A Killing Fair (6 page)

“The first show was tonight,” she said. “We must have tickets for next weekend, so I guess we won't have time to round up a party. Anyway, the promo says it's a timeless tale of mankind's frustrations.”

“Sounds more like a time-wasting tale of audience boredom,” said Al. “I'm getting tired just waiting to see it.”

 

Chapter 6: Looking for Vito

I
hate these damn things,” Al said as a man in a black suit that looked way too warm for the weather waved us into a parking place in the church parking lot. We were working on Saturday morning because, like most Daily Dispatch reporters and photog­raphers, we had a rotating day off in addition to every Sunday. Al and I are on the same rotation—the current week we'd been off on Monday, the next week it would be Tuesday and so on through the calendar.

“Me, too,” I said. “But this one is a big deal for the city and Don wants full coverage. Plus we'll get to see at least one of the suspects, good old Cousin Vito.”

“How will we know which one is Vito?”

“We'll look over the family gathering, and we'll each vote for a possible Vito.”

“What if we don't agree?”

“Then I'll veto your Vito.”

“Any chance for an override?”

“Only if two-thirds of the Luciano family says I'm wrong.”

We arrived fifteen minutes before the service was scheduled to begin, assuming Vinnie's funeral would draw a full house. We were correct. The church was already nearly full, but we managed to squeeze into a pew in the next to last row. We were so far back and behind so many heads I was afraid we wouldn't get a good look at the family when they filed in. I had visions of Trish Valentine, always the early bird, sitting somewhere near the front row, but at her truncated height I'd never be able to see her.

Just before the service began, I stood up, stretched and made a 360-degree scan of the crowd. Up near the front sat the mayor, three city councilmen, a half dozen of St. Paul's most prominent lawyers and a couple of judges. As one of the city's premier restaurateurs, Vinnie had a buffet line of friends in high places. A few rows further back, the professional sports world was repre­sented by the general manager of the Minnesota Twins, the president of the Minnesota Wild and the vice-president of the Minnesota Vikings.

“The Timberwolves are missing,” I said, referring to Minnesota's pro basketball team.

“They usually do,” Al said.

As I turned to face the rear, I spotted Detective K.G. Barnes of the Falcon Heights Police Department standing beside the open door. I surmised her primary mission was the same as our secondary mission: to check out any possible persons of interest who might attend the funeral. I paused and stared at KGB for a moment, hoping to connect, but she never met my gaze.

Everyone rose when the family members arrived and my concern about not being able to see them proved to be valid. I caught the tops of the tallest heads, but had no way of identifying any of them.

Al leaned over and whispered, “So, how are we supposed to spot cousin Vito?”

“Beats hell out of me,” I whispered. “We should have got here when the mayor and the council members did.”

“They probably had reserved seats,” Al said.

Our dilemma was solved halfway through the service by Cousin Vito, bless his heart. He made identification easy for us by going up front to speak when the officiating priest called for comments from family and friends. I observed a clear resem­blance to Vinnie in Vito's profile and hairline. Vito stood a tad taller and his fringe was noticeably darker, but he had plenty of weight to throw around.

“Vinnie and me grew up together,” Vito said after introducing himself as Vinnie's loving cousin. “We played together as kids, raised hell together as young bucks and went into business to­gether as grownup men. We didn't always agree about everything when we was workin' together, but we had a lot of fun and we did a damn . . . I mean a darn good business at the restaurant. I always missed workin' beside Vinnie after I left the restaurant and went on to other things. And I'll miss him even more knowin' that I ain't never gonna see him again in this world.” With that, cousin Vito wiped an invisible tear from each eye and returned to his seat.

As the priest began his final incantation, Al jumped up and dashed for the door so he could get a picture of the pall bearers carrying the casket out of the church. I exited at a more leisurely pace and joined Al at the foot of the steps.

“Guess who was already here when I got out,” he said.

“Do I get three guesses?” I said.

“Only one, and it had better be Trish Valentine reporting live.”

“My god, even the dead can't get away from Trish Valentine reporting live.”

“Just three things you can be sure of: death, taxes and Trish,” Al said.

