A Carnival of Killing (22 page)

“Why’d you think that?”

“I kind of suspected that he was the one who was banging Lee-Ann, so there was a good chance that he was the baby’s father. And he always seemed to be running around in his old Vulcan costume whenever something awful happened.”

“Carlson wasn’t the only possible father,” I said. “I figured it was Ed St. Claire when he took off.”

“Oh, yeah, there were a lot of possible fathers,” Toni said. “She let it be known around the office that she’d laid half the guys in last year’s Vulcan Krewe.”

“Maybe she was stretching things a bit. With the exception of St. Claire, the married guys in that Krewe told me they barely knew her. Now you’re telling me that they knew her bare?”

“Like a reporter would get true confessions from a bunch of married men. I think the only thing she was stretching was their … well, you know what I mean.”

“Whatever. Anyway, now you know who tried to strangle you.”

“I still can’t believe it. Kitty was like one of us, even if she never performed.”

“Jealousy and hatred can cause people to do unbelievable things,” I said. “I’m just glad you and Carlson are still alive.”

“And you,” Toni said. “You could have been killed, too.”

I’d been trying not to think about that. The bullet had struck almost a shoulder’s width from my head, and I have broad shoulders, but it was still too damn close. “Lucky for Ted and me she’s a lousy shot,” I said. “Thanks for the call.”

“You’re welcome,” she said. “If I can ever do anything for you, let me know.” The tone indicated that “anything” went beyond comforting me with mere words.

“I’ve got your phone number,” I said. “Thanks again.”

I sat for a moment, replaying the conversation. Toni had just painted quite a different picture of Lee-Ann than she had when I’d asked for a comment the day after the body was found. Back then, she had described Lee-Ann as “one of the sweetest people” she’d ever met. Now she was reporting that Lee-Ann had been carrying on a wildly promiscuous sex life and bragging about it. Come to think of it, Toni did say in the original interview that Lee-Ann liked to party. I guess you had to know Toni’s definition of “party” to fully understand that statement.

Later that afternoon I also got calls of concern from Esperanza de LaTrille and Hillary Howard. Both indicated that they’d be available if I ever needed “anything at all.” Apparently I’d made quite a hit with the Klondike Kate population. Good to know if Martha ever dumped me.

The last call of the day came from Detective Curtis Brown, who seemed to be in a much mellower mood. He had interviewed Ted Carlson, who had provided some details of his affair with the late Lee-Ann.

“He told us that he and Ms. Nordquist had been having a couple of nooners a week in her apartment,” Brownie said. “Her little girl had afternoon kindergarten and Carlson would pop in as soon as the kid left for school. He said he gave Ms. Nordquist the usual bullshit about his wife not understanding him and she ate it up. He said that right after he told her he was thinking of leaving his wife, Ms. Nordquist announced that she was pregnant.”

“What did he do when he heard that?” I asked.

“He said he tried to get her to have an abortion, but she refused,” Brownie said. “He told us he was actually relieved when she got killed, but then he got scared when the pregnancy was discovered and we identified his DNA. Figured we’d see that as a motive, which we did.”

“Well, he stayed true to form anyway. Angela told me she was hiding him because he said he loved her and was leaving his wife for her.”

“His wife might take care of that problem by leaving him. We talked to her this morning and she didn’t sound very sympathetic. Said she knew he’d been hanging around with the Klondike Kates and was getting something from somebody on the side. Mr. Carlson told us he had a thing for well-padded women, and I’d guess the wife don’t weigh much over a hundred pounds. You didn’t hear me say that when you write your next story, by the way.”

In deference to Ted Carlson’s oft-betrayed wife, I agreed to omit that juicy morsel from my report. I thanked Brownie, he gave me the standard “have a good day,” and I went to work writing the next installment of the killing of Klondike Kate. As I finished the story, I wondered where Kitty Catalano was and what she might be wearing.

No Big Deal

My questions about Kitty were answered early Friday morning. I had just stepped out of the shower and was carefully patting the area around my bandaged shoulder with a towel when I heard the phone ring. Martha answered and yelled for me to come. “It’s Don O’Rourke,” she said, handing me the receiver.

