A Carnival of Killing (12 page)

Right on schedule, Boreas and his troupe ascended the stage, which glittered under a halo of colored lights. Soon we heard shouts and gunshots, and the Vulcan Krewe came roaring onto the scene. The Royal Chariot rattled to a halt and the red-clad horde poured forth, shouting, “Hail, Vulcan!”

The battle was blessedly brief. Shots rang out, the attackers swarmed onto Boreas’s icy stronghold, the King of the Snows was deposed and Vulcanus Rex stood unmasked atop the highest ice block with his arms thrust skyward in triumph.

Shouts of, “Hail, Vulcan!” continued to echo through the park and the crowd began to thin as people started toward the shelter of their cars, apartments, or favorite bars. Our quartet made straight for the Crowne Plaza, where the Vulcan Victory Dance would soon get under way. Behind us, fireworks exploded above the towering Landmark Center in a carnival-ending shower of light and sound.

“Want to watch?” asked Martha, pausing and pointing toward a burst of color in the sky.

“Fireworks are for the Fourth of July,” I said. “It’s too damn cold to watch.”

“My thought, exactly,” said Al. “I’ll wait for the replay on Harriet Island next summer.”

“What a couple of sissies,” said Carol, whose forebears were Norwegian. But she kept walking, and we joined the crowd squeezing through the hotel door into the blessed warmth of the lobby.

“The dance will be anti-climax after the battle between Boreas and Vulcan,” Al said. “You might have to poke me to keep me awake. I bet I can fall asleep waltzing after being out in the cold all that time.”

Little did any of us imagine what the wake-up call would be.

A Screeching Halt

Not being much of a dancer, I spent a major portion of the evening acting like a reporter—watching people and talking to some of the Winter Carnival folks I’d met. Martha would drag me onto the floor for a dance, and I’d escape for the next two or three. Al would take off shooting pictures of the action when he could get away from Carol for a few minutes.

“Does your husband ever stop taking pictures?” Martha asked Carol during one of Al’s photo runs.

“No, he just keeps going,” Carol said. “Like that bunny in the flashlight battery commercials.”

Numerous men wearing Vulcan costumes, some unmasked and some still wearing the helmets and big dark goggles, were scattered through the crowd. In their red running suits, they stood out like a flock of cardinals in a grove of leafless trees. Dozens of costumed Boreas supporters, and a half-dozen women in Klondike Kate attire also circulated through the revelers. Among the latter who visited our table were Esperanza de LaTrille and Toni Erickson.

“Quite a party,” I said after introducing them to Martha and Carol. “I’ve never come to one of these before.”

“What made you come to this one?” Toni asked. “Are you writing about it?”

“Actually, I’m off duty,” I said. “But riding with the Vulcans and writing about Lee-Ann triggered my curiosity.”

“Do you think the bastard who killed Lee-Ann is here?” Esperanza asked.

“Not really,” I said. “I think the killer has left Minnesota.”

Esperanza’s dark eyes opened wide. “You know who it is?” she asked.

“The police are searching for a suspect who disappeared after the autopsy report came out.”

“Who are they hunting for? Who?” Toni asked.

“I can’t tell you.”

“Is it somebody from the carnival?” Esperanza asked.

“Sorry,” I said. “That’s all I can tell you for now or my police source will stop talking to me.”

“We’ll never tell anybody,” Toni said.

“Oh, sure you won’t,” I said. “And the sun will never rise in the east and the snow will never melt.”

“I’ll bet I know who it is,” Toni said. “Come on with me, Esperanza. I’ll whisper it in your ear.”

They hurried away and our partners hauled Al and me onto the dance floor. When we returned to the table, a masked Vulcan was sitting in the chair I’d been using. He rose, offered me the chair and said, “Hail, Vulcan!” I recognized the voice.

“Hello, Ted,” I said. “All dressed up in that suit again.”

“Special occasion,” Carlson said. “Then it goes back into the closet until next year’s carnival.”

“There seem to be a lot of those suits around tonight,” Al said. He slipped his camera out of the case and took a quick shot of Carlson, who tried too late to cover his face with his hands. “Don’t be shy,” Al said, and the camera flashed again.

“I really don’t need that,” Carlson said. “Anyhow, I saw you folks sitting here talking to a couple of Klondike Kates and thought I’d come by and say hello. Do you boys have anything new on the murder?” Oh, goody, we were boys again.

