I reasoned.

  There was nothing there but the usual clothing and such. One drawer was filled with magazines that I quickly shoved closed. I sighed and wandered to the desk. It was littered with the expected things— a razor, toothpaste, and brush.

  Underneath the desk was a cardboard box crammed in the back of the empty space. Hope filled me as I pulled it out.

  It was heavy.

  I gently wiggled the lid off. It was on there tight. Finally, I got it free and leaned in breathlessly to see what it contained.

  First, there was a stack of letters, all returned to their opened envelopes. The addresses on them were from a woman with the same last name. I figure it was a mom or a sister.

  And finally, a pawn ticket.

  My hands felt sweaty as I pulled the ticket out and smoothed it on the desk top to read. I expected to read a ticket for the sword he’d pawned it in this city fifteen years ago.

  But the receipt was dated a week ago. It said —Citizen watch.

  What the heck? Had he gone back there?

  There was a news article with it. The newspaper was yellowing and had the date fifteen years previous that I’d been expecting on the pawn ticket.

  It said—

  Bullseye Pawn Shop Under Investigation.

  An anonymous informant came forward today with news about a poker gambling ring at the Bullseye Pawn Shop. Police are investigating it in regards to the drug influx in the general town area.

  Scrawled in big letters with black marker over the top were the words, Gotcha.

  Chapter 14

  I was disappointed to find only a new pawn ticket for a watch and this newspaper article. But maybe all hope wasn’t lost, yet. There might be a chance I could still get information on the sword that Bernie had pawned.

  There was an old flip phone on the table. I hesitated a second before snatching it up and dialing the number listed on the receipt from the pawn shop.

  “Bullseye Pawn, can I help you?” a bored man answered.

  “Uh, hi. I was wondering if you keep a record of weapons that are pawned.”

  “Are you with the police enforcement?”

  “No. I’m Trixie, from the Concello circus. I’m searching for something that was pawned there. I’d just thought maybe you had a record of it.”

  “We might. What is it?”

  “It’s from ages ago. Fifteen years, to be exact.”

  He laughed, and I could practically see the scornful expression on his face.

  I hurried on. “It was from someone named Bernie. A sword.” I scrambled for the pawn ticket his full name. “Bernard Dockins.”

  He quieted immediately and said, “No, ma’am. There’s nothing I can do.”

  “But don’t you have to keep records? I mean, I heard pawn shops had to keep an eye on that sort of stuff.”

  “That was under different ownership. The owner stepped down right around the time you’re giving me.”

  “So it changed hands? Who’s the owner now?”

  “His son. But I do have some news about Bernie. The last thing he pawned is going up for sale at the end of the week.”

  “Is this the watch that he pawned recently? Was he in there often?”

  There was a snicker. “As often as he needed. That’s what we do here. Among other things.”

  He didn’t elaborate, and I immediately thought about the old newspaper article that Bernie had saved. “Are there still poker games down there?”

  “What do you know of poker games?” His voice was immediately suspicious. I realized how dumb it was to show all my information at once. I flushed and fanned my face, trying to stave off a panic.

  “I think I heard him mention it,” I said lamely.

  In the background I overheard, “Dave! Who is that?”

  The reply was muffled. “Somebody calling about Bernie’s stuff”

  “You must be dumber than a bag of hammers. Get off the phone!”

  “Yes, boss.”

  There was a long pause. I actually thought we got disconnected. Then he said gruffly, “He wouldn’t have mentioned that.”

  Before I could respond, the man hung up.

  I swallowed, the heat from my blush growing stronger. Regret filled me until I cringed so hard it felt like I was sucking on a lemon. Why did I say that?

  A second later, fear added its crushing weight. Would I get into trouble because I knew about their poker games? Would someone come looking for me to make sure that what happened fifteen years ago didn’t happen again?

  The cabin walls felt like they were closing in. I tried to breathe. Instead, a moan came out. I stifled the noise with my fist. What had I done?

  I felt worse and gasped in pants. My instinct from years of having to hide made me curl up and linked my hands over the back of my neck. I exhaled into my knees. In through your nose, my brain screamed. Nice and easy.

  Fear. Panic. I hated them.

  Finally, my breathing slowed to the point where I could feel my chest loosening to take in a deep breath. I rocked in my curled position and focused on relaxing. After a few minutes, I sat up, my eyelids feeling hot and sticky. I rolled my neck and stretched.

  Okay. I’ve been here before. I can shut down and hide like I usually do. Or I can stand like I’m ten feet tall and kick fear to the curb.

  I stood up and straightened my spine as tall as it would go. I wasn’t going to hide away. If someone came looking for me, I’d be here.

