like he’s wearing a mask, Riley thought.
“Is this Ms. Davis?” Casal asked Riley.
Riley shook her head and said, “No. But Janet Davis’s body was found in a similar condition this morning.”
Still with no change in his tone of voice, Casal said to McCune …
“In answer to your question—yes, we do sell this sort of costume.”
He led his visitors over to a long rack full of clown costumes. Riley was startled at how varied they were.
As Casal browsed among some tattered jackets and baggy, patched up pants, he said, “As you can see, there are several different types of clowns. For example, there’s the ‘tramp’ here, often personified as a hobo or a vagabond, with a worn-out hat and shoes, sooty sunburned makeup, a sad frown, and a painted stubble of beard. The female equivalent is often a bag lady.”
He moved on to group of more motley costumes.
“Somewhat related to the tramp is the ‘Auguste,’ a traditional European type, more of a trickster than a vagabond, an underling and a flunky. He wears a red nose and mismatched clothes and alternates between inept clumsiness and agile cunning.”
Then he shuffled through some costumes that seemed to be mostly white, some of them spangled and with colored trim.
He said, “And here we have the traditional European whiteface, the ‘Pierrot’—composed, poised, graceful, intelligent, always in control. His makeup is simple—completely white, with regular features painted in red or black, like a mime, and he often wears a conical hat. He’s an authority figure, often Auguste’s boss—and not a very nice boss. Small wonder, though, since many of Auguste’s jokes are at his expense.”
He moved through dozens of wildly different costumes, saying …
“Now here we’ve got lots of different ‘character’ clowns, based on types familiar from everyday life—cops, maids, butlers, doctors, firemen, that kind of thing. But here’s the type you’re looking for.”
He showed his visitors a row of brightly colored costumes that definitely reminded Riley of the victims in the picture and the field.
“This is the ‘grotesque whiteface,’” he said.
That word caught Riley’s attention.
Grotesque.
Yes, that certainly described what had been done to Janet Davis’s body.
Fingering one of the outfits, Casal continued, “This is the most common type of clown, I suppose, at least here in America. It doesn’t reflect any particular type or profession or status. The grotesque whiteface is just generally clownish-looking, ridiculous and silly. Think Bozo the Clown, or Ronald McDonald—or Stephen King’s ‘It,’ to cite a scarier example. The grotesque typically wears a baggy colorful costume, outsized shoes, and white makeup with exaggerated features, including a huge wig and a bright red nose.”
Crivaro seemed to be genuinely interested in what Casal was now saying.
He asked, “Have you sold any of these grotesque-type costumes lately?”
Casal thought for a moment.
“Not that I remember—not at least during the last few months,” he said. “I could look through our receipts, but that might take a while.”
Crivaro handed him his FBI card and said, “I’d appreciate if you’d do that and get back to me.”
“I’ll do that,” Casal said. “But remember, the grotesque costume is extremely common. It might have been bought at any costume shop anywhere in the city.”
McCune smirked a little and said, “Yeah, but this isn’t just any costume store. One of the victims was here pretty recently taking pictures.”
His expression still inscrutable, Casal put his hands in his pockets and said, “Yes, I can understand why that might concern you.”
Casal looked off into space for a moment, as if deep in thought.
Then his whole body seemed to jerk to attention.
“Oh, my,” he said, finally sounding unsettled. “I just thought of something I think you’d better know.”
CHAPTER TEN
Riley felt a surge of excitement as she and the two FBI agents followed Casal away from the costume rack.
Are we about to get a break? she wondered.
Without revealing what he’d just remembered, the store manager had whirled around and headed back to the front of the store.
When he reached the front desk, Casal stopped and began to explain.
“Janet Davis came back here a second day to take more pictures. But she left rather abruptly—and she wasn’t at all happy.”
Riley, Crivaro, and McCune exchanged interested glances.
“Why not?” Crivaro asked.
Casal opened a filing cabinet and thumbed through its contents.
“Well, she complained about a young man who was working here at the time—Gregory Wertz is his name. Apparently he’d said something improper to her. She wasn’t specific, but she was quite upset about it, and it wasn’t the first time a female customer complained about him. I’d also suspected him of stealing for some time, so I fired him on the spot.”
Crivaro asked, “Can you give us his address?”
“Certainly,” Casal said, taking a sheet of paper out of the drawer and handing it to Crivaro. “Here you go—his name, Social Security number, phone number, and address. Also, the last day he worked here—exactly two weeks ago today.”
Crivaro thanked him for his cooperation, and Riley followed the two agents out of the store.
She was startled when, as soon as they were outside, Crivaro grabbed McCune by the shoulder.
“What do you think you were doing back there?” he asked angrily.
McCune looked surprised.
“You mean showing him that photo? I wanted to see his reaction, of course.”
“It was a stunt,” Crivaro said. “I don’t like stunts.”
McCune’s face reddened with anger.
“A stunt, huh?” he said. “Are you telling me you trust that Casal guy? He seemed as suspicious as hell to me. Actually, he gave me the creeps, the way he talked and all. He didn’t even give us a good look at his face.”
That’s true, Riley thought.
But it really hadn’t occurred to her to suspect Casal of anything.
Crivaro paced back and forth, barking at McCune.
“So you just thought you’d put the screws to him, huh?
