The Last Laugh, by Lori Roberts Herbst

 When we found Spanky curled in a fetal position in the back seat of his yellow clown car, Paloma and I assumed he was sleeping off another bender. Wouldn’t have been the first time. There was a reason Spanky didn’t need to wear a plastic red nose like the rest of us clowns.

I tugged at the end of my lime-green tie and took a deep breath, inhaling the familiar odor of elephant dung. I opened the car door, stuck my foot inside and prodded Spanky with my floppy blue shoe. Not a whimper nor a moan. I squeezed through the door and shook Spanky’s shoulder. 

“Up and at ’em. pal. Gotta get ready for tonight’s show.
”

No response. A purple hue radiated beneath his white makeup. His thick tongue protruded through painted lips. I slid my finger under his nose. No air puffed from his nostrils.

Guess Spanky hadn’t passed out after all.

I wriggled out of the car and turned to Paloma in her sequined costume, auburn hair piled atop her head. She lifted a well-plucked eyebrow and raked a set of purple fingernails across her neatly trimmed beard. 

“Is he—?”

“Can’t be sure. Gonna need some help getting him outta the car.”

I clutched Spanky’s armpits. Paloma hurried around the front of the vehicle and opened the opposite door. She wedged her hands against Spanky’s nether regions, shoving as I tugged, until we dislodged his six-foot frame.

Once Spanky lay prone on the sawdust covered arena floor, I dropped to one tweed-covered knee and dragged a finger across the greasepaint that covered his neck. When I located his carotid artery, its stillness confirmed what I had already deduced. We had a dead clown on our hands. 

I wiped white goo from my finger onto the back of my tie and leaned closer. A jagged smear across his jugular interrupted the smooth makeup on his neck. I dabbed at the smeared line with my floral hanky, uncovering an angry red ligature mark.

Spanky the Clown had been strangled.

Sitting back on my heels, I spotted a length of tightrope snaking from beneath the clown car. The murder weapon, I presumed. 

An oft-told circus joke popped into my head. How do you kill a clown? Go for the juggler. Ba doom boom.

I chastised myself. How could I think such things when a man was dead? Was I in shock? Or had I simply developed a sense of humor as sour as the frown painted onto my face?

Rain pinged against the tin roof covering the arena. I shut my eyes and listened to the rhythmic sound, glad it wasn’t sleet. Sleet would keep the crowds away, and our paychecks depended on crowds.

Pickles & Peanuts Traveling Circus was preparing for the final show of our annual three-day gig at the Sunflower Fairgrounds in Hazard, Kansas. And now my partner, the only other clown in our act, was dead. I’d have to carry the comic load on my own tonight. Not an easy task, especially since I was the sad clown in our duo.

Paloma’s shadow fell across Spanky’s body, and I struggled to my feet.

“Dead,” I told her, pointing at Spanky’s neck. “Murdered.”

She nodded and hugged her arms across her body, causing generous breasts to bulge over the seam of her low-cut costume. I squirmed, and the plastic daisy affixed to my lapel squirted an embarrassing trickle of water.

Lifting my gaze back to Paloma’s face, I was surprised to see tears in her eyes. I hadn’t pegged Paloma as the emotional type.

“How well did you know Spanky?”

She averted her eyes and shrugged. “Not well. Just in the…you know…biblical sense.”

“You’ve been sleeping with him?”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course. He’s a clown. Everyone knows about clowns. Just look at his big feet. You know what they say—”

I cut her off, the heat rising in my face. “I’m a clown. How come you and I never…?”

She glanced down at my feet. Despite the oversized shoes, they measured a mere size eight, the low end of average.

“Oh,” I said. My lips curved downward, mirroring the painted red arc surrounding my mouth.

Paloma placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Besides, Buster, you’re a sad clown. No woman wants to look up during her moment of passion and see a frown. It kills the mood.”

The word “kill” brought me back to reality. I fished the phone from the pocket of my baggy pants and dialed 9-1-1. When I told the dispatcher Spanky was dead, she said she’d send in the cavalry.