 

* * *

 

The fourth thing I could be sure of, or I thought I could, was finding Martha Todd cooking up something special for Saturday dinner when I arrived home after filing my story and having coffee and doughnuts with Al. Not so this Saturday. The only thing on the kitchen counter was a note that said Martha had gone to look at some apartments.

I was on the couch, half-dozing half-watching an exhibition football game when Martha came home sometime after five. I hauled myself off the couch to greet her and noticed she was dragging her feet a bit. When I opened my arms, she threw her body against mine, wrapped her arms around my neck, hanging like a floor-length necklace, with all of her 120 pounds on my shoulders.

“Tired?” I asked. Again the ever-observant reporter.

“Pooped,” Martha said.

“Any luck?”

“The usual.”

“All bad?” I said as I dragged her to the couch and sat her down beside me.

“You got it.”

“Can I get you something to drink? Ginger ale? Root beer?” I'd have offered something stronger but you don't keep booze in the home of a recovering alcoholic. I've been a faithful partici­pant in Alcoholics Anonymous meetings since going through rehab eight years ago.

“Just let me sit for a while,” Martha said. “I've been climbing stairs and looking under sinks all afternoon. And we have to be out of here in thirty-three days. But who's counting?”

“Maybe I can help with dinner. What are you planning to make?”

“Reservations. You're taking your exhausted lover out to dinner tonight.”

“I can handle that. Any place in particular?”

“Some place with a glass of wine for me and no sports TV for you.”

“The utmost in cruelty, making me watch nothing but you while you're sitting there bibbing wine.” I've reached the stage where I can watch others imbibe without jealousy or desire. Well, maybe a little twinge of jealously.

“I'll be happy to trade,” Martha said. “You take over the apart­ment hunting and I'll take you to a restaurant with giant TVs on every wall.”

“Suddenly a place with wine and no TV sounds really good.”

It was Saturday night and the restaurants with wine and without TV were full. We wound up settling for an 8:30 reser­vation at a dimly-lit restaurant in south Minneapolis. We arrived at 8:15 and finally were seated at 9:15 in the center of a packed dining room with a noise level that bordered on painful.

“Can you stand the noise?” I said at nearly a shout.

“I can if you can,” Martha said at equal volume.

“It's either the noise or McDonald's.”

“Noise? What noise?”

When my eyes had adjusted to the semi-darkness, I looked around the room for familiar faces—a reflex acquired by every reporter. One never knows what useful information might be gleaned from observing who is dining with whom.

Checking in all directions, I saw no one I recognized. Or did I? There was something vaguely familiar about the man with the dark moustache and flashing smile at a table against one wall. His companion was facing almost straight away from me, but her long red hair reminded me of someone. They were laughing and nodding a lot, and their faces nearly touched as they leaned across the table to hear each other above the dining room din.

“What are you staring at?” Martha asked.

“Try not to be too obvious, but take a look at the redhead and the guy with the big smile over by the wall at your left,” I said. “See if they look familiar to you.”

Martha turned her head with the subtlety of a striking rattlesnake and studied the pair for a moment. “Nope,” she said. “Neither one rings a bell.”

“I swear I've seen both of them someplace. His face and her hair are familiar but I can't think where the hell it could be.”

Even after our food was set before us, I couldn't keep myself from taking occasional glances at the smile and the redhead. Who were they? Did I really know them from somewhere?

“Hello,” Martha said when we were halfway through our entrees. “Remember me? I'm the lady you came in with.”

“Oh, sorry,” I said. “I don't mean to ignore you but that couple is driving me crazy. I just feel like I should know them.”

“Why don't you go over and say hello?”

“Oh, right. I can start with, ‘Hi guys, I'm just wondering who you are.'”

Feeling duly chastised, I turned my attention to Martha, but I kept the mysterious couple under surveillance out of the corner of my eye. When they stood up to leave, the woman turned toward us and I saw her boobs I realized who I'd been watching.

“It's the square dance caller from the State Fair,” I said. “His name is Scott Hall. I didn't recognize him with his hat off and his clothes on.”

