The Bookshop Detectives: Dead Girl Gone, page 18
Nine pellets later, the flat-capped stall holder offers me a large purple teddy bear.
‘Have you been here long?’ I ask, taking the teddy.
‘Couple of days.’
‘Sorry, I meant have you been with the circus long?’
‘Couple of years.’
Even by my taciturn standards I get the impression the stall holder’s not much of a talker. I persist anyway. ‘Who do you reckon’s been with the circus the longest?’
‘Fortune teller.’
‘Thanks.’ I wave the teddy and wander off in search of Gypsy Rose Charlatan or whatever she’s called.
I haven’t wandered far when I see one of the shop’s good customers trying to reason with a distraught pre-schooler who has simultaneously let go of his helium balloon and then dropped his ice cream while attempting to recapture it. Unlike Eloise, who would immediately know their names, I can’t for the life of me remember either, although I can tell you that the pre-schooler loves Kuwi the Kiwi books and the mum is a fan of Jenny Pattrick.
Bending down, I make the teddy walk along the ground towards the child. ‘Oh, hello,’ I say in a silly voice. ‘I have lost my balloon, too. Will you look after me?’ Tantrum forgotten, the boy opens his arms wide and embraces the toy in a quite literal bear hug.
‘Is that okay?’ I ask his mum, somewhat belatedly. When we distribute giveaways to kids in the shop, we always like to check with the parents first. In this case, if the answer is no and I have to retrieve the teddy, I will have succeeded only in making matters worse.
‘It’s great. Are you sure?’ She bends down to the toddler. ‘What do you say to the nice man?’
‘You’re old,’ says the boy.
‘Freddy!’
‘It’s okay. He means I’m too old for a teddy.’ For the sake of my ego, I choose to believe this. ‘Anyway, enjoy the rest of the circus.’
I half wave and hastily retreat into the crowd.
At the end of the row of stalls is a caravan fronted with a white picket fence and pot plants of blooming flowers. This is not one of the soulless modern aluminium affairs used by the rest of the circus but has more of a rustic, Romany feel to it. Outside, a chalkboard proclaims the occupant to be Madame Zuiseller, psychic and fortune teller.
I have a low opinion of so-called psychics. Being charitable, I may consider them misguided; at worst, cynical con-artists profiting from people’s misery. But this woman might just have the answers I need.
I’m preparing to knock when the small, rounded door opens, reminding me of the old joke: Why do psychics have doorbells?
‘Welcome. I sensed your approach,’ says a woman who can be none other than Zuiseller. I estimate that she is in her mid-forties to early fifties. Her glossy dark hair is tied back in a ponytail and is mostly concealed by a red-and-white spotted headscarf. Large gold hoop earrings complete an image which is nothing if not traditional.
I don’t mention the webcam I spotted amid a floral display hanging alongside the door which I presume will have also sensed my approach.
‘I feel that you are hesitant.’ Zuiseller ushers me in and onto a cushioned seat at one side of a red velvet-draped table. ‘Is this your first time?’
She is either perceptive or has watched me on the webcam while I dithered outside.
‘Yes,’ I lie, because I don’t want to give her any clues.
‘Then perhaps the crystal ball may be preferable to tarot,’ she suggests, gesturing to a spherical object covered with a black cloth in the centre of the table. Believers say that the purpose of the cloth is to stop the spirits looking back at you. I tend towards a more pragmatic explanation. We once put a crystal ball in our shop window as part of a display and nearly burned the shop down because the glass focused the sun’s rays to a precise spot. It was only the smell of burning and the trail of fine smoke drifting up from the window that saved our beloved books.
‘Actually, I think I’d like the tarot,’ I say, mainly because the crystal ball is just waving your hands about and making shit up while tarot requires finesse, linking the aforementioned shit with the picture on the card.
‘As you wish.’ She removes the crystal ball and places a velvet-wrapped package onto the table. Again, a believer would say that the tarot cards should never be touched by anyone but the reader, whereas I would say that traditionally the cards were a most precious item that needed protecting from wear and tear.
