The Ladies of the Secret Circus by Constance Sayers (the little red hen ebook TXT) 📕

Marla looked confused. “Of course… this house. He was trying to convince me to run away with him, but I said no. That’s when things got out of hand between us. He was trying to drag me toward the car when I pushed him and he fell and hit his head. I panicked. I didn’t know what to do, Ben. It was a terrible, terrible accident.” She put her hands to her face. “Please, Ben. Listen to me. We can just cover his body and go on with our lives like nothing happened. Ben, look at me.” Marla’s blue eyes were shiny, tears brimming. “You have to believe me.”

Her face was so beautiful and hopeful. In the years he’d known her, Ben had memorized every line, shadow, and angle of her face by heart. He’d worshipped this woman, throwing himself headfirst into their marriage. How easy it would be just to believe her and toss the dirt back over Todd Sutton, like he’d never seen a thing. But this explanation was simply bullshit.

He inhaled audibly, almost a wheeze. “I want to believe you, Marla, really I do, but it’s just because I don’t want to believe that I was married to someone who could do that.” He wasn’t dealing with a simple murder anymore. If she’d done this to Todd Sutton, then he wasn’t dealing with a mortal woman. “What I’m really thinking, Marla, is that men have gone missing since 1944.” He rubbed his face with his hand, sure that he’d gotten dirt all over it. “And damn if the last known location of Desmond Bennett’s car was right here on this street.”

“How on earth would I know about a murder in 1944?”

“Not only did you kill Todd Sutton, but you also killed Desmond Bennett and Peter Beaumont.”

She laughed out loud. “Do you hear yourself, Ben? You sound crazy.”

“Really? When Todd Sutton is right here in our flower bed? Peter Beaumont is probably over there in those fucking azalea bushes, isn’t he? We pulled Desmond Bennett’s file from the archives. Doyle just told me that Dez was last seen on this street in front of this house.”

“So? I wasn’t even born yet.”

“We’ll get to that.” He held his finger up. His voice was growing louder as he was getting worked up. “I might not have noticed that little detail about Dez Bennett—it’s a big street—except for the photo of Peter Beaumont. You got sloppy, Marla. There’s a photo in our hallway of the Kerrigan River from around 1974. The twin of that picture is in Peter Beaumont’s police file. I kept thinking there was something familiar about Peter Beaumont, but it wasn’t his face that was familiar, it was the photo. For years, I’d walked past the next one you’d taken, on that very wall in our hallway.”

“My mother took that photo, Ben. I have no idea when it was taken.”

“And there is another one of the derby next to it. From the look of the cars, I’d say it was 1943 or 1944. What were those photos, trophies? Cut the shit, Marla.” Her jaw tensed and he knew he was right. It propelled him on with the dramatics of an evangelical minister. “I thought, isn’t it odd how nostalgic Marla is about her family homestead? Yet for the life of me, I’ve never seen one fucking photo of any member of her family. Not one. Then it really dawned on me. I’ve never seen a photo of you. Not even a photo from our wedding.” He laughed to himself, like he’d just figured out the trickiest joke ever. “Then the entire thing clicked. It isn’t money keeping you from selling our house, it’s the goddamned corpses rotting in our flower beds. You didn’t kill Todd Sutton by accident. Don’t insult me. And I see you’re leaving—fleeing, actually—aren’t you? Your bags are packed.” He looked down at the hole in the ground. “I can’t say I blame you.”

She was silent, seething, her arms folded in front of her.

“I got a call last week from Lara Barnes. She’d been chased at the Père Lachaise Cemetery. That Monday, I believe. Where were you, Marla? If I recall, there were a few papers on the front porch when I walked by. I thought that was odd, but then we aren’t married anymore so I didn’t think it was my business.”

“Not that it is any of your business, but I was leading a group of historical society kids on a white-water rafting tour. I told you that.”

“Where?”

“What?” She balked.

“Where was the tour, Marla?”

“West Virginia.”

“Where? I’d like to check.” He pulled out his phone. “Who can verify it, Marla? One name. Give me one name and I’ll admit I’m crazy. My bet is that you were actually in Paris.” Ben stood up and stepped back into the grave. With renewed energy fueled by anger and hurt, he began to dig furiously. “How did you do it? All these years? I want to see what you’ve done. And when I’m finished here, I’m going to start digging over there.” He motioned toward a big cluster of bushes. “Or you could save me the trouble and just point.”

Tears began to roll down Ben’s cheeks with every scoop of earth. He wiped his arm on his coat as he continued digging. He shoveled until Todd’s body was fully uncovered. The body was twisted unnaturally, like he’d been tossed carelessly into the pit. Ben was thankful that he couldn’t see what remained of his face due to the mass of long, tangled dark hair. The sight sickened him.

“Jesus,” he said as he crawled away from the hole and vomited beside the stone walkway. He heard the sound of a power tool—perhaps an electric saw—starting up two or three houses down from theirs. A normal house with normal sounds. It was oddly comforting. And the whirring of the saw was also the last sound he heard before he felt a stab of pain