A Killing Fair (5 page)

“Do you eat Pronto Pups all day long?” Lorrie said.

“Pronto Pups are good any time of day. Can I bring you one?”

“God, no! I'd be burping all night.”

“Some people don't appreciate fine dining,” I said.

We turned north onto Snelling Avenue, drove into the fairgrounds through the Dan Patch Avenue gate and parked on the grass beside the Admin building. Al stayed by the car to intercept Lorrie while I went looking for a Pronto Pup.

“Bring me one,” Al said. “It's the only thing I can eat on a stick after Tuesday's little demonstration.”

When I returned with our mustard-slathered treats, I found Al and Lorrie in her office, where he was showing her some of the photos he had shot of Vinnie doing his dance of death. It was even hotter inside than outside. “Don't you have air conditioning?” I said.

“It doesn't work in this weather,” Lorrie said. “That's why the boss lets me dress for a day at the beach. And Scott says he'll talk to you when your mouth is empty of Pronto Pup.”

“Hot dog! Come on, Al, let's go out into the fresh, cool, eighty-five-degree air,” I said.

We found Scott Hall taking down his sound equipment at the rear of the stage. His dancers, dressed in matching red and white outfits, were beginning to straggle away. Al followed me onto the stage, and we introduced ourselves to the caller, who was decked out in a red Western-style shirt with white trimming, a white tie, white pants and black cowboy boots. The same white ten-gallon hat he'd worn when celebrating the origin of the Square Meal on a Stick completed the ensemble. Not a drop of sweat was visible on his face.

“You guys were there for the, uh . . . you were there when Vinnie died, weren't you?” Hall said.

“That's right,” I said. “We were right at the foot of the stage, almost as close to Vinnie as you were.”

“And you want to know my reaction to what happened to Vinnie?”

“It would be an interesting addition to the follow story today.”

“Well, does the fact that I can't step onto the same stage two days after the fact give you any clue as to how I feel?”

“Lorrie says being on that stage gave you the creeps,” Al said.

“It actually made me feel like puking,” Hall said. “I can still see Vinnie gasping for breath and going through those awful contortions. I've even dreamt about it. Woke up soaked with sweat and yelling. Scared my lady friend half to death. The worst thing is I feel kind of guilty because I'm the one who handed him the stick.”

“Speaking of the devil, are they trying to sell those things?” I asked.

“Hell no,” Hall said. “Who'd buy one after everything that's been on the news and in the paper? I can't even look at a fried potato without thinking about what the meat on that stick was wrapped in.”

“You shouldn't blame yourself for handing the stick to Vinnie,” Al said. “You had no way of knowing that it was loaded with strychnine.”

“Anyway, I'm still shook up about the whole thing,” Hall said. “It's the kind of shock that never seems to go away.”

“Well, we'll go away and let you get packed up,” I said. “Thanks for your comments and your time.”

“No problem,” Hall said. I much prefer “you're welcome,” as a response to “thanks,” but I smiled and shook his hand. “Oh, hey,” he said. “The president of our club is still here. Erik Erickson. You should meet him. He was onstage, too, and he might give you a comment.”

Hall waved to a man in his mid-fifties with a receding hairline and the beginnings of a pot belly. “Hey, Erik, come on over.” Like all the male dancers, Erickson wore a red Western-style shirt, white tie, white pants, and white shoes. I remembered seeing him standing behind Hall on the day of the murder, and I had a feeling I'd also seen him somewhere else not dressed for dancing.

We shook hands all around, and I asked Erickson the name of the club.

“We're the Oles and Lenas Square Dance Club,” he said.

“Are you kidding me?” I asked.

“No way. The traditional Minnesota Scandahoovian jokes are all about Ole and Lena so the founders thought it would be fun to name the club after such well-known personalities.”

Hall told Erickson that Al and I were looking for reactions to Vinnie Luciano's death. “You were there,” Hall said. “Do you want to say anything?”