Zuiseller gestures to the wrapped cards. ‘Please empower the spirits with your offering.’
A nice touch, incorporating the transactional part of the arrangement into the ceremony of the proceedings. I’m tempted to claim that I don’t have cash to see if she will produce the Eftpos machine I see lurking in the corner, but I’m not that much of a cock, so I place thirty dollars on the still-wrapped tarot cards.
She takes the money and drops it into what is clearly a cash box despite the mystical symbols painted onto it. Unwrapping the cards, she shuffles them.
With a degree of reverence, Zuiseller places five cards in a cross on the table. It’s a simple pattern, being easy and quick to read. My thirty bucks will buy me fifteen minutes of her time, tops.
‘The centre card represents what is most important in your life at the moment.’ Zuiseller places her black-nailed fingers on the card, pausing for dramatic effect.
I lean forward, genuinely interested; as far as I am aware, dogs don’t feature in tarot, so unless this is a rather esoteric deck with the King of Stevies I suspect I am about to be disappointed.
She turns the card. Beneath the picture of a skeleton reaping human-faced flowers is the word ‘Death’.
Withdrawing her hand, Zuiseller looks up at me. I guess she’s trying to gauge whether I’m freaked out by this and whether she needs to fall back on one of the standard lines: Of course death does not represent literal death, we all experience death and this is likely referring to a past event . . .
‘You are not surprised.’ Zuiseller holds me in her gaze. ‘Death is something that you are currently dealing with . . .’ Her voice trails off, and I assume she’s hoping I will fill in the blanks with details that she can then build on or feed back to me as if she has come up with information herself.
I give her nothing, so she continues and turns the next card. It shows a King upon a throne holding a large gold coin inscribed with a pentacle.
‘The King of Pentacles symbolises a wealthy man. I sense that this is not you, so who is this man in your life?’
I ignore the slight; after all, I’m wearing my Sherlock Tomes-branded hoodie, and she’ll perhaps understand that bookshop owners are rarely wealthy. I try not to think of who the King of Pentacles might represent. Fortune telling works by throwing out a vague detail and then letting the client fit it to something relevant. But my treacherous brain betrays me, fixating on Franklin White.
Perhaps Zuiseller sees something in my face and is no longer willing to accept my silence. ‘He may be a greedy man,’ she prompts. ‘A Midas figure. The man with the gold makes the rules!’
‘Not who makes the rules, breaks the rules,’ I say, half to myself, forgetting that I wasn’t going to give Zuiseller any clues.
I gaze past her, my head full of Franklin White, and that’s when I see the newspaper cutting pressed flat behind glass in a gold frame on the wall.
Eloise: 12 days until Isabella Garrante book launch
I’m finishing up my beer and chips at the hospitality tent, feeling as if the perfectly formed little kōwhai bloom etched into my collarbone has been there forever. I’m in my element here, enjoying the reprieve from all the fretting about book launches and missing girls and the many things I won’t let myself think about. I’m taking a swig of the fruity beer when my phone pings. I’ve conjured him.
Garth: Meet me at charlatan’s caravan soon as. Garth
I drain the dregs and, presuming he means the fortune teller, make my way over to the lovely old caravan I’ve spotted a couple of rows over.
I venture up the wooden steps and knock on Madame Zuiseller’s door; it’s closed, so I hope it’s Garth in there and I’m not disturbing someone’s reading.
‘Enter,’ says a deep, velvety voice that compels me to do as commanded.
I see a fidgety Garth, busting at the seams with information, and a serene, beautifully put-together woman in her sixties, I would guess, possibly of Middle Eastern origin. That, or Middle Earth. She looks the part all right. Bizarrely, the pair of them are drinking tea like old pals having a catch-up.
‘Is my husband bothering you, Madame Zuiseller?’ I ask.
‘Your pronunciation is impressive, dear girl. Not at all. He was drawn here today by the need to unpick a mystery. The spirits moved in ways that brought him to me.’
‘Did they now,’ I say.
