A Killing Fair (7 page)

 

Chapter 8: Stonewalls and Willows

M
y problem with alcohol began a dozen years ago when my wife and baby boy were killed in a collision with a jack-knifing eighteen-wheeler. I began pouring down the booze to blot out the pain but the drunken haze only increased the agony. I had sunk deep into an ever-darkening pit when Al and Carol persuaded me to go to rehab. Since then I've stayed dry with the help of an Alcoholics Anonymous group that meets within walking distance of my apartment every Monday night.

My most reliable crutch at AA is Jayne Halvorson, the mother of two teenage daughters who fled to St. Paul from an abusive husband in North Dakota. Jayne and I chat over a glass of ginger ale at a neighborhood bar called Herbie's after every Monday night meeting. More often than not, Jayne can look at a problem that has me stymied and come up with a workable solution. For example, without her assistance (and insistence) I never would have pushed myself into a jewelry store to buy an engagement ring for Martha. The last time I'd gone out on that limb, I'd found the intended ring recipient between the sheets with an old high school boyfriend.

“You didn't sound sincere tonight when you told us that everything was going well in your life,” Jayne said after the usual Herbie's small talk.

“Most things are okay,” I said.

“And what things are not?”

“Only one, really. The detective from the Falcon Heights PD. I can't get anything out of her for a story about Vinnie Luciano's murder. Not even a hint as to whether she's looking at a suspect or a person of interest. Normally, investigators will let out little scraps of information as the case develops, but this one's lips are clamped as tight as a pit bull's jaws on a mailman's leg.”

“Have you tried schmoozing her with the old Mitch Mitchell charm?” Jayne said.

“I've tried the ‘I'm your buddy' smile, I've tried flattery, I've tried the old teamwork routine, I've tried asking her to lunch,” I said. “It's like banging my head against a steel door.”

“Is she that way with all reporters?”

“Apparently. I haven't seen any comments from her on TV or in any other paper.”

“So it's not personal?”

“No, I think it's psychological. Maybe she's been burned by a reporter, or maybe she's just paranoid.”

Jayne took a long swig of ginger ale. “Maybe it's time to go over her head.”

“What do you mean?” I said.

“Talk to the chief. Describe to him how other departments—St. Paul PD, for example—deal with the press and tell him you would appreciate the same courtesy from the Falcon Heights PD.”

“The chief is a her, not a him, and I suspect she might be as tough to deal with as KGB.”

“KGB?”

“Those are the investigator's initials, and they fit her per­son­ality. She goes by K.G. Barnes. I don't know what the K and the G are for.”

Jayne drained her glass. “Maybe the chief will surprise you if you approach her diplomatically.”

“Maybe,” I said. “It's worth a try.”

“Remember, the key word is ‘diplomatically.'”

“You know me.”

“That's why I'm reminding you.” She put enough money on the table to cover her half of the tab and stood up, signaling it was time to go home.

 

* * *

 

Martha greeted me with the usual hugs and kisses, and Sherlock Holmes welcomed me by winding himself around my ankles until I pushed him away with my foot. After Martha and I swapped stories about our days' work—her day had been much more productive than mine—we sat down to watch the ten o'clock news.

The TV was flashing the usual montage of car crashes, fires, and violent crimes, so I was half dozing when Martha said, “Oh, look, there's Al.”

There was his back anyway, at the presentation of a plaque to a developer in the mayor's office. The voice describing the event was that of Trish Valentine, who was shown a moment later wearing a blouse with three open buttons at the top. It must have been really hot in the mayor's office.

“Al has all the fun,” I said. “He gets to stare down Trish's cleavage and he gets e-mails from a woman who thinks he's the greatest photographer since Ansel Adams.”

“Al is getting e-mails from a woman?” Martha said.

I told her about Willow hanging out at Al's book signing and her two follow-up e-mails praising his work.

“Does Carol know about this woman?” Martha asked.

“Don't know. Anyway, it's no big deal.”