Even so, I didn’t hold high hopes anyone would expend much effort toward solving Spanky’s murder. Circus folks fell on the low end of society’s hierarchy. After a cursory investigation, the police would dump Spanky’s death into the unsolved files. The circus would pack up and move to our next stop, hire another clown, and forget all about poor Spanky.

Word spreads fast through a tight-knit community, so I wasn’t surprised to see the circus family gathered near the clown car, silent and respectful. Paloma regularly assumed the role of caretaker, so now she went to each of them. Jeffrey the Juggler took her hand solemnly in his nimble fingers. Our newest crew member, a skinny boy named Jimmy, dropped his eyes when Paloma approached, no doubt reluctant to display his emotions. Twin acrobats, the Winged Wagners, pulled Paloma into a three-way embrace. The animal trainer, the ticket seller, the concessionaire—Paloma graced each of them with words of comfort.

My nature was more cynical than compassionate. As I studied the faces of the assemblage, it occurred to me that one of them might actually be Spanky’s killer. Years of watching Dateline had taught me that people closest to the victim were the most likely suspects. Had some circus family squabble resulted in the clown’s death? I lifted my phone and shot a surreptitious photo of the small congregation. Just in case.

Our manager, a squatty bald man who called himself Tiger, plowed through the door and stomped across the sawdust, stopping beside me. He chewed on the cigar butt clenched between his teeth and glared at the dead clown. “We got a performance in three hours,” he said to the group. “Show must go on, right? Spanky woulda wanted it that way. That’s all I got for a pep talk. Now scram.”

* * * * *

That night, I honored Spanky by painting an extra tear onto my sad face. The show indeed went on, followed by a hundred others in dozens of cities over the course of a year. At first, I hounded the police for weekly updates, then monthly. After half a year, the cops stopped taking my calls. As I had predicted, the case grew cold, and Paloma and I resigned ourselves to the fact that Spanky’s killer had gotten away with murder. 

For a while, we went through replacement clowns like popcorn. First was Pasty, who lasted three weeks before deciding that even a romp in Paloma’s RV didn’t compensate for the stress of life in a traveling circus. The next hire, Beanbag, made it two months before dumping us in Omaha for a mascot gig with a minor league baseball team. A couple of others followed until finally, we got lucky—or should I say Paloma got lucky—when we stumbled onto Tickles, a happy clown with a resume as impressive as his huge feet. Despite simmering jealousy over the nightly rocking of Paloma’s RV, I liked Tickles. His wide grin and goofy antics caused children—and even adults—to squeal in laughter. He became the yin to my yang, and we developed a top-notch act. Months passed, and Spanky’s memory faded. But I never again felt comfortable inside that yellow clown car.

Now, a year after his murder, Pickles & Peanuts Traveling Circus had landed back at the Sunflower Fairgrounds for our annual Christmas extravaganza, complete with reindeer and a rented Santa who reeked of whiskey.

And, as if it were a bad movie sequel, I’d stumbled across another dead clown.

This one hadn’t been strangled. In fact, as he lay on the floor of the cage, his face looked peaceful beneath his pointy, pom-topped hat. But the bloody gash gouged into Tickles’s torso told a different story. A low growl drew my attention to Old Nelly, our circus lion, now poised atop his red and yellow platform. He casually licked a paw as he watched me through narrowed eyes.

What was the lion thinking? That clown sure tasted funny. Ba doom boom.

I tugged on the cage door. Locked. Then I spotted the key in the sawdust several feet outside the bars. 

Poor Tickles. He hadn’t stood a chance.

A door slammed behind me, and Paloma entered the arena. I hurried toward her, spreading my arms to block the grisly scene.

She peeked around me, eyes wide. “Is that—?”

“’Fraid so.” I maneuvered her toward the exit and away from the bloody crime scene. Behind us, the big cat emitted a satisfied roar. Paloma shuddered.

I led her out of the dimly lit arena and into the bright sunshine of the winter afternoon. A few circus workers milled about the grounds, their pace unhurried since the day’s only performance was still four hours away. Paloma shuffled forward like a bearded zombie. When one of the mechanics happened by, I grabbed his arm and whispered in his ear. “Freddo, call the police. Then stand guard in front of the arena door. Nobody goes in.”

