Shay O'Hanlon Caper 04 - Chip Off the Ice Block Murder (10 page)

Lisa said, “I have to admit I kind of agree with the Siberia thing.”

“Me too. Especially this winter. I’ve had enough snow to last me for a long time. Good thing the folks back then had more fortitude than we do.”

I lapsed into silence, recalling my father’s deep voice recount the legend of how, on the tenth day, Boreas, King of the Winds, and the Vulc, God of Fire, duked it out. The god of fire kicked Boreas out of town every time, sending away the cold and bringing in warm weather. After this year’s cold and snow, we needed the Vulc to come in and do some early ass tromping.

One of the warehouses Mick and company used for carnival-
related stuff was a little north and west of Holman Field, St. Paul’s airport. That’s where I figured we’d check first.

The drive into St. Paul was smooth. Most of the rush hour had dispersed, leaving the stretch of I-94 between Minneapolis and St. Paul problem free.

Lisa was quiet, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. For that I was grateful. I hated feeling like I needed to come up with something to say to fill the void.

We crossed the Mississippi by way of the Robert Street Bridge, and I eventually pulled into the parking lot of a boxy brick building. It was a few minutes after ten o’clock, and the lot was empty.

There wasn’t any signage, but I knew that around the back was a space that the Imperial Order of Fire and Brimstone—an organization made up of past and present Vulcans—used to house the Winter Carnival’s Royal Chariot, which was a 1932 fire engine long ago manufactured in Luverne, Minnesota.

When I was a kid, my dad occasionally brought me to Vulcan headquarters. He wasn’t a Krewe member, but being a friend of Mick Simon’s opened a lot of doors. The fact that he tended to bring a few six-packs along helped. For hours I’d watch the guys putter with replacement fire engine parts and repair or replace running boards, door panels—whatever had worn out, rusted through, or broken. By now they must have replaced about every removable piece on the old jalopy, and probably some that weren’t.

Lisa asked, “How do you know if this Mitch guy is even here now?”

“Mick,” I said. “Mick is one of the board members who helps decide what charities the Krewe is going to support and what activities the current Krewe will take part in. I suppose there’s other stuff aside from that too, but that’s the gist of it. It’s that time of year where things are hopping, so the odds are good he’ll be here.”

“It’s always nice to find an organization that actually does good stuff for the community. I kinda thought they were grown men running around in red pajamas smearing black grease paint on unsuspecting victims they wanted to kiss.”

“Nobody said they were saints. Come on. Let’s go see if we can go two for two.”

We walked up to a door that had a fancy red and black
Imperial Order of Fire and Brimstone
sign attached to it. I pressed the buzzer and waited to see who opened the door.

To my surprise, no one did. I leaned on the doorbell one more time. Nothing.

“Oh, come on,” Lisa said.

No kidding. I let out a frustrated breath. Guess we’d just have to circle back to Poker Buddy 2 later. “Okay. We’ll try again later on. Let’s regroup.”

Back to the Escape we tramped.

Lisa settled in, clicked her seatbelt on, and said, “Who’s next on your dirty little list?”

I keyed the engine, mentally pulling up Poker Buddy 3. “We’ve talked to Brian. How about Roy? Roy Larson—”

“Isn’t he the guy who hawks kitty litter on TV?”

“One and the same. Before he got himself into the feline elimination business, he owned the Leprechaun. Well, it wasn’t the Leprechaun back then.”

“What was it?”

“The Do Stop Inn.”

“Seriously?”

“As an aneurysm. You can see why Dad changed the name.”

“It’s kind of cute, in a skeezy sort of way.”

I laughed. “Maybe. And don’t forget Hemorrhoid Harvey and Limpy Dick.”

“Those names belong in a cheesy dime store novel.”

“There’s something to be said about the quality of people my father hangs around with.”

“I guess. Okay. Tell me about”—she could hardly keep a straight face—“Hemorrhoid Harvey. What’s up with that?”

“I had to ask Agnes the same thing yesterday. He owns Benjamin’s Drugstore in Richfield. Apparently Benjamin’s is the go-to emporium for the geriatric set.”

“Oh, this keeps getting better and better.” Lisa’s lips trembled from the effort of holding back what I assumed was an explosion of hilarity. “And Limpy”—she slapped a hand over her mouth and said through her fingers—“Limpy Dick?”

That did it. She doubled over in a fit of laughter. I suppose if I hadn’t been familiar with these crazy people, I would have been joining in with her.

“I told you about him last night. Remember? Or are you having memory issues from the damage to your skull?”

At that, Lisa made a concerted effort to contain her giggles. “Oh, I think it’s coming back to me now. What a terrible thing.”

“Yeah. But it doesn’t slow him down at all.” I thought about that. “In fact, you kind of forget he’s missing a leg after awhile.”

“Huh. Well, okay. After all that and the coffee, I have to hit a restroom. Then we can continue this most gripping project.”

