Death of a Joker

By Vincent Redgrave

Coming of age has never been so fraught with danger.

The brutal murders of local children send a small town into a tailspin.

Texas farmer's son, Griz Marsh, wrestles with life's complications and his feral sister, Tilly.

Further trouble arrives in the form of the outspoken new neighbor, Lizzy Kendrick, a transient laborer, Robert Lemke, and a traveling magician, Joe Lester.

Griz and his best friend, Marlon, take desperate actions to preserve what they love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vincent Redgrave
• Release date: Feb 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887224848

Vincent Redgrave

Vincent Redgrave’s formative years consisted of staring from the classroom window and contemplating what the rest of the world was up to. Nineteen novels later, he continues transforming ideas from an over-active imagination into varying genres of human misbehavior. His keen interest in morality, mortality, and psychology provides the platform for various genres. When not engaged in thought-provoking ideas, Vincent incites his friends into thought-provoking ideas. Vincent lives on an abandoned goat farm in northern Arizona, where he can be found training coyotes to harmonize.

Book preview

DEATH OF A JOKER

Vincent Redgrave

Copyright © 2021 Vincent Redgrave

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are products of the author’s tortured imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN-

Printed in the United States of America

Dedication

A heartfelt thanks to my close friends for listening to my insane ideas and then reading various iterations. Good readers and meaningful critics are hard to find and even harder to keep. The lure of coffee and alcohol should not be underestimated.

A further thanks to those same beautiful souls for providing the truth in friendship, advice and incalculable good times.

In no particular order of preference, color, creed, ability, or persuasion: Heather, Jeanneane, Randy, Martin, Darlene, Bob and Melissa. Thanks to my editor, Craig Bourne, for his patience and invaluable insight.

To anyone who has ever made a mistake or two - at least you can say that you lived.

For those of you reading the dedication, I can assure you that the best is yet to come.

Contents

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The present-day:

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Coming soon:

CHAPTER ONE

Texas 1970

His momma said it was important to observe God’s presence at every sunrise and sunset. His majesty is revealed to us each day no different than a newborn opening its eyes for the first time, she declared. He liked hearing momma’s voice in his memory, the pleasant warmth it provided and the sun.

As the first rays illuminated the farm, momma’s words held meaning. She always said most folks took nature’s workings for granted. Griz wished he remembered more of what she had said. He imagined her loving arms wrapped around him as they marveled at the glowing spectacle that brought the Texas flatlands to life. When Tilly is old enough to appreciate the sentiment, Griz intends to bring her onto the roof and share it. His sister doesn’t yet have the capacity to sit still long enough. Perhaps she never will. For now, the tranquility and serenity belong to Griz.

Since his momma was taken from them, Griz has questioned the existence of God, even though he is afraid to say it aloud. He watches the shadows slowly moving through the cornfields, blueberries, onions, squash, and vegetable garden. Nature has a way of proving that everything is in order. It’s a daily unveiling orchestrated by what he cannot fully understand.

Mankind is a master manipulator, but the sunrise is something irreplicable. If God is real, he made the celestial rhythms look ridiculously easy. There’s an equal mystery in how Griz’s senses formulate an ever-changing comprehension of how it came to be and how it is. The puzzles remain no matter how hard he concentrates or tries to let it all go. Sometimes he likes it that way.

It will soon be his fifteenth birthday. Griz hasn’t been excited about a birthday for ten years. He considered that people gather all across the globe to celebrate the sacred event yet barely stop to acknowledge the daily rebirthing of the planet. He gives periodical thanks to that which comes and goes each day, hoping it will not forget him. It’s his genuine thanks for the re-emergence of light in the sky and childish quid pro quo that the mysteries of the universe will look kindly upon him.

The great father figure of the sky truly works in mysterious ways. Griz Marsh has yet to figure out his insignificant purpose as he spins around on this island earth. Frustration grows each year as the plan is no more revealed than the last. What frightens him the most is that he is not ready for whatever the future holds. His deep-set brown eyes scan the horizon.

There’s a storm coming for all of us, Pop reminds Griz and Tilly. An unnecessary foretelling.

The clouds drift overhead, some with the faintest dark gray nested in the center, surrounded by fluffy white edges that are dreamily appealing to the eye. A soothing intoxication comes from above, where it easily lures Griz’s imagination up high, and he floats along on the silent breeze. The sight automatically causes an exhale and a succession of satisfied sighs. He lay back with fingers folded behind his head.