Erickson stiffened and thought for a moment before he said, “It was the most god-awful thing I've ever seen. I was horrified by what was happening. In fact, I had to get off the stage. My wife said she almost fainted.” He pointed across the stage to a red-haired woman at least fifteen years his junior. The top two buttons of her blouse were unfastened, and, sharp-eyed reporter that I am, I observed that her cleavage was a match for Trish Valentine's.

“Thanks for your time, Mr. Erickson,” I said. “I've been thinking I've seen you somewhere dressed in regular clothes. Do you work downtown or have you come into the newsroom for something?”

“My day job is in the drug store on Wabasha Street. You might have seen me there,” Erickson said. “At night I'm the artistic director of the Parkside Players Theatre.”

“The one in the basement in Lowertown?”

“That's the one.”

“That's where I've seen you. My fiancée and I have season tickets. You always come out onstage to tell us how much we're going to love the show, point out the emergency exits and remind us to turn off our cell phones before the curtain goes up.”

“Hey, nice to meet a subscriber,” he said. “I wish there were more of you.”

“Tight budget?”

“Deficit budget. I've stopped taking what little salary I was getting and we're still running in the red. Oh, God, don't put that in the paper.”

“I won't,” I said. This was not the time for this tidbit, but I was pretty sure our entertainment editor would be making a follow-up phone call to the director.

“Thanks. We're working on plans for a fund drive and a premature story could really kill us.”

“I wouldn't want to do that. You do some really good stuff there. I'll see if I can scare up some more customers for the coming season.”

“I'd appreciate that. We can use every warm body we can find.”

Erickson turned and went back to his wife. I turned to Scott Hall and made the obvious observation: “Erik's wife looks a lot younger than he is.”

“That's because she's a lot younger. She's his second wife,” Hall said. “One of those mid-life switches you hear about. Joyce started coming to our classes as a single and wound up as Erik's partner in more than just a square.”

“What happened to his first wife?” Al asked.

“She promenaded away with the house, the two kids and one of the cars. Erik gave up a lot to get Joyce.”

“The trophy wife,” I said. “Is she worth what he paid?”

Hall shook his head. “I wouldn't know. She's a good dancer, but Roberta was, too. Beyond that—no comment.”

“Dance floors and bedrooms don't mix?”

Again he shook his head. “Like I said: no comment.”

I thanked the caller again for his help, and Al and I walked to the car. I was reaching for the door handle when another mental light came on. “Should we have one for the road?” I asked.

“My turn to buy,” Al said as he started toward the nearest Pronto Pup stand.

 

* * *

 

Back at the office, I decided to make one more call to Detective K.G. Barnes in Falcon Heights. I got her voice mail with a promise to return my call. I left a message noting that my deadline was 5:00, which was less than an hour away.

I put off some other calls in order to keep the line clear and wrote what I had collected about the reactions of Scott Hall and Erik Erickson to Vinnie Luciano's dramatic demise. What I needed to complete the story was a progress report from the Falcon Heights police.

Al swung by and asked if the cops were making any progress on the case, night city editor Fred Donlin asked when my story was coming, and I watched the hands on the wall clock move toward five. The clock hands were at 4:51 and I was doodling a horizontal stick man with his back steeply arched when my phone rang. I picked it up anticipating the return call from KGB.

“It's Morrie,” said a dreary male voice. “I need your help.”

Somehow I stopped myself from shouting, “Shit.” Morrie was one of those mentally unbalanced callers who plague newspaper offices in search of impossible solutions to imaginary problems. He always seemed to call when everyone was rushing to meet a deadline and for some reason he often asked for me.

“I don't have time right now,” I said. “Call back in an hour.” I knew I'd be gone home by then.

“This is really bad,” he said. “It's the Russians again. They're beaming their radar at me right through the walls.” Morrie was a little white-haired man who lived with a little white dog in a radar-resistant brick apartment building in Lowertown, near Erik Erickson's theater. He'd been complaining about the Russian radar for years despite all our efforts to convince him that Russia had no radar that could reach St. Paul.