“Don’t tell me you’ve got another body laying out in the cold,” I said.

“No, but the cops have got the person who left the previous body there,” Don said. “Call your buddy Brown and get the story. He won’t talk to anybody else.”

Apparently Brownie had forgiven me for sending Kitty off to the races. I punched in his secret number and got the customary greeting. “Homicidebrown.”

“
Dailydispatch
mitchell,” I said. “I hear the nasty bounder is no longer bounding.”

“Caught her in Denver, Colorado, last night,” he said. “She was on her way to see a cousin who dances in a strip club out there.”

“So how’d they catch her?”

“A Denver cop stopped her because one headlight was out.”

“No shit?” I said.

“No shit,” he said. “Why do you sound so surprised?”

“I told her that she should get that headlight fixed just a couple of hours before she shot me. She said it was no big deal.”

“It was a big enough deal for the Denver cop. When he asked for her license, she said she’d left it home. He thought it was odd that she wasn’t wearing a jacket over her short-sleeved blouse, and then he noticed that she had a blanket wrapped around her lap, which he also thought was kind of strange. When he went back to his squad car to call in for a check on her Minnesota plates, she started to drive away. He’d already called for backup and she hit the second squad head-on when she turned the wrong way on a one-way street. Busted the other headlight along with the grill and radiator on her nice, shiny Beemer.”

Brownie went on to say that when they patted her down for a weapon, they discovered that Kitty was still wearing nothing but those red pantaloons under the blanket. Apparently she’d had the blouse and blanket in the car, but hadn’t come up with a skirt or slacks. They arrested Kitty and took her to jail, where the matron made her remove her boots. They found her pistol, a .38 caliber Lady Derringer that she’d reloaded, in the right one.

“When are you bringing her back to St. Paul?” I asked.

“We’re sending a team out on a flight this morning,” Brownie said. “They’ll bring her back as soon as all the legal crap is out of the way. Meanwhile, Denver is holding her on charges of operating a vehicle with defective equipment, driving the wrong way on a one-way street, reckless driving, driving without a license, damaging public property, carrying a concealed weapon and resisting arrest.”

“All because she didn’t get her headlight fixed.”

“She could have hid out there for a long time if she’d got to her cousin’s place and kept a low profile. If you’re gonna kill somebody, it’s a good idea to keep your car up to snuff.”

“Words to live by,” I said.

“Have a good day, Mitch,” Brownie said as he put down the phone.

It was snowing again, but I didn’t care. I whisked a couple of inches of fluffy flakes off my car, holding the brush in my left hand, and drove downtown with a happy heart. The cops had Kitty and I had the story.

Al was equally ecstatic.

“They stopped her for a headlight?” he said.

“That’s what Brownie said.”

“I thought she was brighter than that.”

“It proves that even the most brilliant among us can be undone by one dim bulb.”

We went through the photos Al had saved on a disk and found a good close-up of Kitty he’d taken at the Victory Ball before she changed into the Vulcan costume. He also gave Don the shot of the red-booted Vulcan, and Don put them together with my story of the Colorado capture.

Late that afternoon, I got another call from Brownie. When I answered, he was laughing, which I’d never heard him do. “Hey, Mitch, what I’m going to tell you is strictly off the record, but I know you’ll love it,” he said.

“What could be that good?” I asked.

“We got a report from the Denver PD about your red-booted honey. It seems that the matron got one hell of a surprise when she strip-searched her.” He laughed again. I wished I had a tape running to record this once-in-a-lifetime sound.

“What was the big surprise?” I asked, although I knew the answer.

“It seems that Ms. Catalano has a very unusual body decoration. The matron said it was a first for her.”

Still playing ignorant, I asked, “So what is this highly unusual décor?”

“Would you believe that she’s got the face of a cat painted on the hair in her crotch? Can you imagine that?”

“No way!” I said. “That’s unbelievable. Did Denver PD send you a picture?”

“Don’t I wish,” Brownie said with still another laugh. “All they sent us was the standard mug shot. We told them we’d rather have a mug shot of the cat, but they said the matron was protecting Ms. Catalano’s privacy.”

“Too bad. It would be fun to run that picture in our weekly feature on pets that need a home.”