He is wide awake but can’t stop yawning.

Then, the blue skies are slowly pushed away from the east in a gentle tussle. A thick gray takes over, and soon it will swallow the ever-giving sun. Griz checked his watch and managed to relax for exactly four minutes. The Texas sky is a reminder that no matter how tranquil the moment may be, storms come hard and fast in the Southwest.

Something is brewing.

It’s tough being a teenager in Southwest Texas.

From below, Tilly’s singing can be heard in the distance. Tilly only sings if she is celebrating. A triumphant Tilly tells Griz that, as usual, she’s up to no good. He leaned across the tiles and saw her wild-haired locks coming through the lines of blueberries. Now, he will catch Tilly red-handed.

No storms flashed across darkened skies, or winds howled on that fateful morning his sister came into the world. It was a hot, cloudless day with a gentle breeze that barely rippled the surface of the cornfields. The only sound he could recall was his momma gasping to catch her breath and Aunt Kookie’s gentle words of encouragement, You doing great.

Griz sat in the hallway outside momma’s bedroom, pretending to read a book, but the pages were unturned.

The delivery continued for what seemed like forever. Pop rushed up and down the stairs, drenched in sweat, fetching warm water or anything Kookie called for. Pop passed by multiple times with glasses of iced water for momma’s parched lips.

Shortly after the baby screamed its first shrill sounds throughout the house, a distressed Pop rushed to fetch the doctor.

She out cold! Kookie called down the stairs. Pop never broke stride and dashed to the truck.

Griz curled in a nervous ball, listening to each unwelcome update. Kookie stroked momma’s face with a wet cloth. C’mon now, c’mon. Stay with me.

When momma became conscious, she asked an exhausted Kookie, The baby?

Baby fine, Kookie replied and handed momma the smallest bundle of joy. Aunt Kookie’s voice lowered to a whisper, I can’t make it stop.

There was an awful silence that followed. It is the only time on the farm that Griz can recall hearing no sound.

It was only broken when momma sighed, Ah, my Tilly. The baby cried. She’s perfect, momma whispered with breathless gratitude. Get Griswold in here.

Aunt Kookie stuck her head into the hallway, C’mon. Come see. Kookie led the five-year-old boy by the hand into momma’s bedroom.

Blood-soaked bed sheets were piled on the floor. Momma was soaked in sweat with a single cotton sheet pulled up to her neck. Kookie ushered Griswold around the bed, and that’s when he first saw his baby sister. She was balanced in momma’s hand. The baby’s tiny face was blotchy, her eyes puffy, and her veins visible throughout her tiny wriggling body. Despite her ugly appearance, there was nothing to be done except fall in love with her at that very moment.

Tilly, this is Griswold. He will look after you, momma told the baby.

He looked at momma and then at Kookie in confusion. Kookie’s fearful eyes frightened him. Even at such a tender age, Griz knew something dreadful was coming.

Griswold, say hi to your new sister, momma said.

Hi, Tilly. He touched her little face. Her wrinkly nose wrinkled some more.

Momma nodded, and Kookie took the baby from her. Momma kissed his forehead. I love you so much. You make sure that you help your Pop. Be kind to your sister and be a good boy.

Are you okay, momma? he asked. She did not reply.

She kissed him again as tears ran down her cheeks. Griz – look after Tilly.

I will, momma.

Kookie took him across the hallway to his room. You sit quietly now, Kookie said.

Griz burst into tears. From across the hallway, Kookie prayed for all she was worth.

She wouldn’t be the first to have her prayers unanswered.

He still hears Aunt Kookie’s prayers in the quieter moments of the early hot summer mornings.

His momma struggled for over seven hours in the stifling heat, and Kookie did all she could to get that sweet child to come forth. Tilly was a month early.

Pop drove the fruit truck to Raymondville, only to find the doctor dealing with a boy crushed by an overturned tractor. The only other doctor was on vacation.

Years later, Kookie told him the story of momma’s final words to Pop, I told you we needed to get a telephone installed in this house. Pop made the thirty-mile round trip to Raymondville for nothing. To this day, Pop’s eternal grimace is the same as if he were still standing at the foot of that blood-soaked bed. It was the only time anyone had seen Pop weep.

Momma was dead by the time he got back. That was 1961, nine years later, and the house did not have a phone. Not even a dead wife was enough to convince Pop. He insists, A real emergency can’t be cured with a telephone call. Pop is a complex man and insists on many things that don’t make sense.

