A Killing Fair Read online

  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.

  My cell phone rang at about 12:45, just as I was wrapping things up at the police station. It was Al, saying he could pick me up with a staff car for lunch. The House of Italy was on Payne Avenue, a short ride from downtown to the East Side.

  The House of Italy was smaller in both dining area and menu prices than the Northern Exposure. The owner, Luigi Bunatori, and his wife, Francesca, lived above the restaurant and sometimes invited special guests to eat in their private dining room. These special guests were usually politicians looking for a quiet place to discuss city and state issues.

  Luigi Bunatori’s custom was to greet male customers with a bone-crushing handshake, wave in the general direction of the dining room and say, “Sit anywhere there’s a clean table.” When we were met at the door by a tall, blonde woman, we speculated that Luigi was entertaining someone special on the second floor. The hostess who pointed us toward an empty booth confirmed this suspicion but said she was not permitted to identify the special guest. I said I hoped we could chat with Luigi for a few minutes, and she promised to relay the request.

  I had finished a cup of minestrone and was starting on my meatball sandwich when Luigi arrived at our booth. He slid in beside Al, facing me.

  “How was the soup?” Luigi asked after shaking hands all around. We both said it was wonderful and he gave us a big smile. “So, Amelia says you want to chat with me. What’s it about?”

  “We’re still working on the Vinnie Luciano murder story,” I said. “I’m just wondering about your reaction to his death.”

  “Me?” Luigi said. “Why should I have any reaction to Vinnie’s death? Vinnie and me had nothing in common.”

  “You and Vinnie’s both draw a lot of high-profile customers,” I said. “I thought maybe you considered him a competitor for that sort of business.”

  “Are you kiddin’? How could a little place like this compete with a huge operation like Vinnie’s? You could put this whole restaurant into King Vinnie’s kitchen. They got their crowd and we got ours, and ours is a hell of a lot smaller. King Vinnie’s is way out of my league.”

  “Did Vinnie ever try to lure away any of your crowd?” Al said.

  “Jesus, you guys are asking as many questions as that detective from Falcon Heights,” Luigi said. “What’s with the inquisition any way?”

  “You were questioned by Detective Barnes?” I said.

  “Yeah, I think that’s what she said her name was. A real bitch, that woman. So now what am I, some kind of suspect in Vinnie’s murder just because I was at the fair that day?”

  “You were at the fair?” I said. “Were you where you saw Vinnie die?”

  “Christ, no,” Luigi said. “I wouldn’t go anywhere near where that asshole was showing off. Pardon my French.”

  “You didn’t like Vinnie?” Al asked.

  “I don’t like all these questions,” Luigi said. “Like I told that detective, I had nothin’ to do with Vinnie Luciano, dead or alive. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get back to my guest.” He stomped away and disappeared through the door leading to the stairs.

  “Take your time with your sandwich,” I said. “If we hang around long enough we might see his guest leave.”

  So we dawdled and had a second cup of coffee. We dawdled some more and had dessert and a third cup of coffee. We were about to give up the stakeout when two middle-aged men wearing dark business suits emerged from the stairway door and walked briskly to the exit.

  “I should know the guy on the right,” Al said. “Who is he?”

  “Mark Peterson,” I said. “The attorney general of the state of Minnesota.”

  “Good to have friends in high places.”

  “Especially if you’re suspected of taking somebody down,” I said.

  Chapter 9: The Chief Problem

  The message light on my phone was blinking. I pressed the play button. “This is Detective Barnes,” the message said. “Call us.” Oh, goody, the royal “us.” And her voice was cold enough to freeze the Mississippi River in August.

  I punched in the number and was immediately transferred to KGB. “Hi,” I said when she answered. “It’s Mitch from the Daily Dispatch.”

  “Are you proud of yourself?” she said.

  “That’s a strange question. Why do you ask?”

  “I thought you’d be bursting with pride after going over our head.”

  “Going where? I’m sorry, but you’ve lost me.” Not to mention mixing a plural modifier with a singular noun.

  “Going over our head and getting the St. Paul police chief to talk to our chief about releasing information. Are you proud of that?”

  Oh, my god, I thought. Brownie’s better idea. “I never asked him to do that,” I said. “If the city chief called your chief, it wasn’t my idea.” Technically this was true.

  “So you’re an innocent man?” KGB said.

  “Absolutely,” I said.

  “And we both know that this country’s jails are full of innocent men, don’t we, Mr. Mitchell?”

  “I’m telling you the truth, Detective Barnes. You’re giving me credit for having way more influence with the police than I actually have.”

  “Really?” she said. It was more of
a snort than a question.

  “Really,” I said. “Reporters can only dream about having that kind of power.”

  “Well, it looks like your dream has come true and your pajamas are wet. But the fact is there haven’t been any developments in this case to report. If you don’t believe us, we’ll transfer you to Chief Tubb and you can ask her in person.”

  I didn’t appreciate having my figurative dream turned into a wet one so I decided to go on the offensive. “What about the people you’ve been talking to?” I said. “For example, is Luigi Bunatori a suspect, or a person of interest or what?”

  There was a moment of silence before she answered. “What makes you think we talked to Luigi Bunatori?”

  “He said you did. Can you confirm that? I won’t publish his name.”

  Another moment of silence. “You can say we have talked to a person who knew the victim,” KGB said. “You can even say we’ve talked to several persons who knew the victim. However, they are not suspects. These were informational interviews.”

  “So they’re not even persons of interest?” I said.

  A third momentary pause. “One of them is.”

  “Would that be Luigi? As I said, I won’t publish the name.”

  “That’s all we’re saying at this time,” she said. “We’re not identifying any individual as fitting any category, Mr. Mitchell, and Chief Tubb will back us on that. Now, are there any other questions?”

  “Not at this time,” I said. “Thanks for the call.”

  “Have a nice day,” KGB said. She made that routine signoff sound like the curse of the mummy’s tomb.

  I ended the call, and without even putting down the receiver, I punched in the private number for Detective Curtis Brown. After two minutes on automatic hold, the Muzak was interrupted with, “Homicidebrown.”

  “Dailydispatchmitchell,” I said. “Tell me, how did you persuade your chief to call the chief at Falcon Heights?”

  “When did that happen?” Brownie asked.

  “Very recently. KGB sounded really pissed about it but she did pass out a tiny crumb of information.”