‘Sit down, sit down, and look at this.’ Garth tugs on my arm.
He shoves a framed newspaper article in front of me. The picture is of a younger but mostly unchanged Madame Zuiseller holding the palm of a rotund white guy with fluffy bits of hair sticking out of the sides of his head like an ungroomed monk. I fish my specs out of my bag and peer more closely. The headline reads, ‘The Future Looks Bright for Maloney’s’, and the caption explains that Madame Zuiseller is reading the palm of the Mayor of Havelock North.
‘Lovely,’ I say, and look up to find two pairs of brown eyes looking at me, the darker ones with amusement, the lighter, hazel ones with impatience.
‘Read the article!’ Garth urges. I do so, aloud.
‘In a curious twist of fate, beleaguered circus troupe Maloney’s have been saved by a financer none of them saw coming. The Garrante Brothers — the Garrante Brothers! Bloody hell! — have bought out the Maloney family, enabling the circus to continue more or less as it has since its inception in 1949.
‘Maloney’s Fortune Teller Madame Ethne Zuiseller is relieved, but not surprised.
‘“I was never too concerned. I couldn’t see a big change in our future fortunes or any deviation in the circus’s plans, so the fact that we can carry on as we have been makes sense. I am, of course, like the whole circus family, extremely grateful for the Garrante Brothers’ faith in our ability to continue. We shall repay their confidence; this I have foreseen.”
‘Havelock North Mayor Roy Robotham was visiting the circus when Hawke’s Bay Today popped in. A long-time fan of Maloney’s, he’s thrilled that his regular liaisons with his favourite fortune teller will be going ahead as usual. Asked what Mayor Robotham’s palm revealed, Madame Zuiseller said she could not reveal her client’s reading, but that he should probably cut down on the red meat and the local syrah.’
‘Ethne, what a lovely name,’ I say, and Madame Zuiseller smiles.
‘Roy had a heart attack not long after that photograph was taken. I did warn him,’ she says.
‘But the Garrante Brothers? Who are they? What are they like?’
‘Circus family for generations,’ says Madame Zuiseller. ‘Their grandfather was a ringmaster for a time, their mother the trapeze artist. The boys worked with the horses when we had them and helped with the fairground side when needed. There is obviously a financial arrangement, and the circus’s accountant deals with all that. Apart from an advertising company being brought in to rebrand and raise our profile, and upgrades to our equipment so we could get new, more exciting acts, nothing much has changed.’
I peer more closely at the newspaper clipping. The Garrante Brothers took over the same year Tracey disappeared.
‘I’ll pop that Derren Brown book in before you leave, Ethne. Just bring it back to the shop next time you’re through.’
‘Thank you, Garth. It’s been a pleasure. Your tea leaves tell me you’re making progress in your investigations. Please don’t give up.’
Spots dance in front of my eyes as I readjust to the early darkness after the light of the caravan. I suggest we mosey in the direction of the shop, check out Amelia’s awesome window display as we go by. It’s only about 400 metres down the road, past the library and the back end of the primary school.
‘Made a new friend, have you?’
‘Ha. An unlikely friendship indeed. You never know when a tarot reader will come in handy.’
‘Really?’ I’m about to ask when he thinks he’ll need a tarot reader again when he changes tack.
‘What do you reckon then?’
‘Yeah, she seemed genuine enough. You’re the one who had the reading. What did she say?’
‘No, no, not about Ethne. About the article.’
‘Oh. It’s a hell of a coincidence that the Garrante Brothers bought the circus and we’re about to host Isabella Garrante. I mean, what the fuck? Do you think they’re related?’
‘Circus brothers and a secretive, enigmatic author? I wouldn’t be surprised. What about the takeover happening the year Tracey went missing?’ says Garth.
‘Yeah, that’s a bit sus, too, I reckon.’
‘Tracey was flirting with the young Maloney’s lad, according to Prudence. She definitely had a link to the circus. What I’m really interested in, though, is where the Garrante Brothers got that amount of cash from. And the circus was failing, so it’s a bit of a dramatic comeback.’