“It'll have to wait,” I said. “Lock yourself in the bathroom and call back in an hour.” I put down the receiver and saw the minute hand advance to 4:52. Almost immediately, the phone rang again. This time it was KGB.

“What's new on the Luciano murder investigation?” I asked without the customary, “Good afternoon, Daily Dispatch, Mitchell.” There wasn't time to observe formalities.

“Our investigation of Mr. Luciano's murder is continuing,” KGB said.

“I'm sure it is. Do you have any leads on a possible suspect or person of interest?”

“We can't comment on that at this time, Mr. Mitchell.”

“Have you asked Vinnie's family about any enemies he might have had or anybody who was mad at Vinnie?”

“We have.”

“And did they give you any help?”

“We can't comment at this time.”

“Have you interviewed anyone who has been helpful?”

“We can't comment at this time.”

This was not going well. “What can you comment on?” I asked.

“We can say that the investigation is continuing,” she said.

“This isn't news. It would be news if you weren't continuing the investigation.”

“We're not in the news business, Mr. Mitchell.”

“You are in the news business because you make the news reporters report, Detective Barnes. We can even help each other. I've been known to swap information with the police when I have something they don't.”

“If you have something we don't, we'd recommend you tell us, Mr. Mitchell. Withholding evidence can put you in front of a judge.”

“I'll remember that,” I said. “And I hope you'll help me keep abreast of the investigation. We could have lunch and talk about it.”

“Our department will issue media bulletins at appropriate times. In the mean time, we bid you goodbye, Mr. Mitchell.” The line went dead before I could wish her a good day.

“Bitch!” I said as I slammed down the phone. “Double bitch!”

“Stonewalled again?” said Corinne Ramey.

“Again,” I said. “I've been stonewalled by cops before, but never this bad.”

I went to work with what I had, pausing only to debate whether to say Falcon Heights police “declined to comment” or “refused to comment.” I decided to give them one more chance and went with “declined.”

I pressed the key that sent the story to Fred Donlin. Three minutes later Fred appeared before me and said that except for the quotes from the square dance caller, my story was a piece of crap. I agreed and promised to have something better the next day.

“The funeral is tomorrow morning, and I've got the names of some people who might have wanted Vinnie dead,” I said. “”I'll start talking to them on my own. I'm ready to give up com­pletely on that stonewalling bitch at the Falcon Heights PD.”

“Tomorrow better be better or Don might make the next funeral yours,” Fred said as he turned and went back to his desk. I assumed he was speaking figuratively, but even that left me with grave concern.

 

* * *

 

Friday nights often found Martha and me enjoying Carol's superb cooking as guests at the Jeffreys' dining room table. Because dinner seating for six (Al and Carol had two children, Kristin, eighteen, and Kevin, sixteen) ranged from awkward to ridiculous in our shoebox apartment, we were looking forward to hosting scores of return dinners when we moved to larger quarters.

On the short drive to the Jeffreys' house in the city's Midway district, I told Martha about meeting Erik Erickson and learning that Parkside Players Theatre was in financial trouble.

“I hope they don't go under,” Martha said. “They do the kind of plays you can't find anywhere else.”

Parkside Players' seasons always featured several works that larger theaters with big budgets couldn't risk producing because they didn't attract a mass audience. The Parkside facility was tiny, with about a hundred seats arranged around three sides of a postage-stamp stage. “Intimate” was the critics' description of this theater, which was in the basement of a converted warehouse with 1894 engraved in a stone above the entrance. The casts were composed of unpaid community actors, and I had assumed the rent was low.

“I told him we'd talk it up with our friends,” I said.

“I think their opening production is Waiting for Godot, which isn't the best show to sell to newcomers,” she said. “As I recall from seeing it in college, things move very slowly onstage while the audience is waiting.”

The possible demise of Parkside Players was also discussed at dinner because Al and Carol had season seats next to ours. We decided to try to arrange a theater party for the season's first production. Carol looked up the schedule and confirmed that the opening production was Waiting for Godot.