“What’s goin’ on?” Though the turnover rate was high in a traveling circus, Freddo was a Pickles & Peanuts veteran with a long memory. I saw suspicion cross his face.

“Tickles is dead,” I said. “Lion cage. I wanna get Paloma back to her RV. Can you handle this?”

He nodded, wiping his hands on a work towel. “Go on then. I got it under control.”

I prodded Paloma forward, my floppy shoes slapping against the dirt as we headed toward the housing quarters. One of the Winged Wagners—I wasn’t sure which one—pedaled by on a unicycle, raising her hand in greeting. A black and white circus cat scampered across our path. As we passed the wooden ticket booth at the fairground's outskirts, I noticed the local rent-a-Santa we’d hired slouched in a rusty folding chair, slurping from a mug. I doubted he was drinking coffee.

“Hey, buddy.” I glanced at him as we passed. “If anyone comes looking for us, we’ll be in Paloma’s trailer.”

“I bet you will,” he said with a smirk. “Ho. Ho. HO.”

Paloma froze. “Did he just call me a Ho?”

I tightened my arm around her shoulder and propelled her toward the RV. “He’s Santa. It’s a traditional greeting. Don’t be paranoid.”

She took a deep breath. I felt the muscles in her shoulders relax. Still, when I looked back at the leer on Santa’s face, I knew he’d meant every single Ho.

* * * * *

Despite our year-long friendship, Paloma had never invited me into her love nest. While she washed up, I stood in the living room, noting the beat-up floral loveseat, stacks of empty pizza boxes, and scattered beer cans scattered everywhere. A rumpled queen-sized bed dominated the left side of the trailer. Images of Paloma flailing about with her big-footed companions flooded my brain. I pushed them aside. This was no time to indulge my green monster. 

To my right sat a kitchenette, complete with a small coffee maker. I filled the carafe with water and spooned grounds into the filter. While the coffee brewed, I sat on the loveseat and picked up a book that lay open on the rickety coffee table. Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables. In French. Paloma was a multi-faceted creature.

She emerged from the bathroom, her beard dewy with water droplets. Squeezing onto the loveseat, she leaned in to me. “You’re sure it was Tickles?” I nodded. “Damn.” She sighed. “He was okay.”

I glanced at the bed. “Yeah. I didn’t know him like you did, but he was a good guy. A friend. Knew how to make people laugh.”

“Could it have been an accident?”

I raised my eyebrows. “You mean did he wander into the lion cage by mistake? The door was locked, Paloma. The key had been tossed out of reach. I doubt Tickles did that himself.”

“I suppose not.” She pursed her lips. “He was murdered then. Just like Spanky.”

The coffee maker beeped. I filled two mugs and handed one to Paloma. We sipped and contemplated the fate of the two clowns until a knock rattled the RV door. I opened it to find two men in dark suits and sunglasses. Both looked to be twelve. Either they were rookie detectives or late trick-or-treaters dressed up as the Men in Black.

The one on my left held up his credentials. “Detective Bronson,” he said. “And this is Officer Walker.”

“Buster,” I said. Paloma moved in behind me, and I tilted my head toward her. “Paloma.”

Bronson looked me up and down, settling his gaze on my nose. “You always dress this way?”

“Show today,” I said. “I get ready early in case any kiddos come on site. Kind of like Santa. Don’t want to ruin the magic.” I glanced toward the ticket booth, but our drunk Santa had disappeared. Off to get a refill, I expected.

“You found the body, right?” I nodded. “Mind if we talk? Just take a minute.”

“Sure. Want to come in?”

He looked past me at the RV’s grimy interior and wrinkled his nose. “Why don’t you and your… lady friend… step outside?”

I moved back to let Paloma precede me. The four of us stood in a circle. The sunshine reflected off the sequins sewn across Paloma’s skimpy costume. Bronson’s sunglasses paused on her beard, fell to her ample cleavage, and rose again to the beard. I sighed and waited. Every man who met Paloma passed through the same steps. I knew from experience there was no use trying to converse before the process had run its course.

