“We can… certainly… talk about it,” Ledger agreed stiffly. He checked his watch. “I better be going. I’ve got a few errands to run before it gets dark.”
“I’ll walk you down,” Fairglass said, a bit too eagerly, as he popped from behind the desk. He gestured Ledger toward the door, and they made their way downstairs in uncomfortable silence.
It got more uncomfortable when Fairglass broke it.
“I was wondering if you were going to have a service for your father?” he asked. “I’d love to attend.”
Ledger got to the bottom of the stairs and pushed the heavy blue door open to the alleyway to the side of the liquor store. He stepped outside, and Fairglass had to jump down the last few steps to catch the door before it slammed.
“We didn’t want any… weirdness… around his final resting place,” Ledger said delicately. “Not with some of the people he was corresponding with. So we just had him quietly buried somewhere private… and unconsecrated.”
Fairglass pulled an odd face as he tried to work out if he was more offended at not making the cut or thrilled by the drama of it. With a quick nod, Ledger left him to work it out.
It was petty, he supposed. But if anyone wanted to make a quick buck out of Bell’s corpse, Ledger hoped they had fun traipsing around Sutton looking for an imaginary tomb.
CHAPTER19
“HEY, SWEETIE-PIE,” the girl in the ticket booth chirped. She was made up like a blond Betty Boop, all kewpie doll lips and over-arched brows. A tiny clown’s hat perched on the bouffant floof of her bleached platinum hair. “You need a ticket?”
Ledger supposed he did. No free rides tonight. He paid the ten bucks for a non-rider ticket—he was to keep it on him at all times—and a souvenir badge plucked out of a bucket and presented with a smile.
Ledger left the girl to coo excitedly over a handful of preschool clowns as he headed into the carnival. He checked his phone as he walked. The texts he’d sent to Hark and Wren to tell them he was on his way here sat unanswered in the app. He twisted his mouth in annoyance and put the phone away as he walked under the faded, shaped wooden sign over the gate. Letters studded with yet-to-be-lit fat round bulbs in different colors announced he was entering the Carnival of Mysteries.
It stank.
Ledger stopped under the sign as his eyes watered with the slap-in-the-face scent of the place. It smelled like… his brain shorted out on thewhatas it rummaged his sense memory for something to map the carnival’s distinct smell over.
It was rich, creamy milk, still warm from the cow, in a margarita glass with a salted rim.
A scoop of vanilla ice cream drizzled with blood.
A buttermilk scone, still warm and sweet from the oven, with a slice of bacon.
The waist-high clown-kids pushed past him as they ran into the fair, their sound levels set to bat-like squeals. The harried parents chased after a few steps behind as they alternated “Ace, hold Vera’s hand!” with “So sorry, they’re so excited. I’ll replace that.” Ledger turned to the side to present less surface area to crash into and pressed the heel of his hand against his temple.
“You OK?” someone asked, a hand under his elbow.
“Migraine,” Ledger told the old lie. He’d not had to trot it out in years, not since he got the hang of how to translate what his knack told him. The carnival just… didn’t fit in that translation. Ledger took his elbow back as he straightened up and pushed the unpleasant rattle of his knack to the side. “It’ll pass.”
The man next to him was tall and slender, and dressed a bit like a pirate. Based on the puffy white shirt and tailored black pants tucked into stylish black leather boots, he was part of the carnival. Sutton didn’t lend itself, as a whole, to people who wanted to express themselves.
“Maybe you should have something to eat,” the man suggested with an easy, warm smile. He dropped a hand on Ledger’s shoulder and walked him out of the flow of traffic at the entrance. “That might settle your stomach. Although, I’ve got an ulterior motive, of course.”
There was something about how genial the man was that unsettled Ledger. He’d feel bad about that—his Good Samaritan seemed to be genuinely trying to help—but Ledger had very explainable reasons for being wary of “fatherly” vibes.
“You writing a book about Bell too?” Ledger asked. He discreetly slid out from under the man’s hand, which helped a bit.
The lean man chuckled. “No,” he said. “Who needs more books about monsters? Here. Try one of Tsui’s specialties.”
They had stopped in front of a food cart manned by a stocky, tanned teenager with ridiculous brown curls that fell over his forehead. A row of deep-fat fryers were set up on the trestle behind him, the smell of fresh hot oil thick enough that Ledger couldn’t smell anything else.
“Hey, boss,” Tsui said, with a big, easy grin that exposed lots of square white teeth. It was probably the least predatory smile that Ledger had seen since he came back to Sutton. “What can I get you?”
“Two fried milk,” the man—the Errante on the signage, Ledger guessed—said. He glanced at Ledger, winked one dark eye, and then added, “with extra sauce.”
“Comin’ up,” Tsui said cheerfully. He had a California accent, all long lazy vowels and vocal fry, as he nattered on while he tossed a square of creamy something in breadcrumbs. “My grandma’s special recipe. She would be rolling in her grave that I’m selling it instead of doing law, but she ain’t dead. So…”
He tossed the breaded cubes over his shoulder, and they splashed into the deep-fat fryers.