The Marsh household isn’t exactly all mod-cons or the town of San Perlita, Texas. It has a population of only four hundred, most scattered on farms across a few thousand acres.

Griz was supposed to be reading a new book from the library but instead had to look for Tilly.

Mrs. Lazard, the town’s only librarian, recommended Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment.’ Griz is really into it. He loves to read, and the more he reads, the more he has to put his hands on another book. The feel of the paper against his fingertips, the smell of the print, and diving deep into worlds of excitement, danger, and grisly characters send shivers down his narrow spine. The library is too far for him to go more than once a week. A shame his Pop doesn’t allow him to use the fruit truck unless it’s urgent.

He won’t learn nothing from those books, Pop repeatedly assures. You learn with these, Pop holds up two large, leathery hands and waves them around. Books, my ass.

Griz can drive a tractor, fruit truck, regular truck, tow trailers and fertilizers at fourteen.

Earlier that morning, Tilly raced off towards the cornfields. Pop has warned her. Griz too.

His book would have to wait.

Tilly left the house before the first light. Unusual for her. Griz has told her not to be running around, but Tilly has selective hearing. Pop will skin Griz if his sister gets into trouble. She’s only nine years old and has no sense of time. For Griz, it’s frustrating to watch, but there’s a strange liberation in Tilly’s approach to everything. Everyone is jealous of Tilly’s indifference.

Pop was busy in the fields, a blessing. Griz climbed from the roof inside his bedroom window to look for Tilly, but more likely, Tilly would find him.

****

Joe Lester fiddled with the air conditioning, the cigarette lighter and the radio. No matter what he did, the old F150 would not blast the cool air he desired. Fiddlesticks, he muttered. The electrics were shot, but Joe did not have the money to take his truck and travel home to a local auto shop. The stifling heat caused him to drink more water than usual, and he was bursting to pee. He had barely passed a vehicle for twenty minutes and pulled off the road onto a dirt track. There were only corn fields and trees and no sign of a farmhouse or land workers.

Joe climbed wearily from the truck and stretched out his long slender limbs. Another check around, and he unzipped, whereupon the relief caused him to groan with pleasure. His ears and eyes were attuned to any possible movement, and it was not a welcoming position to startle a local farmer. He gave himself a shake, and a long sigh drained his tension. That’s better. He waited as he was sure there was more to come. At forty-five, Joe was already on unfriendly terms with aging. C’mon, he called as he shook again. A final spurt and all felt good within and with the world.

It was only when Joe looked down that he bounced back on his heels, stumbling in the long grass and falling on his behind. What he spotted was unnatural. Something rounded and pale with a familiar shape lay between the corn stalks. Oh, Jesus. His voice was frail, and his relief was shattered. Joe zipped up his trousers and scooched backward.

He didn’t want to look again but had no choice. That sickly dull hue from round to slender told Joe he was ready to be sick. His stomach lurched, and he fell sideways with his fingers in the dirt. After dry retching, he pushed himself upright. He looked down the track, beyond his vehicle and the other way into miles of produce. There was no sound from anyone nearby.

Joe slid down a gritty slope, avoiding the wet patch from his relief. He had resisted the urge to look at what had startled him and chilled his blood. The gooseflesh on his arms menacingly crept from his wrists to his elbows and back again. Joe blinked hard, puffed the air from his lungs and forced himself to look.

Joe slipped to his knees with a hand clamped over his mouth. He was not a believer but found himself using his spare hand to form a cross over his heart. The gap in the corn where the sun penetrated the ground made the familiar shape appear as if it were stretching to remove itself from the corn.

It surprised Joe to find tears sliding from his face. The barefoot, attached to the child’s bare leg, was pushed unnaturally into the dirt, where ants had taken an interest in the skin. The corn’s thickness concealed what was beyond the lifeless knee.

Suddenly, Joe wished someone else was around and had gotten there before him. Why me? he whimpered. His human instinct pulled him forward, and despite his body’s desire to go the opposite way, he climbed into his truck and drove as if the sight had never met his burning eyes. He crawled in the dirt and came within a few inches of the single pale leg.

The limb hung on the soil’s surface as if dropped from a great height. Joe was thankful that his stomach was empty. Having only a few dollars in his pocket finally came in useful. He strained his neck, but the corn blocked his line of sight. Ah, tiddledywinks! He shuffled closer on his knees, ignoring the pain of the sharp dirt.