Bronson eventually lifted his gaze to me. “Just wanted to let you know where we stand on the dead clown.”

“Tickles,” Paloma said, glaring at the cop. “He had a name. Show some respect.”

Bushy eyebrows rose above his sunglasses. “Sorry, ma’am. Tickles.”

“Thank you. He was a real person—” Her voice caught, and she wrapped her arms around herself, amplifying her bosom. The detective’s eyes darted downward again.

He shifted from one foot to the other. “Anyhow, our initial findings lead us to conclude this was an accident. A tragic, gruesome accident.”

I shook my head so hard my wig jiggled. “You’re kidding. Are you saying Tickles accidentally got eaten by a lion?”

He nodded. “No sign of a struggle. Maybe he entered the cage to feed the big guy. Maybe he was just screwing around. Either way, we think the clown…” He glanced at Paloma. “… Tickles…entered the cage on his own. Then... well…”

“Did you see the key a couple of yards away? How could the door accidentally lock and the key accidentallyfly out of reach?”

Bronson shot a sidelong look at his partner and shrugged. “Suicide, then. Locked himself in and tossed the key to keep from backing out.”

“Suicide by lion?” Paloma said through gritted teeth. “Ridiculous. You just don’t want to waste your time on a clown in a traveling circus.” She looked at me, eyes blazing. “It’s just like Spanky. They’re not going to do anything at all.”

I narrowed my eyes and turned to the detectives. “You know about Spanky, right? Murdered right here one year ago. Never solved. Does that seem like a coincidence to you?”

I could see by the flex of his jaw that he was unaccustomed to being challenged. “We know about the other clown. And yes, in spite of what you see on TV detective shows, coincidences do happen. But just so you know, we’re only talking to you as a courtesy. Now we’re done. If the crime scene tech finds evidence to the contrary, we’ll let you know.”

He swung on dusty black wingtips and started to leave. After a brief pause, he turned back and faced Paloma. “Off the subject, but are you a guy or a gal?” He pointed from her beard to her chest. “Is that fake, or are those?”

I caught Paloma’s wrist as she reared back to swing at the detective. When he turned his gaze to me, the image in his sunglasses showed a sad clown’s frown beneath a menacing glare. Horror movie fodder. Walker smirked and loped off after his partner.

“By the way,” Paloma called after them, “they’re real—the beard and the boobs. And they’re spectacular.”

* * * * *

Back inside, Paloma paced the small confines of the RV. “Two dead clowns. Same circus, same town. Is it some local who just doesn’t like freaks and geeks? Or have we stumbled across a serial clown killer?”

I shrugged. “It’s definitely more than a coincidence.”

She mused for a moment, then gasped. “Buster, you could be in danger.”

“Nah, I doubt I’d be a target.”

“Why not?”

I hesitated. I had a hypothesis, but I didn’t want to make her feel bad. Still, the cops clearly weren’t going to investigate, so it was up to us. “Don’t take this wrong, but what do the two dead guys have in common?”

She blinked slowly, like I was a nitwit. “They’re clowns.”

 “What else?”

She considered, then her eyes widened in comprehension. “I slept with both of them.” Her voice cracked. “You think I got them killed? Because I had a few rolls in the hay with them?”

More than a few, I reflected. “Not exactly. Hear me out. What are the usual motives for murder?” I held up a finger. “Number one: money. But circus clowns rarely qualify as members of the one percent. Two: power. Not many people vying to be top clown at the Pickles & Peanuts Traveling Circus. That leaves number three. Love. Or at least lust. Is it possible you’ve left a jilted lover in your wake? That for some sad sack out there, you’re the one that got away?”

Her face paled, and her hand flew to her chest. Despite my best intentions, my eyes followed it and lingered longer than they should have. My phone buzzed with a text, dragging me from my momentary reverie. As I reached into my pocket to retrieve it, Paloma’s phone beeped from across the room. We both had the same message: Asshole cops cancelled tonight’s show. Pack your stuff. Rolling out at 6 a.m.