“Nothing the police are talking about,” I said. This twerp had no need to know that they were pursuing one of his own until he read it in the paper.

“Didn’t that one Kate say she thought she knew who the killer is?” Martha asked.

“She did?” Carlson said.

“She was just blowing smoke,” I said. “I think everybody has a favorite suspect.”

“Who’s yours?” Carlson asked.

“Sorry, but I’m paid to report facts, not rumors or opinions,” I said.

“But you must have a guess.” This guy was becoming a pain in the ass.

“It’s you,” I said with a big, wide smile. “You dressed up in that outfit and went mad under the full moon last Thursday night.”

Carlson took a quick step back. “That’s not funny,” he said. “You’ve got a really sick sense of humor.” He spun and walked away at double time.

“That wasn’t very nice,” Martha said.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, he was getting on my nerves,” I said. “I thought that would shut him up, but I didn’t think it would send him off in a huff.”

The next person to visit our table was even more obnoxious. It was Sean Fitzpatrick, the gun-toting leader of LEGO, dressed in a tuxedo with tails. “Hey, guys, how’re they hangin’?” he said as he approached.

“What do you say, Tex?” Al said. “I see you’re all dressed up fit to kill. I just hope you don’t.”

“Who might these lovely ladies be?” Fitzpatrick asked.

“This lovely blonde is my wife, Carol, and this gorgeous lady is Mitch’s friend, Martha,” Al said.

Fitzpatrick bowed as low as a man with a bulging beer belly could bow while wrapped in a too-tight cummerbund. “Pleased to meet you, ladies,” he said. “And I ain’t plannin’ on killin’ nobody, Al. We had enough of that last week, and like I said to your Capitol reporter, that could’ve been avoided if—”

I cut him off. “I don’t want to hear it. We’re here to dance and laugh and have a good time, not talk about hiding guns in your underwear.”

“Oh, Christ, nobody said nothin’ about carryin’ a gun in your underwear,” Fitzpatrick said. “But, okay, we won’t talk guns at all.”

And we didn’t. We talked briefly about the music, how much fun people were having and how noisy it was in the room. When Fitzpatrick asked if there was anything new on the murder, I said there wasn’t and he left, after bowing again to the ladies.

“Lucky he didn’t split those pants when he bowed,” Al said. “They’re mighty tight across the ass.”

“That would have given you the picture of the week,” I said. “I can see the cutline now. ‘The bottom line on hidden guns.’”

“How about, ‘Open season on assholes’?”

“Please, Mr. Jeffrey, this is a family newspaper.”

Our fortune improved with the next visitor. It was Kitty Catalano, wearing a low-cut, purple dress that clung to every curve of her body and ended well above the middle of her thighs. Her dark hair was flowing around her bare shoulders, and I smelled that aphrodisiacal perfume again as she bent over me and grasped my hand. We almost bumped heads as I struggled up from the chair, and her hand stayed clasped in mine as I introduced her to Martha and Carol.

“I’m so glad you’re all here,” Kitty said. “Isn’t it a great way to end the Winter Carnival?”

“It seems almost too great, considering the way the carnival started,” Martha said.

“You mean poor Lee-Ann?” Kitty said. “I know we’re all still grieving for her, but she’d want us to go on with the show. She was that kind of person.”

“A real trouper,” I said.

“She was,” Kitty said. “All the Klondike Kates are. Well, it’s been nice meeting all of you. And, Mitch, remember you can call me any time about any thing.” She finally released my hand and drifted away on those long, long legs.

“Lady Longlegs seems to be very well acquainted with you,” Martha said when I sat down beside her again.

“She’s just a news source,” I said.

“Do all your news sources hold your hand the whole time they’re talking to you?” Martha asked.

“Only the really hot ones,” I said. “But I always stay cool.”

At the insistence of Martha and Carol, we danced again, and Martha clung so close that we were almost a single body on the floor. After the waltz, or whatever it was, Al and I went in search of the recently victorious Vulcanus Rex to congratulate him on his triumph over King Boreas. We found him at the bar, hoisting a tall glass of amber liquid with lots of foam on top. The big man looked as imposing unmasked as he had in the helmet and goggles.