With arms shaking, Joe pulled apart the lines of corn and peered through. Instantly, he pulled away, gasping in horror at the semi-bloated naked body. Oh, nooo. His cry was filled with pain. It was clearly the body corpse of a young boy lying prostrate in the soil.

The stuff that Joe had been smoking made him instantly paranoid, and he was fearful that he may have done something murderous. His brain was fuzzy, and fear embraced him. It wasn’t me, was it? He had done bad things in his past. The sun felt hotter.

Joe’s pain quickly subsided as he realized he was a stranger passing through Southwest Texas, and if he was questioned, things could become ugly. Joe’s earlier life was peppered with jail time and enough for him to change his name and spend two decades traveling with his truck, trailer and belongings.

He glanced at the body and wiped his face clean. Joe should get in his truck and get going, but his conscience pricked him. There was no way he could leave that unfortunate boy in the field. A necessary conversation with a local sheriff was an unpleasant prospect. He argued about the best approach, knowing he would not sleep if he did nothing. He swept his straggly gray hair behind his ears and staggered to his truck. He was praying that nobody would come by and accuse him of dumping the boy there.

Questions whizzed through his tormented mind as to how or why the naked body was there. Whatever the answer, it was obviously something terrible.

It wasn’t me, he tried to convince himself. The argument left no certainty. Oh, boy, here we go. Joe groaned as he would have to get rid of the drugs in his car. Now he worried there might be something else in his towing trailer that he had forgotten about. The sheriff would search his things. It wasn’t me, he repeated. Despite saying it aloud, Joe was eaten by incomprehensible guilt.

No, no, I didn’t kill him. The words stopped him cold. How do you know he was killed? he asked. He looked at his reflection, and his worried eyes threatened to leak again. He must have been killed, he argued. It was you, he pointed at his reflection. No.

Joe slapped his face and repeated on the other side. I must tell someone.

Tell them what you did. Murderer.

No. Stop it. He began to snivel and imagined he would be arrested.

They’ll believe me. I’m a good man. Joe’s mouth hung open, and he forced himself to turn the key in the engine.

The grumpy old engine fired into life. Joe spat on his palms and flattened some unruly pieces of hair. He flipped the vanity mirror back into place and straightened his crumpled shirt. Hurry, hurry. Be a good citizen. Cautiously he reversed into the main road and headed into Raymondville. Murderer, he argued.

The anguish of things from long ago circled him, and Joe was afraid.

It wasn’t my fault, he whimpered.

CHAPTER TWO

––––––––

Tilly’s approaching song snapped Griz from his daydreaming. He snuck out the back door, hopping over the rear porch and circled the old shed to find Tilly. There, he concealed himself behind a disused chicken coop.

He sprang from his hiding place, There you are, you little monster! Tilly made a run for it. He chased her across the yard, and Tilly stopped beside the grain silo. For a nine-year-old, Tilly can run faster than any kid her age, as if the wind is always at her back. You’re up to something."

"No, I ain’t,’ she replied, trying to look her sweetest. Tilly wrestled from his grasp.

Show me your hands.

You show me yours! Tilly removed her unruly blonde hair from her face to show her innocence, but the long curls sprang back into place.

I’ve looked everywhere for you.

Now you found me. Her grin showed how happy she was.

Pop told you not to run around up to your tricks. You know I’ll cop for it.

I can manage just fine. You’re more likely to get hurt than me. Pop told Kookie he thinks you’re useless, Tilly qualified. 

Griz carefully studied the thing called his little sister. Tilly’s unruly blonde hair is the same as their late momma’s, but that’s where the similarity ends. Tilly runs around the farm like some unruly feral animal. She tried again to move the tangled blonde hair that swirled about her sun-kissed face. Tilly looks like an angel that crash-landed at high speed, rolling through fields, ditches, and brush, and finished up periodically at the kitchen table. She doesn’t care in the least bit about her appearance or lack of dress sense, and she’s mostly impervious to insults. It bothers Griz that people talk about her shabby appearance, despite it not bothering her. At church on Sundays, their neighbors gossip about her. Pop sees it and Kookie too, but they ignore the whispers and pretend nothing happened.

Tilly is her own thing. Pop tried to tidy her up to his credit, but he’s given in to Tilly’s earthy appearance and everything else about her.

Tilly is like the Texas climate – hot, sticky, and rapidly changeable with unexpected torrential outbursts.