The clock on my phone read 4:57 p.m. That gave us just thirteen hours to nab this killer.

But if my suspicions proved true, it wouldn’t even take that long.

I scrolled through the photos on my phone and showed Paloma the shot taken a year ago of the circus family gather together following Spanky’s death. “Did you go out with any of these men? Even a casual date?”

She concentrated on one face, then the next, shaking her head at each. When she reached the end of the row, she bit her bottom lip and pointed at the screen. “This guy… Jimmy, I think. One of the floor crew, right?” I looked at the man. Just who I had expected. “I didn’t go out with him—not a clown, you know, and way too scrawny—but he hounded me for at least a month. I finally told him I’d hooked up with Spanky, that we were exclusive.” She looked up at me, her blue eyes round and shining. “Jimmy quit the circus after that show. I never saw him again.”

“But you have seen him again, several times over the past couple of days. In fact, we passed him on the way back to your RV this afternoon.”

She blinked a few times as the wheels spun. Then recognition dawned in her eyes. “Santa? But he’s fat. Jimmy was so skinny. And he looks so much older.”

“A year of boozing it up can do that to a guy. I didn’t recognize him at first either.”

She shook a finger at me. “You said he wasn’t calling me a Ho.”

I rose to my feet and extended my hand. “I was wrong. And I think I know where he is. Let’s go shove that Ho Ho Ho back down his throat.”

* * * * *

The Salty Pig was the only bar in Hazard, so I laid odds that’s where we’d find drunk Santa. We’d
borrowed the rusty Peanuts and Pickles service truck and parked in front of a row of faded brick storefronts. I spotted our reflection in a shop window as we walked toward the bar at the corner—a clown in full makeup and a bearded lady in a tight spangled bodysuit. Probably not a sight they saw every day in this one-horse town. I ushered Paloma through the paint chipped door, pausing to let our eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. 

The interior looked as tired as the exterior. Peeling leather stools surrounded old whiskey barrels. Strings of dingy globe lights dangled from the ceiling. A vintage jukebox in the corner warbled an ironic tune: Tears of a Clown. 

But the scene stealer appeared mounted above the bar: the back end of an enormous pink plastic pig, its curly tail spinning beneath a spotlight.

Happy hour had commenced, and a smattering of old timers guzzled long necks. Paloma pointed toward the oak bar against the back wall. I followed her finger to see Jimmy slumped onto a stool, still wearing his red plush Santa suit. His synthetic beard, tinted yellow from cigarette smoke, lay piled beneath his chin. As we approached, he gave Paloma a sidelong look, took a long drag on his Marlboro Light, and returned his gaze to the whiskey in front of him.

Paloma slid onto the stool next to him. I stood beside her, resting my elbow on the bar. The bartender, a big white-haired country boy whose craggy nose spoke of a bronco-busting, bull-riding past, looked up from the glass he was polishing. “Santa Claus, a bearded lady, and a clown walk into a bar…” he deadpanned. The three of us stared at him. “C’mon, that was funny. What can I get y’all?”

Paloma and I ordered beer. The bartender filled two glasses and slid them in front of us. Then he picked up a rag and began wiping the bar, feigning disinterest.

Paloma gestured toward Jimmy. “Is this what you’ve come to? Some boozed-up strip mall Santa Claus smelling of wet diapers? Promising whiny brats crap they’ll never get?”

He blew a trail of smoke from his nostrils and mashed his butt into the plastic ashtray. “I’m much more ambitious than you imagine. In the spring, I become a boozed-up strip mall Easter bunny.”

She shook her head. “That’s so sad. I remember you were actually pretty good looking once upon a time.”

“And you’re probably halfway decent underneath that facial hair.”

I held up my hands. “Hey, now. Let’s not resort to insults.”

He tilted his chin toward me. “You bangin’ this clown already? Tickles ain’t even cold yet.”

Paloma’s hand flew across Jimmy’s face so fast I couldn’t stop it this time. Her fingernails scored a trio of welts into his cheek. I glanced at the bartender, who leaned against the bar, close to the shotgun he surely kept there. 