“It might be bigger than you think.”

“Al is not going to run away with Willow just because she likes his work.”

“I'm more concerned about Willow running away with Al,” Martha said.

I decided that this was not the time to mention Al's des­cription of Willow as “sexy.”

 

* * *

 

Tuesday was my day off and I had two options. One, I could hunt for an apartment; two, I could go to the State Fair. This was a no-brainer—no landlord would have a Pronto Pup stand in his yard, and we still had a whole month to find a new place and move. I figured I could justify my choice to Martha by talking to Lorrie Gardner about the aftermath of Vinnie Luciano's dramatic death on the fairgrounds.

In deference to Lorrie's concern about parking on the grass, I left my car way up behind the grandstand in the Fox Lot and hiked about three blocks in eighty-degree heat to her office in the Admin Building. On the way, I snagged my first Pronto Pup of the day, and I had just nipped the last bite off the stick when I greeted Lorrie at her desk. She was wearing white shorts and a skimpy blue tank top that left almost as little to the imagination as a bikini. Obviously the air conditioning hadn't been fixed.

“What brings you out here again?” she asked. “Besides Pronto Pups, that is.”

“Wanted to see how you're doing,” I said. “Are you over the shock of the Square Meal disaster?”

“I still can't touch anything on a stick. Which is good for my waistline because I used to try anything and everything, but it's not fun to get the shivers every time I walk past the stage at Heritage Square. I might have to stay away from that part of the fairgrounds for the rest of summer unless—”

“How about the square dancers?” I said, shutting off the torrent. “Are they still doing their thing on the other stage?”

“Oh, yes, of course they are. Scott still has them dancing up a storm twice a day.”

“How can they do that every day? Don't any of them work?”

“A lot of them are retired. Didn't you notice all the white hair? The ones still working take a personal day or a vacation day. It's not always the same couples dancing every day. They switch off and—”

“But Scott's here calling every day?” I said.

“He's one of those high-tech types who work at home,” Lorrie said. “He does something with numbers; I'm not sure what exactly, so he can set his own hours.”

“Lucky him. Is his wife one of the dancers?”

“Scott's not married. I think he was married once but it didn't work out. I don't know the details and I don't want—”

“So he's divorced?”

“I guess. Why are you so interested in Scott?”

“I'm a reporter. I'm interested in everybody. If you'll recall, I asked first about you.”

“Oh, right. You did ask about me. Thank you for that.”

“You're welcome. And now I'm asking about Tommy, the kid who got whacked on the head and lost his Fairchild suit to the man who delivered the poison.”

“Tommy quit the next day,” Lorrie said. “He was shook up pretty bad. His father was bullshit about the kid getting clubbed. Said he was thinking about suing the State Fair but so far we haven't heard from any lawyer.”

“Think Tommy would talk to me about what it's like to be personally involved in a spectacular murder?” I asked.

“I guess you could ask him. I've got his phone number. I can give it to you if—”

“Please. I'd appreciate it.”

She wrote Tommy Grayson's phone number on a scrap of paper, talking all the while about the difficulty she'd had finding a replacement Fairchild with the fair already under way. I took the paper, squelched her verbal stream with a “thank you” and set off to buy another Pronto Pup. It was, after all, almost time for lunch.

 

* * *

 

“How was your day off?” I asked Al on Wednesday morning as he arrived at my desk bearing two cups of coffee.

“It was okay,” he said. “I got some stuff done around the house but mostly tried to stay out of the heat. Oh, and I got three more e-mails from my Number One fan.”

“Willow?”

“Who else? She's just full of praise for the book, and she's finding deep meanings I never thought about in some of my shots.”

“Sounds like your relationship with Willow is beginning to take root.”

“Well, it doesn't hurt to branch out and make a new friend once in a while.”

“Does Carol know you're branching out with a new friend you happen to think is sexy?” I asked.