“Ah, my part-time Vulcans,” he said in a voice loud enough to be heard easily above the 100-decibel din. “I was hoping that you guys would be here. You did such a good job on that Sunday piece that I was going to hold a knighting ceremony if I saw you. My name is George, by the way. George Griswold. Griswold Plumbing and Heating. You must have seen our sign out on Payne Avenue.” He put down the beer and held out both hands. I grabbed the right one and Al took the left.

“Thanks for the compliment, but you don’t have to knight us,” I said.

“Oh, but you deserve knighthood,” he said, letting go of our hands and reclaiming the beer. “Even if you were a pain in the ass with all those questions about where the guys were when that blondie Kate got killed. I’ve got the certificates up in our dressing room. I’ll go get them and we’ll do the ceremony in front of God and everybody here at this party.”

“Couldn’t you just put them in an envelope and mail them to the paper?” Al asked. “We don’t need all that fuss.”

“No way,” Griswold roared. “As the reigning Vulcanus Rex, I’m going to do this right.” He lifted the glass, chugged the beer and took off to get the certificates.

“Should we disappear?” Al asked as we walked back to our table.

“That would be too rude,” I said. “I think we’re stuck with a public induction into the Fire King’s round table.”

“This isn’t what I had in mind when I hoped for a hot time here tonight.”

We explained what was happening to Carol and Martha, and Martha suggested that she and Carol go to the ladies’ room when Vulcan reappeared.

“No, you don’t,” I said. “This is our day to be a knight, and you two are going to be part of the show.”

“That’s right,” Al said to Carol. “You married me for better or for worse, and knight and day you are the one.”

“We’re also married in sickness and in health,” Carol said. “And this is definitely making me ill.”

I saw Griswold, Vulcanus Rex, bound onto the bandstand with two rolled up pieces of paper in one hand. When the music stopped, he grabbed the microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a very special ceremony to perform at this time,” Griswold said. “We are about to bestow Fire King Knighthood on two honorable gentlemen of the local press. Please come forward, Mr. Mitchell and Mr. Jeffrey, and bring your lovely ladies with you.”

Hand-in-hand, the four of us marched forward and stepped up onto the platform. The current Vulcan Krewe formed a semi-circle around us and Vulcanus Rex told Al and me to kneel.

His long, silver sword went first onto my head. “Warren Mitchell, I bestow upon thee the title of Sir Sizzling Storyteller and present you with this certificate of Fire King Knighthood.” He handed me the scroll and I thanked him.

Next he placed his sword on Al’s head. “Alan Jeffrey, I bestow upon thee the title of Sir Flaming Photographer and present you with this certificate of Fire King Knighthood.” Al took the scroll and thanked him. “You may both rise.”

We got to our feet amid a crescendo of applause from the crowd, and as we smiled and waved in response we were each treated to a smear of facial grease by two quick-moving members of the Krewe. Carol and Martha were laughing and pointing at the black Vs on our cheeks when they simultaneously received matching decorations.

We waded through the congratulatory crowd toward our table, receiving quick hand shakes and pats on the back all along the way. As we passed Toni and Esperanza, they grabbed Al and me and kissed us on the unmarked cheeks. We responded by rubbing a bit of grease onto their faces, and they went away giggling like teenagers.

“I got that shot for posterity,” said a voice on my other side. There stood
Daily Dispatch
photographer Sylvan “Sully” Romanov with a camera in his hand and a grin on his face. “Don will love seeing you kissing Klondike Kate.”

“Klondike Kate was kissing me,” I said. “Are you shooting this chaos?”

“Yup. Me and Corinne Ramey. I’m showing her the ropes.” Corinne was a new reporter who’d joined the staff just in time to get the assignment nobody wanted—covering the Saturday night Winter Carnival events.

“I hope you got shots of our knighthood ceremony,” Al said.

“I did,” Sully said. “But Klondike Kate smooching Mitch has much more human interest. I’ll bet Don picks that one over the knighting thing.”

“Lucky me,” I said.

“Hey, Sully said you’re of interest to humans,” Al said. “In your case, that’s quite a compliment.”

“See you around,” Sully said. “I’ve got to corral Corinne and head back to the office so we can get this crap, uh, this historic information, into the Sunday paper. Nighty, night, guys.” And off he went, in search of the roving reporter.

“Guess that leaves us to record any further historic happenings,” Al said.

“Guess so,” I said. “Even the TV cameras have bailed out. I’m kind of disappointed that Trish Valentine wasn’t reporting live on our becoming knights of the Fire King’s domain.”