Rage flickered in Jimmy’s eyes, followed by mournful resignation. “You’re a firecracker. Always liked that about you. We coulda been good together.”

The rage had evaporated from Paloma as well, and she touched his forearm. Her voice was soft. “Is that why you killed them? Jealousy?”

Tears welled in his eyes. “I loved you, Paloma. Still do. After Spanky died… I thought if I quit the circus, let you get away, I’d get over you. Didn’t happen. I still think of you every day.” He fumbled around the pocket of his Santa pants and produced his wallet, flipping to a miniature advertisement featuring Pickles & Peanuts’ Famous Bearded Lady.

He folded the wallet and took a swig of whiskey. Paloma leaned toward him. “I had no idea, Jimmy. I thought it was just a crush. You killed Spanky because of me?”

Jimmy didn’t speak. Didn’t even move.

“And Tickles?” she prodded.

The atmosphere changed in an instant, electric and dangerous. Jimmy leapt to his feet, and the motion sent his stool clattering to the ground. Paloma squealed as he grabbed her shoulders. I stiffened and leaned forward, ready to jump to her defense, but she caught my eye and gave her head a little shake. The bartender made a move, but I held up my hand. “Wait,” I whispered.

 Jimmy’s lips were tight, his face red. “Do you know what it was like to see you escort him into that stupid RV? To see it rocking on its tires and to imagine…” He blew out a breath and cocked his head toward me. “At least I know this guy gets it.”

I glanced at Jimmy’s small feet, feeling a sudden kinship with the man. Paloma put her hand on his cheek. “Did you kill him?” she whispered. “Did you lock him in that lion’s cage—” Her voice choked.

He stared into her eyes and nodded. “I acted like I was going in myself. Told him I wanted to end it all. He tried to stop me. I shoved him inside and locked the door. Didn’t take but a minute for Old Nelly to realize he was getting a clown burger for lunch.” His lips curved into a manic grin. “Spanky was even easier. Passed out in the clown car, the old souse. Barely came to when the rope tightened around his neck.”

 “Oh, Jimmy. How could you?”

 “Those clowns weren’t good enough for you. I woulda made you happy. Still can. I just gotta make you give me a chance.”

He unzipped his Santa coat, reached beneath a padded fake belly, and pulled out a black snub-nosed gun. Then he spun Paloma around, flinging his arm across her chest. “I don’t wanna hurt anybody,” he said, his eyes darting from me to the bartender. “But she’s coming with me.”

He moved backward toward the door, dragging Paloma with him. In a moment of theatrical instinct, I stuck my floppy shoe in his path. He tripped over it and pinwheeled to the floor, the gun bouncing from his hand and skittering away. Paloma landed on top of him and rolled off, thudding onto the dirty wooden planks.

Jimmy scrambled to his feet, wild eyed, and darted for the door. The bartender rushed around the bar, cradling his shotgun. I lifted Paloma to her feet, brushing peanut shells and cigarette butts from her sequins. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

She fluffed her hair and smoothed her beard with a steady hand. “I’m fine.” The woman had ice water in her veins.

The bartender returned, breathing hard. “Santa’s got some zip in his gitalong,” he muttered. “Couldn’t catch him. I’ll call the cops.” The bar’s patrons, unfazed by the excitement, turned back to their beers.

Paloma looked at me, red lips curving into a knee-weakening smile. She wrapped her arms around my waist and pulled me close. “My hero.”

“But I let him get away,” I said. “A real hero would’ve made him pay for Spanky and Tickles.”

“Cops'll catch him.”

“They didn’t last time—”

She put a finger to my lips. “Maybe they won’t. Either way, his clown killing days are over. And that’s because of you.”

She kissed me, a deep, wet kiss that made my flower squirt. Her breasts heaved against my chest, and I stroked the soft down of her beard. Definitely real. The boobs and the beard. 

“Let’s go back to my RV,” she said, her voice husky.

“Does that mean…?”

She nodded. “Buster, I’m about to turn your frown upside down.”

 

THE END