“And the redhead is his wife?” Martha said.

“Yeah, the redhead is his wife.” I was about to wave a hand at them when the reality light in my brain went on. “No, wait,” I said. “The redhead is the dance club president's wife.” I was glad I hadn't waved.

“So she's married to somebody else?” Martha said as the couple went out the door.

“Her husband runs Parkside Players. They've got a show tonight so that's where he is while she's dining with the club caller.”

“Do you think there's some hanky-panky going on?”

“I've been told that square dancers don't mess around,” I said. “Whatever's going on, it's none of my business.” But I filed the couple's liaison in the memory corner of my brain. As previously noted, one never knows what information might be useful at a later date.

 

Chapter 7: Northern Exposure

W
hat a hell of a way to start a Monday morning I thought as I punched in the number of the Falcon Heights Police Department. “Detective Barnes, please,” I said to the officer who answered.

“The detective is in a meeting,” he said. “Can I take a message?”

I had my doubts about getting a response. I couldn't picture KGB taking the time to call and say, “We have nothing for the media at this time.” I left the message anyway.

Al arrived at my desk with the day's first cup of coffee as I was putting down the phone. “Any word from the Falcon Heights Dragon Lady?” he said.

“She's in a meeting,” I said. “Probably telling everybody in the department to say nothing to the press. I left a message but I'm not holding my breath until she calls.”

“You could suffocate while you wait. That woman's got a manic phobia about reporters and photographers.”

“Manic or womanic?”

“Unisex, like the bathrooms.”

“Well, in her own way she's flush with success. But enough about the bitch. How did your book signing go?” Al's first book of photos had been released by the publisher the previous week, and his Sunday afternoon had been spent signing copies at Barnes & Noble. The book was a collection of Al's personal scenic photos, candid people shots and portrait work, along with a selection of his best shots for the newspaper.

“My hand isn't cramped from signing books, but it went okay,” he said. “I met a lot of people, including too many who don't read the paper.”

“They'd never heard of you?”

“They'd never heard of the Daily Dispatch. Some said they get all their news from TV and a few, god help us, said they just listen to talk radio.”

“That's a great unbiased source.”

“I do have one fan, though,” Al said. “A woman named Willow bought six books, for herself and her family and friends, and she kind of hung around all afternoon. Talked to me when no customers were at the table.”

“Willow?” I said. “Willow what? The Wisp?”

“Don't have a clue. When I signed her book she said make it to Willow. Later on she asked for my card and I asked about her last name, but she said just call her Willow.”

“Is she some kind of performer? Like Prince?”

“Didn't sound like it from the chitchat. Mostly she wanted to talk about me and how my photos show my feelings about this and that.”

“Your feelings? Maybe she's a psychologist,” I said.

“Better a psychologist than a psychopath,” Al said.

“Maybe she is a psychopath. You said she bought six of your books.”

“I told you they weren't all for her. I signed five of them to other people.”

“Any of them have last names?”

“You only address them to first names. You know that.”

“Well, I'm glad you had a nice time with Willow,” I said. “If you run into her again you should find out more about her family tree.”

“Like I said, I tried to go out on a limb but she stumped me,” Al said.

Before I could branch out on this discussion my phone rang. To my amazement, it was KGB. Without so much as a “how are you,” she informed me that Doctor Leo Longwell, the medical examiner, had determined the cause of Vinnie Luciano's death to be strychnine poisoning.

“So your first observation was correct,” I said. “Congratu­lations.”

“The doctor will be e-mailing his full report to all the media within the hour,” KGB said.

I tried again. “As I said, your first observation was correct.”

“We have no comment on that. Have a good day, Mr. Mitchell.”

I shook my head as I put down the phone. “Talking to KGB is like talking to a computerized robot,” I said to Al.

“Maybe she needs rebooting,” he said.

“I'd love to reboot her. Right square in the ass with my size twelve boot.”

“Well, I need to butt out to an assignment,” Al said. “See you at lunch?”

“I'm thinking about eating at the Northern Exposure, where the owner supposedly does not like Vinnie Luciano.”