  I considered that thought for a moment and then revamped it. I might hide from them after all. But, by heavens, I’d be tall while doing it.

  That made me smile. I tucked the newspaper back in the box. The letters gave me a pause. Honestly
, I was insanely curious about what they said. Still, there was a line about reading his letters—things he never expected to share with the world—that I felt I couldn’t cross.

  Maybe I’ll just peek at one to see who it’s from. The man was murdered, after all.

  I slipped out a letter. It had orange fingerprints on it. He must have read it while eating a snack. I was guessing cheese puffs. I flipped through the pages until I found the end.

  It read simply,

  “Praying for you son, I love you forever, Mom.”

  These were from his mom, like I suspected.

  The words became blurry, and I realized my eyes had filled with tears. I was so touched to see this precious postscript. Something I’d never seen for myself. It melted my heart.

  Sniffling, I folded the letter and replaced it in its envelope. I gathered them up and put them back in the box, then returned the pawn receipt on top. I shut the lid and stuffed the box back under the desk.

  So, Bernie was at the pawn shop recently. And from the way the clerk snickered, it sounded like there had been a poker game, and Bernie had lost.

  I realized something. The clerk told me to tell Bernie his time was running out on the stuff he pawned. That, along with that sarcastic laugh, showed me he didn’t know that Bernie was dead. He fully expected Bernie to come back and get his stuff out of pawn.

  He also made it sound like Bernie had pawned more than just a watch. A quick glance around the cabin seemed to prove that Bernie lived modestly, like the rest of us. All I saw missing was his gold chain necklace. It was a thick chain. Sally always teased him that he looked like he stepped right out of the 70’s. Again, he could have been wearing that when he had been murdered.

  The only other thing I saw was some rolled up underwear. I wrinkled my nose and carefully kicked the dirty clothes under the bed and out of sight. Someone would be here soon to pack up his things and I didn’t want them to think Bernie was a pig.

  I checked to make sure the window was firmly shut. After a final look around, I cautiously opened the door a crack and listened. I didn’t hear anyone. I slipped out, locked the door, and scampered down the stairs. I ran down the path, my heart pounding, until I was near the stables. Finally, I breathed a sigh of relief. The stable doors were a welcome sight. I needed to cuddle my horse for a minute to recover.

  Chapter 15

  The stable doors had been left open to allow in the sunshine and fresh air. I walked inside feeling slightly on-guard. I half-expected to bump into Jerry.

  He wasn’t there—probably getting ready for the day like I should be doing. And I would do that, as soon as I saw my horse.

  As usual, Prancer watched over his stall door for me. He nickered to catch my attention and to tell me to hurry. It never ceased to amaze me how he recognized my step. I grabbed an apple and walked over.

  So, Bernie had been to Bullseye Pawnshop recently.

  A sneeze stopped my thoughts immediately.

  It hadn’t come from Prancer. Something was in his stall with him.

  I held my breath to listen. Prancer didn’t seem alarmed. If anything, he welcomed me like his usual self, breathing warm air down my neck as he lightly touched my shoulder.

  I wish I could say I did the same. Instead, I stood there, heart hammering, staring as hard as I could into the shadows. Finally, swallowing hard, I opened the stable door.

  “Who’s in there?” I hissed, trying to sound all big and scary. I don’t think I succeeded.

  The straw shifted, making me squeal and jump back. A head rose. Straw clung to the shape like it was a scarecrow.

  It was the dog. That German Shepherd I’d seen earlier.

  I gasped at the sight of him. He was in the stall with my horse. He was huge! What do I do?

  I stared at him, and he stared back. He didn’t look exceptionally friendly, but he had a leanness that showed he was still hungry. Tremors crawled through my muscles. I held onto the stable door to keep my body from shaking. I couldn’t help how I felt. Dogs scared me.

  He tipped his head and watched me curiously. His eyes looked…wanting. Scared. I stepped back.

  Okay, he had to be hungry. What could I feed him from here? Oats? Hay? The apple in my pocket? None of that was going to work. The realization grew that in order to feed him, I was going to have to sneak over to the kennels and get something for him to eat.

  I closed my eyes for a second. You got to do what you got to do. Decision made, I stalked over to a can on the shelf and took it with me.

  Inside the dog kennel was noisy as usual. Eight little Jack Russel Terriers can really whoop it up. I spotted Jerry in the back with hoops and an obstacle course he was running the dogs through. They loved him and jumped on his legs, their little feet pawing at his knees.

  “Down,” he commanded and then whistled. The dogs lined up and pranced through their routine.

  I didn’t want him to see me. I didn’t want to answer questions. I snuck along the side of the tent to where the food tubs were.The plastic lid was tough, but I popped it off and scooped up some food. Then I tiptoed back outside.

