Catch a Falling Clown: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Seven) Read Online Free Page A

Everything was red, bright red, not the red of blood but the red of good-smelling new bricks. Even the cars were red. As usual in my dreams, there were no people in Cincinnati but me. I walked into a row house and closed the door behind me, suddenly scared, not of what was inside, but of something outside. Then someone or something knocked at the door. I didn’t want to open it. I knew what was on the other side. A clown would be on the other side. Not my old friend Koko, but a six-foot clown with a grinning face. Who needs a clown at your door? Nothing’s funny about a clown.
    “Who’s there?” I said, holding one foot against the door.
    “I have a message,” came the high voice from the other side of the door.
    “Yeah,” I said, trying to make it sound tough.
    “Life is a circus,” came the high voice.
    “A circus?”
    “Yes,” he said. “Usually that means living is fun. But a circus is hard work, blisters to make a few minutes look funny, dangerous, or interesting.”
    “Then life is a circus?” I asked, looking around for someplace to hide.
    He didn’t answer. I knew he was looking for another way in.
    In my nightmare I told myself I was having a nightmare, but that didn’t make it better. I told myself to wake up, but I couldn’t. I think I whimpered, and then I was in another dream, a dream I’d rather not talk about. Then the third dream I can’t remember. But when I was safely in dream number three, I found myself back in Cincinnati, back in the house with the door. “Wait,” I said or thought, “this isn’t fair.”
    “Open the door,” came the high clown voice. “Open up.”
    “No,” I cried, trying to wake up, making the effort. I opened my eyes and found myself facing the grinning face. The voice came out of it, the clown voice.
    “That’s right,” he said, leaning over me. “Open them up.”
    Sheriff Mark Nelson of Mirador was kneeling next to my mattress, dressed in a white suit tapped with spots of sweat. Maybe he thought it was natty to wear sweat-spotted suits. His hat was in his hand, and his thumb was rubbing the dark sweatband. I looked around for Alex the deputy, and my mind was read.
    “I told Alex to wait outside,” said Nelson. “I wanted to renew our acquaintanceship. Nice, crisp, brisk day outside,” he sighed. “Good air round here.”
    “You want me to move to Mirador,” I said, trying to sit up.
    “Have to spruce you up a bit if it came to that,” he said. “You smell like a Mex field hand.”
    I was awake now and making no attempt to resist scratching my neck, face, and stomach. I was aware of the hole in my undershirt and the absence of my client.
    “What can I do for you?” I said.
    “Ah,” said Nelson, enjoying his moment before pouncing. “You could invest a few million dollars in Mirador real estate if you had it, but barring that, you can come for a little ride with me and Alex so we can talk over old times and the scrape you put on my car and Lope Obregon’s skull last night.”
    There was a bowl of water in one corner of the wagon and a mirror over it. I moved the five steps to it, examined the bowl to determine if it was clean, came to no conclusion, and stuck my face into it. It was cold and tight. I dried myself on a towel that was definitely not clean and turned to grin in the mirror. I looked rotten.
    “So I’m under arrest,” I said, reaching for my jacket, which had gotten kicked around by clowns or cops.
    “No, no,” chuckled Nelson, advancing on me. He was a few inches shorter than me, and his teeth were clean. His breath smelled minty and sweet enough to make me feel like throwing up.
    “Good,” I said. “I’ve got some work to do here. Been good to see you again.” I tried to step past him, and he moved out of the way.
    “Alex is out there,” he said. “He’s not going to let you go. I told you never to come back to Mirador. Now I’m going to show you I mean what I say. I really do. If I don’t show people I