“Too rich for my blood. And I can't justify it on my expense account.”

“I can and I will,” I said. “See you whenever.”

The ME's e-mail arrived a few minutes later, giving me the basis for a story. After sending the finished piece to Don O'Rourke, I followed up by walking to his desk and telling him where I'd be having lunch and why.

“Better wait to talk to Oscar until after you eat,” Don said. “If he poisoned Vinnie he might slip something into your coleslaw.”

“Not the coleslaw,” I said. “He's very proud of the coleslaw. He's more likely to sprinkle strychnine on the French fries.”

The Northern Exposure, in a high-buck district on Grand Avenue, had one of the city's pricier luncheon menus. The owner, Oscar Peterson, grew up in Norway and his speech bore a strong Scandinavian influence. In fact, his accent would make him the perfect caller for a square dance club named for Ole and Lena.

Oscar always greeted his customers at the door with a wide smile and a vigorous handshake before passing them on to the hostess for seating. I mimicked his joviality and said I hoped he'd stop at my table while I was there, and he promised he would. I was about halfway through my batter-fried walleye with fries and coleslaw when Oscar plopped down in the chair across the table.

“So how ya been then, Mitch?” he asked. “Ain't seen ya here for a long time.”

“Been keeping busy,” I said. “If you'd move your restaurant down to Sixth Street you'd see me more often.”

“Yah, I s'pose I'd get more business downtown, but I kinda like it up here. Does somethin' special bring you in today then?”

I took a sip of coffee before I answered. “I'm working on the Vinnie Luciano murder story. I'm gathering the reactions of prominent people who knew him.”

“Oh, yah? Well, I don't know I'm so prominent, but my reaction is I won't miss the old bastard.”

“Why's that?”

“He was greedy. He gobbled up all the business from the goddamn politicians and sports teams in the city and didn't leave nothin' for nobody else. You probably don't want to print that.”

“You don't think all those people went to King Vinnie's by choice?”

“He went after 'em,” Oscar said. “He was like a goddamn Marine recruiter. Sucked up to them with a lot of special deals and that kinda stuff. He coulda left a few for the rest of us, ya know. And now he was goin' into the State Fair to boot.”

“You have a State Fair booth, don't you?” I asked.

“You bet'cha. And I aim to protect it.”

I took a bite of walleye, chewed it and swallowed. “How were you planning to protect it from Vinnie?” I said.

Oscar frowned. “You ain't thinkin' I'd be crazy enough to kill my competition now, are ya, Mitch?”

“I'm just asking what you'd do for protection.”

His voice got louder. “That's my business, and it ain't for the press. But you can bet'cher boots it don't include no murder.”

“Any murder,” I said in a reflex blurt.

“What'd you say?”

“Nothing important. I'm glad to hear you wouldn't commit murder, Oscar.”

“You better believe it, Mitch,” he said. “Now I better get back to the door. You enjoy your lunch then and don't worry about the check.”

I thanked Oscar for his time and for picking up the tab, and he walked away. I wanted to believe him, but the quick denial without an actual accusation left me unconvinced. But what the hell—the walleye and the coleslaw were delicious and the price was right.

 

* * *

 

“How'd it go at the Northern Exposure?” Al asked as we sipped our late afternoon coffee in the Daily Dispatch cafeteria.

I replayed my conversation with Oscar and explained my uncertainty about the truth of his denial. “He got defensive real quick,” I said. “A little too quick.”

“So you can't write him off as a suspect.”

“Afraid not. So how was your assignment?”

“Boring. Shot a grab-and-grin at City Hall with the mayor handing a plaque to the big-shot developer building that new condo tower on the East Side. The day wasn't a total loss, though.”

“How so?” I asked.

“When I got back here, I had two e-mails from that woman I told you about. The one that hung around at the signing.”

“Willow?”

“Yeah, Willow. Told me how much she loved the book and what a great photographer I am. Good for the old ego. I sent back a thank you note.”

“Always nice to be appreciated,” I said. “You can't have too many friends.”

“She's sexy, too,” Al said.

“That makes it even more fun.”