Falafel Jones - The Kewpie Killer Read Online Free Page A

lynch Finley. Surprised no one did.”
    “So when did Kelly’s start coming?”
    “Oh, wasn’t till a year or two later… when they finished the fairground.”
    “I didn’t know that.”
    “This is all old news and it’s getting late. Better get me that carny copy before I get another call from layout.”
    “OK, Uncle Bill.” I headed for the door.
    “Hey, Sweetheart?”
    “Yes?”
    “Don’t forget. You haven’t failed to find something until you give up looking.”
    “Dad used to say that.”
    “Yeah… he did.” Uncle Bill sat still for a moment. Then he clapped his hands together twice and yelled, “Get outta here. Get back to work,” and I did.
    I went back to my desk and uploaded my carnival photos to the newspaper’s server. These pictures would go well with my Sunday feature article. I had nice shots of families enjoying themselves and some colorful Carny workers.
    I completed my copy about Farmer Finley and sent it to editing. My draft only briefly mentioned the dead “Breaker” Burke but contained nothing about the Kewpie Doll. I didn’t want to write about it until I knew what it meant.
    Finally finished with my assignment, I could snoop a bit and search for other news about carnival deaths. I found two reported in Florida papers.
    The first article mentioned a pair of Kewpie Dolls and a murder-suicide at an unnamed carnival around twenty years ago. I dismissed it, as that killer was obviously dead.
    The other story took place two years ago. Police found a murdered clown but the article said nothing about a doll. This killing was different as the New York victims were patrons not employees and the Clown didn’t have a Kewpie… or did he?
    My story didn’t mention a Kewpie either. Just because the Florida story didn’t mention a doll didn’t mean there wasn’t one. A few keystrokes on the computer located the Achalaca County Police Department and their phone number. I dialed and after a few transfers, a man said, “Homicide.”
    “Hi, I’d like to speak with the detective who handled the death of that clown two years ago.”
    “Ma’am. That’s no way to talk about the dead.”
    “No. I mean yes, but I’m asking about a real clown. He died at a carnival.”
    “Oh, just a minute.” I heard a slight pause, a muffled laugh and then a different voice spoke, “Detective Franklin. To whom am I speaking?”
    “Raquel Flanagan, a reporter with the Waalbroek Chronicle.”
    “Waalbroek? Where the heck is that?”
    “Central New York. Where the heck is Achalaca?”
    “Central Florida. Is there something else or did you call for a geography lesson?”
    “Do you know of a case two years ago where a clown was killed at a carnival?”
    “Yes.”
    “Was a Kewpie Doll found at the scene? Perhaps a clown doll?”
    The line went quiet. Then, “Who is this?”
    “Raquel Flanagan from the Chronicle. Well, was there one?”
    “We can’t discuss the case. It’s still an open investigation. Good bye.”
    So much for police cooperation, if I wanted information, I’d have to get it elsewhere. The carnival seemed like a good place to start. I could also stop to see that apartment on the way.
    * * *
    When I arrived at the Brookview Gardens management office, I asked to see the advertised apartment. A young blonde woman got up from a desk and handed me a business card.
    “Thanks for coming by. I’m Suzy Weston, the rental agent.”
    I looked at the card, “I think you’re the only business in Waalbroek that doesn’t spell ‘brook’ ‘b-r-o-e-k’.”
    “Used to, before construction started. We spelled it ‘B-r-o-e-k-ville’ but when somebody mispronounced it as ‘Brokeville’ at an investors meeting, well… ”
    Suzy showed me a huge one-bedroom unit with a washer\dryer. Freshly painted, it included a modern kitchen, a dining area large enough to seat eight people and a six by ten foot balcony off the plushy carpeted living room. It came with a reserved indoor parking space and