You’d better not be carving up animals again.

I only cut them up if they’re already dead, Tilly confirmed. It’s how you learn biology and stuff. Duh!

That’s not the point, he tried to have the last word. Tilly hmphed and shook her head.

Tilly likes to dissect things with her pocket knife. Griz has often caught her examining something to discover the cause of death. Tilly swore she only operates on things already dead, but nobody is sure that’s true. Give me that knife, he demanded.

No way, she said, clutching a hand to her abdomen.

Pop allows Tilly to carry her pocketknife everywhere, which she keeps tucked into her underwear.

For protection - bandits, Pop told her. Tilly won’t go anywhere without it, convinced she is the target of some elaborate kidnapping plot where she’ll become a slave girl whisked across the nearby border to Mexico.

Pop acts like it’s 1870, as though they live on the frontier with roving bands of Comancheros on the loose.

No more disappearing before breakfast. Kookie will be calling us soon, and I don’t want to have to come looking for you.

You couldn’t find me anyway, Tilly boasted.

Normally Tilly would be bothering Rocco and his teams working in the crop fields. Tilly’s been secretive for a couple of days. Griz decided to use his superior interrogation powers to get to the bottom of Tilly’s latest endeavor.

Make sure you’re close by in the next twenty minutes.

Tilly glared, and her face broke into the sweetest smile. Griz.

What?

Skinny legs, skinny legs, she poked out her tongue and zipped away as fast as possible.

I’ll get you. He didn’t bother to give chase. He watched Tilly disappear behind the house but knew she only went that way to throw him off the scent. Griz went the opposite way and hid underneath the broken-down tractor.

He lay in wait to discover Tilly’s final destination. Aunt Kookie, as the kids called her, came out of the back and took a seat in the rocking chair. She sipped at a glass of something.

Kookie was no real relation, but everyone called her Aunt. How she came to the farm was a mystery, and Kookie liked to keep it that way. She was the only woman of color that Griz and Tilly’s father allowed inside their house. I don’t trust the rest, Pop said with menace. Griz would look pleadingly at Kookie for her to respond, but she never paid him nor Pop any attention. 

A group of corn and blueberry pickers went past Griz’s hideout. He noticed the tall one. A white male, six inches above the height of the group. His skin was reddened by the hot sun, and his torn shirt was soaked in sweat. He chatted with some Mexican pickers, but his broken Spanish indicated he didn’t truly speak a second language. His eyes were ever watchful, scoping out the landscape. He arrived at the farm two days earlier. Most transient pickers didn’t last long. The work is too hard, the sun too hot, and the pay too little.

The laborers stopped to get breakfast and used the hosepipe to wash off.

Tilly’s head and shoulders appeared between the corn stalks to his right. Her mop of hair swished side to side as she looked around. Tilly’s tiny body crept forward, and she tiptoed with the stealth of a nervous deer over the dirt driveway.

The new laborer watched her. His gaze was long.

Tilly disappeared behind the forbidden barn. Pop forbade the kids to use the space. It is full of old bags, produce sacks, decommissioned equipment, and rattlers. There is a rumor that a previous owner hung himself from the rafters, and his ghost haunts there after dark. Pop started that rumor and likes to keep alive the grisly fable. Griz was certain that Tilly had something inside there. There’s a loose wooden flap on the back of the barn for easy access.

As he was about to follow Tilly, Griz spied Pop, Rocco, and the new guy chatting. Pop leaned against the fertilizer truck.

Griz slipped from underneath the tractor, picked up a stick, making it as though he was busy doing something, and got closer. The tall guy explained something, constantly using his hands as he talked. His lower arms were filled with popping veins and a high muscle tone like he was used to manual labor. Whatever he described, it did not move the stoic expression on Pop’s face.

Before Griz could get close enough to hear their conversation, they shook hands and went their separate ways. Griz used the outside spigot to rinse his hands and wiped them on his jeans.

The tall man turned his head and stared. Griz dipped his head and pretended not to notice. The tall man swiveled, taking ungainly steps in the opposite direction. Griz took an instant dislike to the man. He is a smart boy and fully aware that his life is a classic chaotic teenage shambles, but his gut senses are excellent.

Pop headed for the house. He said something to Aunt Kookie, and she laughed out loud.

The Marsh family lives in a ramshackle palace that sits on the crest of the slope overlooking their farming kingdom. Its outer shell is