Free Shadowmaker by Joan Lowery Nixon

was one of the carnival hands, according to the sheriff. OtisCantrell—you know who Otis is. He has that used-car lot on the highway to Corpus. Anyhow, Otis was out in the woods behind the carnival lot early this morning, and practically fell over the body. Like to scared him to death.”
    “You said the man who was killed was a carnival worker?” Mom asked. I could see Mom’s investigative-reporter side emerge.
    Belle nodded vigorously, then rolled her eyes and let her voice drop. “Shot right in the chest,” she said.
    “No one heard the shot?”
    Belle’s younger sister, Sudie, a somewhat plumper copy of Belle, elbowed in, shocked excitement in her voice. “One of the carnival people told Sheriff Granger he thought he heard a car backfire somewhere around eleven-fifteen to eleven-thirty, but with the noise at the carnival—the motors on those rides make an awful racket, don’t you think?—no one heard anything. No one even missed him until all the people had gone and it was time to lock things up. He wasn’t a regular—more a drifter who joined them just a short while back. The owner thought he’d quit without so much as a word, but that didn’t seem so strange.”
    Mom gave a little shiver and looked at me as though she was sorry she’d allowed me to go to the carnival. “Does the sheriff have any idea who killed the man?”
    Belle stepped in front of Sudie, recapturing her place as head storyteller. “The sheriff’s interrogating the carnival people, and it wouldn’t surprise me none if the murderer hadn’t come to Kluney along with the carnival. We all know it couldn’t have been anyone from Kluney.”
    A few others waylaid us as we walked to the car, eachrepeating the basic facts of the story, with a few imaginative variations. It seems that the sheriff found lots of footprints around the body, which caused Bennie Lutz, head mechanic at the Shell gas station, to come to the conclusion that the victim was killed by a motorcycle gang.
    Gibb Barker, Kluney’s bald-as-a-basketball postmaster, had heard that every one of the victim’s pockets had been turned inside out, everything taken, including identification. “It had to have been a pro,” he said, “come down here from Houston.”
    As we drove home Mom murmured, “Poor man. He and another carnival hand probably got into a fight. It shouldn’t take the sheriff long to find the culprit.”
    I felt creepy, thinking about a murder taking place so close by. I couldn’t help but be glad that at the time the victim was getting killed, I was on my way home.
    It was not the kind of day to dwell on a murder. The sea glittered with reflected sunlight, and the tall beach grass shimmered and shivered under a gentle breeze. I changed into shorts and ran barefoot down to the sand, letting the foam from the icy water trickle up to freeze my toes. Small, long-legged birds chased the wavelets up and back the hard-packed sand, and I watched them, trying to figure out what in the world they thought they were doing. I hadn’t done my warm-ups, but even so I went through the basic positions and a few light pliés; then with my arms behind me like wings, I danced a quick, stiff-legged movement up to the foam and back, mimicking the birds.
    Mom’s call startled me, and I was even more startled tosee Lana Jean standing on the porch next to her. I’d forgotten that Lana Jean was coming.
    As I reached the porch steps Mom said, “I’ve made a plate of ham sandwiches, and there’s potato chips and cookies and all kinds of soft drinks on the kitchen table.”
    “Thanks,” I said, and took a closer look at Lana Jean. She was still wearing yesterday’s makeup. The foundation had turned a little orange, and there was a faint smudge of mascara under both eyes. At least she had combed her hair.
    She smiled at me happily and held out a spiral notebook. “I remembered it this time.”
    “Let’s eat first,” I said. “Then I’ll help you with your