Free Catch a Falling Clown: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Seven) by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page A

his murderer in a rousing battle. The thought entered his mind as if by telepathy, and he glanced at Alex, who clearly wasn’t having any.
    “The conscience and strength of my deputy are an inspiration to us all,” Nelson said sarcastically, as Alex moved forward to get the .38 in the sand. “You need not bother about handling the weapon, Alex. With this drizzle and sand, fingerprints are unlikely and, certainly in this case, unnecessary.”
    “Nelson, I didn’t kill this woman.”
    “We shall see,” he said, rocking on his heels. “Your gun. We catch you over the body. She, as I recognize, is one of the circus people and, if I am not mistaken, the wife of the young man who met his demise this morning. You and the lady friend have a little falling-out, Peters?”
    A sudden blast of wind plastered my wet pants to my leg, pushed Nelson sideways, and made a groan through the ruins.
    “Don’t move,” came Nelson, fighting the wind.
    “I’m not moving unless the wind moves me,” I said. Alex, I saw, hadn’t been affected by the blast of air. He held the pistol out for Nelson, who examined it with the joy one would expect to see in the eyes of a pearl diver who has just come up with a beauty the size of a marshmallow.
    “There are no low-life circus freaks to do battle for you now, Peters,” said Nelson. “So Alex and I will just take you back to our little jail, arrange for this body, and have ourselves a chat, a cup of coffee, and a confession or two.”
    “I didn’t kill her,” I repeated.
    “Oh, yes, you did,” he said. Then he looked up into the rain and showed his not too straight and not terrible white teeth. “Good day to spend indoors chatting.”
    “You …”
    “What am I, Peters?” he said, losing his joy-of-life attitude. “How the hell do you know what I am? I do more good in this world in one day than you’ll do in your whole miserable lifetime. Just ask Alex. Ask him about the parties for the Mex kids I give, the handouts.”
    “Alex,” I said, feeling my back start to sag in pain. “Is he a saint?”
    “Let’s get back,” said Alex, walking past Nelson and heading toward the ridge.
    “Tell him, Alex,” Nelson shouted. “Tell him.”
    “Sheriff Nelson is a good man,” Alex said, his back still turned. He made it sound like something he was reading on a pack of matches.
    “Sheriff,” I said, pushing the wet hair from my face and trying to pull my broken-zippered windbreaker close. “There’s a dead woman over there. You think we might show her a little respect and let her go in peace without all your elephant crap?”
    “Someday,” hissed Nelson, “I’m going to be governor of this whole damn state.”
    “Wouldn’t surprise me in the least,” I said, following Alex.

 
    Nelson was as good as his word. He put on some clean, dry socks when we got back to the jail and made himself a cup of coffee. Then we sat, him behind his desk with his feet up and a cup of coffee in his hand, Alex standing behind me, and me dripping in a wooden chair across from Nelson.
    “Like some coffee?” Nelson asked with a twinkle.
    I didn’t answer, didn’t even let myself sneeze for a second or two, and then let it out.
    Nelson scrambled back. “Can’t go spreading those germs all around here,” he said seriously, shaking the spilled coffee from his hands.
    “Maybe we should give him a dry shirt,” Alex said behind me.
    “All right. All right,” Nelson agreed and went back to his feet-up pose. I could hear Alex move behind me, the wooden floor creaking. Behind Nelson’s head was a series of framed certificates and plaques. One was from the students of Theodore Roosevelt Elementary School at Mirador for giving a safety lecture back in 1938. Another was for completing an extension course from the University of Southern California in basic civics.
    I took the shirt handed to me over my shoulder, removed my jacket and shirt, and put on the dry one, which smelled faintly of