  Upon returning to the the stable, I found the dog still sitting in the corner of the stall. Approaching the door cautiously, I shook the can, letting the kibble rattle freely. Whatever hopes I’d had that the noise would entice him to leave were soon dashed. Instead of moving, he cocked his head and whined.

  My legs locked up in fear. He was going to make me go inside, wasn’t he? My knees actually bumped each other from shaking. I glanced up at Prancer.

  The horse stared at me with wide brown eyes. His nostrils flared as he snorted. I took a tiny step closer to the door and he nudged the top of my head.

  It occurred to me, Prancer wasn’t scared of the dog. If the dog was dangerous, Prancer would let me know.

  Taking in a deep breath to steady myself, I opened the stall door and took a step inside. The dog stood at my entrance. I froze in place, staring at him. What was that rule about dogs? Look them dead in the eye? Don’t meet their eyes? I groaned at my own forgetfulness.

  The dog’s every sense focused on me, and it felt like a heat wave. I held the can out and shook it a little—my food shield.

  “Here, pup. Here you go,” I whispered.

  The dog chuffed and I nearly yelped at the sound. It took every ounce of self-control to remain standing there, instead of running for safety. I swallowed hard. “Here you go, boy. You hungry?”

  I stepped closer, feeling every bit of a mouse that people teased me for. “It’s okay, boy.” Keeping my eyes on him, I slowly set the can down. Using my foot, I nudged it forward.

  The dog took a step in my direction. Adrenaline caused my muscles to jerk. I wrapped my arms around myself and tried to will myself to be brave and still. He took another step, and then another.

  He was big. Bigger than I first realized. His coat was black and shaggy, with a long tail that stood straight and still. His ears and face were masked with black fur. He stared at me and then warily sniffed the can.

  A moment later there was crunching. He was eating. I eased out the breath I’d been holding until I realized I was still stuck with a problem. How do I get him out of the stable?

  The munching stopped and he lifted his head. With slow steps, he started moving forward. I squeaked and backpedaled. The plank wall hit my back. The dog ignored my movements and walked to Prancer’s water tank. He lapped a few minutes.

  Good grief, I was a bundle of nerves. I couldn’t believe how keyed up I was.

  The dog lifted a dripping muzzle and turned toward me. Prancer swished his tail as he sniffed along the dog’s back. The dog arched his spine like he relished the touch.

  Padding softly, the dog walk over to me. Oh, no, no, no. My entire body locked up. This was it. He was a meat eater, wasn’t he? The dog had the energy now to eat me. I turned my face away.

  The dog sat in front of me, pink tongue lolling out as he panted. Even sitting, he came up to my shoulder.


  “You are a brute, aren’t you,” I whispered.

  The dog leaned closer, and I swear I could feel heat emanating from his body. I squeezed my eyes shut and flinched away. But with the wall blocking me, there was only so far I could go. A softness, like bird feather’s, brushed against my hand. I peeked one eye open and looked down. The dog had rubbed his head against my hand, still clutched in a fist. Then he sat again, his front feet on top of mine. He panted in my face.

  “Could you scoot back a tiny bit?” I whispered.

  He stared a moment more before nudging my hand again. This time, he licked it. I nearly cried at the sensation of his wet tongue on my skin.

  “Are you testing to see if I taste good?” I asked.

  Wait a minute. He’s not biting me. I think he’s saying hi.

  He moved his head back, his feet still firmly planted on mine.

  Hand trembling, I reached out. The fur on his neck looked fluffy. “Good boy,” I whispered and gently stroked it.

  I was surprised by how soft it was and how amazingly thick. A sob almost escaped me. I bit it back, but tears still stung my eyes. I was doing it. I was petting this dog. I sniffed. “You are a good boy. Were you hungry? Where did you come from? Do you need a home?”

  He lay down and, after a moment, I scooted next to him. He rested his head heavily in my lap. I stroked his neck and rubbed behind his ears, all the while talking with him. “Are you mine now? What do I do when the Ringmaster finds out?”

  My fear dissipated as joy bloomed in my chest. My first pet. A dog. And he had chosen me! “I’m going to call you Sam. I’ll take care of you, I swear,” I whispered again. I didn’t know how I’d do it, but I would make sure this animal stayed warm and safe.

  After a while, I got up. The dog watched me.

  “I’ll be right back,” I promised him. I left the stall in search of a horse blanket I’d seen stacked somewhere. Eventually, I found it and came back to make a bed. I tucked the blanket around a pile of straw and patted it. The dog walked over to inspect the plaid flannel, his nose sniffing.