“This pet’s gonna have a home for the rest of her life,” Brownie said. “And don’t you dare write anything about it or you’ll never get another call from me. Have a good day, Mitch.”

He knew damn well there was no way I could write about Kitty’s decorated anatomy in the
Daily Dispatch
. I put the phone down and went to tell Al. We agreed that we’d have more fun working for a tabloid.

Pleas and Pleasures

Kitty Catalano was brought back to St. Paul the following Monday and her arraignment was set for 8:00 a.m. on Tuesday. Al and I arrived early and were up front in the biggest crowd of reporters and photographers I’d ever seen in the Twin Cities. The spectacular nature of the case drew representatives from all over the Midwest, plus a reporter/photographer team from Denver where Kitty had been caught.

Looking around the courtroom, I also saw all the Klondike Kates we’d met. Seated near them were George Griswold, the recently-unmasked Vulcanus Rex, and three men who I assumed were members of his Krewe.

Kitty was brought into the courtroom handcuffed and shackled, with a sheriff’s deputy on either side. She was dressed in the standard orange jumpsuit issued to prisoners at the city jail, and her dark hair hung straight down in back, creating a Halloween-like contrast. Her face was pale and her eyes were lifeless until she came within ten feet of me. Suddenly her complexion reddened and her green eyes flashed as she mouthed the words,
Fuck you
. I smiled benignly and blew her a kiss.

The deputies turned her away from me to face the bench, and Trish Valentine, who was broadcasting live beside me, poked me in the ribs. “What was that all about?” she whispered.

“I guess she’s a wee bit angry with me for turning her in,” I said.

“It looked like pure hatred to me.”

“There’s no love lost, I’m sure.”

The arraignment went as expected. Kitty replied, “Not guilty,” to each charge when the judge asked for a plea, and he ordered that she be held without bail. Her attorney didn’t bother to argue the no-bail order, apparently figuring it would be a waste of time.

When the judge rapped the gavel, the deputies turned Kitty around so that our eyes met again.

“I told you to get that light replaced,” I said.

“I wish I’d put your lights out,” she said. The deputies scowled at me and hustled Kitty away.

“I got that,” Trish’s cameraman said. “I got the whole exchange.”

“Great,” Trish said. “You’ll be on our next newscast, Mitch.”

“My fifteen seconds of fame,” I said.

“Did you really tell her to get that light replaced?” Martha asked as we sat propped up in bed watching the 10:00 p.m. news.

“I did,” I said. “And she said it was no big deal.”

“I guess that wraps up the story, except I have one more question for you.”

“What’s that?” I’d been thinking I was home free.

“All the reports say that Kitty was wearing only boots, pantaloons and a bra when she ran from the hotel,” Martha said. “Care to explain what happened to her clothing while you were with her in that room?”

Actually, I didn’t care to do that, but I seemed to have no choice. The explanation flowed so quickly and smoothly that I surprised myself. “She was a little tipsy from the wine she had with dinner, and she decided she wanted to take a dip in the Jacuzzi,” I said. “She started to get undressed while I was in the bathroom, but I was able to stop her after she’d taken off her blouse and skirt.”

“A beautiful young woman was removing her clothing in front of you, and you stopped her?” Martha’s eyebrows were an inch higher than normal.

“I swear it on a stack of style books,” I said. “I stopped her by showing her the picture. I guess I should have let her strip all the way, including the boots. That way I’d have seen the gun before she aimed it at me.”

“This gorgeous woman was getting undressed, and you were not?”

“I had my clothes on. Ask Al if I didn’t. Ask the cops.”

The eyebrows returned to their natural resting place. “Okay, I won’t check out your references. Al’s not a reliable source and you had time to get dressed before the cops arrived, so let’s just forget about it. Tell me how your shoulder is feeling.”

“Not bad.” I pressed against the bandage with my left hand and felt only a nominal twinge. “I think it’s healed enough for us to resume our pursuit of Swami Sumi’s 101 positions.”

Martha picked the Swami’s book off her nightstand and opened it to the long-awaited Position Number 63.

“So, what do we do?” I asked.

“The first step is ‘remove all clothing,’ which we’ve already done,” she said.