‘They’re still going though, aren’t they. Ethne saw it all coming.’
‘Hmm. She drew the King of Pentacles as one of my cards. Who do we know who’s rich as Croesus and is wrapped up tight in all this?’
‘Franklin White? You think he’s involved with the circus?’
‘I’m not sure but it’s an interesting line of enquiry.’
Amelia’s spectacularly spooky orange-and-black window display is visible from a fair distance, and even better close up.
‘She’s surpassed herself,’ says Garth.
‘Better than the flying Christmas books, you reckon?’
‘It’s a close-run thing. But hang on — what the hell has happened here?’
The flowers in the trough outside are missing again, stems cropped short rather than roots wrenched. The really weird thing is that new blooms have been planted around the desecrated incumbent ones. They’re gaudy, bright orange, matching Amelia’s window perfectly.
‘Off with their heads,’ I murmur.
‘Indeed,’ says Garth.
Garth: 11 days until Isabella Garrante book launch
I get down to the shop early before Kitty arrives and remove the dead stalks. The bright-orange blooms that replace them coordinate with Amelia’s Halloween window and look fantastic. I just hope Kitty will think so, too. There isn’t a chance she won’t notice; the flower trough is her domain and one over which she rules with a green-fingered iron hand.
The other reason I’ve come down early is to spruce up the shopfront. There’s still no word from the publisher about whether Isabella will agree to our using the circus tent as a venue — assuming, of course, that the circus people are happy for us to use it for a night as well — but whatever happens, Isabella will no doubt visit the shop and it needs to look its very best for her, and for any publicity shots. Now more than ever it’s vital that the launch is a success, one that we can capitalise on should Franklin convince our landlord to sell.
Our shopfront has a big window and a small window, which to avoid confusion we cunningly refer to as the big window and the small window. I’ve decided to start by sanding and painting the big window, as it’s away from the door and easier to cordon off. I’m about to apply the last run of tape along the bottom of the window before getting a first coat on when a certain scent assaults my nostril; eau de Dafydd is like being punched in the nose with a turd. He stops behind me, looks at the flowers and tugs on his beard.
‘Dead. Nothing I could do,’ he mumbles. Then his head snaps around and he stares intently at something only he can see. ‘Couldn’t stop it.’
‘It’s a shame about the flowers,’ I say. ‘But we’ve replaced them.’
‘Irreplaceable.’ Dafydd shakes his head and wanders off, still conversing. ‘I’d be dead, too, wouldn’t I.’
I unroll enough green tape so that it is just past the length of the window, pinch a section between my fingers and rip it free from the roll. Carefully aligning it with the windowsill, I press it firmly against the glass. I stand back and, as if I have executed the last phase of some complex, arcane summoning spell, Eloise appears in the doorway. Dressed in ripped denim dungarees, a paint-spotted shirt and red headscarf, she looks like Rosie the Riveter.
‘I thought I’d give you a hand with the fun part.’
Me on a ladder and Eloise doing the lower sections, we work for an hour, although our actual painting time is considerably less, because everyone who comes into the shop engages us in small talk. Thankfully, Eloise does most of the conversational heavy lifting, so I have only to add answers to the odd direct question. As she fends off another enquiry about why we’re painting the shop and doesn’t it look nice now that it’s freshened up, I see Dafydd striding back along the pavement. Neither staring into the ether nor talking to invisible friends, he doesn’t even meander but cuts a straight path towards us.
He draws level and turns his attention to the old shelf I’m using to put paintbrushes and other gear. ‘Van Gogh, he painted the flowers, he didn’t steal them.’ He nods to himself and reaches out a hand.
‘Thanks, Dafydd. But we’re all good with the painting,’ I say.
Ignoring me, he picks up a fine-tipped artist’s brush. It’s my favourite, and one I use for doing the gold detailing on the trim. It’s also the only fine brush I have, and it cost a fortune.
I step down from the ladder and hold out my hand like a parent to an errant child. ‘Maybe just leave that one, Dafydd, as we need it. Take one of the others if you want.’