“It's not really worth mentioning at home,” Al said. “We're just having a little Internet fun. So, what did you do yesterday?”

I told him about my trip to the State Fair, my consumption of two Pronto Pups and the chitchat with Lorrie about the square dancers and their caller. “I didn't tell Lorrie that Martha and I saw the caller dining with the club president's wife in the Red Mill Saturday night.”

“Oh, yeah? You haven't told me about that either. Where was the club president?”

“He's the owner and artistic director at Parkside Players, remember? They had a show that night, so he must have been there.”

“Wonder if he knew who was having dinner with his wife.”

“I should have gone over to the caller yesterday morning and asked.”

“A dedicated reporter who wants all the news that fits in print would have done that.”

“That news might not have been fit to print. Anyhow, this dedicated reporter figured quizzing Lorrie was enough business to conduct on his day off. I was really there for a Pronto Pup and a walk through the dairy barn.” Having grown up on a southern Minnesota dairy farm, I still have an affinity for Holsteins and Ayrshires that draws me to the State Fair dairy barn every year.

“Okay. So, what's up today? Anything I can tag along on?”

“Well, I get to start off my day by calling KGB,” I said. “Would you like to take my place on that one?”

“Deliver me from ever talking to that woman again,” he said. “Guess I'll go see if the boss has any exciting assignments for me.”

“I'm hoping to have lunch at Luigi's House of Italy. It's not as pricey as Northern Exposure.”

“If the timing works out, I'll join you.”

“Okay. Don't take any wooden e-mails.”

“Only if the wood is from a Willow.”

I drained my coffee cup, took a deep breath, picked up the phone and punched in the Falcon Heights PD number. The man who answered said Detective Barnes was not available and offered to take a message. I asked where Detective Barnes was and he said this information was not for release to the press. I sighed and left a message.

I was making some additional routine phone checks when Don O'Rourke appeared at my side. “I need you to cover the police beat,” he said. “Augie called in sick this morning.”

This meant spending the rest of the morning in the press office at the police station. I'm often sent to fill in as police reporter when Augie Augustine is felled by one of his bouts with a chronic illness commonly known as a hangover. Usually this is fun because I get to go through the night reports and write about the weird problems encountered by police officers during those hours.

This day was no exception, starting with a report about a drunken man who was arrested while raising hell with customers and employees at a mini-market the previous morning. He appeared in court in the afternoon, pleaded not guilty and was released into the custody of his girl friend. Shortly after midnight he was arrested again—this time for beating up the solicitous girl friend with her hair dryer. You know the old saying: no good deed shall go unpunished.

I had just punched the computer key that sent my story to Don when Homicide Detective Curtis Brown walked into the office.

“Being spanked again?” Brownie said. The standing joke between us was that being sent to the police station was punishment for a reporting mistake.

“That's right,” I said. “I'm being punished for not having solved Vinnie Luciano's murder.”

“Hey, what's with that case anyway? Your last two stories didn't say a damn thing,” Brownie said.

“That's because there's not a damn thing to say. I haven't found the smoking gun—or in this case the dripping poison bottle—and I'm getting absolutely nothing from the Falcon Heights police.”

“Is their investigator that tight with her reports?”

“She's so tight she makes you look like Santa Claus.” Brownie was infamous for his caution when talking to the media, but during a homicide investigation he would release enough tidbits to keep the story alive.

“I'll have to more careful,” Brownie said.

“God save us from that,” I said.

“Watch it, Mitch. You could be booked on a charge of praying in a public building.”

“I'd pray out loud on the Capitol steps if it would loosen the tongue of Detective K.G. Barnes.”

“Please do whatever it takes. Vinnie was a VIP in this city and some of us in the department would like to know what's going on with the homicide investigation.”

“Maybe you could talk to Detective Barnes, cop-to-cop.”

“Good idea,” Brownie said. “But I have a better one,” he added with a smile. “Have a good day, Mitch.” Brownie turned and went out the door before I could ask about his idea.