“Gripping. Not exactly what I’d call this wild turkey chase, but it works.”

After making a pit stop at Cossetta’s (pizza to die for) on West Seventh, we decided to head to Roy Larson’s office next. This time I called ahead. He was out for lunch but would be back soon.

We retraced our path back across the Mississippi, and I was lucky enough to find metered parking not far from Larson’s Super Clump Flush-Away Cat Litter headquarters. It was kind of scary what one could actually make money doing. Roy’s kitty litter domain took up the entire third floor of the six-story Thresher Building, located in the Warehouse District in Minneapolis.

A woman lugging two animal carriers hustled into the elevator right behind us. From the caterwauling going on within the carriers, you’d have thought the animals were being slowly and painfully murdered. The woman said apologetically over the yowling, “Sorry about this. I’m bringing them in for a photo shoot for a new ad.”

I smiled. “It’s okay. Sounds like they’re not too happy traveling around like that.”

“Oh, they’ll quiet down once I let them out and give them a couple treats. They come highly recommended from the place that supplies us animal actors. The trainer is parking and will be in shortly. I hope.”

Animal actors?

The woman and her noisy charges exited on two, and we continued the ride to the third floor in blessed peace. The elevator doors opened into a lobby that comfortably seated ten. Each wall was decorated with a huge blowup of a cat posing in various beatific positions on top of trays of cat litter. I wondered what kitty goodies the photographer had to bribe him with to cooperate.

The receptionist was a young man in his mid-twenties. His short blond hair was so bleached it practically glowed. That contrasted rather shockingly with his orange-brown face and the glaring white skin around his eyes that made him look like a reverse raccoon. He either paid too much for a bad spray tan or spent some significant time in an ultraviolet casket. A genuine suntan in the middle of a Minnesota winter was a pipe dream.

Glow-boy sat behind a horseshoe-shaped desk, dressed to kill in a natty gray suit with a bright-orange cartoon tabby cat crawling across his tie. He gave us a blindingly white smile.

“Hi,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“Roy Larson in?” I asked. “We don’t have an appointment, but I think he’ll see us.”

“He’s down on two. They’re shooting a commercial for our newest product, Larson’s Hawaiian Super Clump Flush-Away Cat Litter.”

Lisa asked, “What makes it Hawaiian?”

“They added a coconut scent to it. It smells exactly like Malibu Rum.”

Coconut booze–scented cat poop. Just what the world needed.

Glow-boy said, “If you want, I can check with him and send you down.”

I said, “That would be great.”

After pushing some buttons and speaking in low tones to someone on the other end of the line, Glow-boy said, “Go on down to the second floor. When you get off the elevator, it’s the third door on the … ” He held his hands up and wiggled the fingers on his right hand and then the fingers on his left. He gazed at his hands a moment and flopped his right hand around and said, “Yes. That’s it. On the right.” He looked up at us with a triumphant expression.

I suppressed a grin. We reentered the elevator. Once the doors slid shut, Lisa burst out laughing. “I think he had one too many baking sessions at the tanning salon.”

“Or he’s sniffed too much Hawaiian litter.” I poked the button for the second floor. “Oh hell, I have to admit I flunked my first driving test because the instructor told me to make a right and I executed a perfect left. I almost crashed into another car when he yelled at me that I was turning the wrong way. It was a short return trip.”

“I’ll bet. Ouch.”

“
You know it. But Eddy brought me back the very next day and I nailed it. It was the same creepy examiner. He held onto the dash the entire time.”

The elevator doors slid open. As we exited, Lisa said, “I failed my test three times. But it was because I screwed up the parallel parking thing twice and didn’t come to a complete stop once. God, the trials of teens.”

We stopped at the third door on the right, which was propped open. A few people scurried around inside setting up a stage at one end of the room. The stage was filled with a couple fake palm trees, a whole bunch of coconuts, and a backdrop showcasing a sun-
dappled beach with teal-colored water. Huge letters arced over the sandy beach and spelled
Don’t Be A Chump, Use Larson’s Hawaiian Super Clump.

“Huh,” Lisa said, “not exactly subtle.”

We came to a stop just inside the door. Poker Buddy 3 himself was talking to the lady we’d met in the elevator.

The cat carriers were on a table off in the corner. Another woman, who looked like a female Jack Hanna in forest-green khakis and
button-down safari shirt with the sleeves rolled over her elbows, was talking to the felines through their wire doors. She had the weathered, ruddy skin that comes from spending most of your life outside.

I caught Roy’s eye. With a charming smile, he waved us over. He looked a little like an older Clark Gable, complete with Brylcreem shine—he once told my dad that he used shoe polish on his hair—and a thin little mustache that had a gap centered under his septum. He’d practiced the one-eyed squint till his left eye was permanently squintier than his right.

Regardless of his rather unique appearance, I had a certain fondness for good old Roy. He’d been kind to a rambunctious toddler who skulked around his bar when my dad hauled me along for a visit. After my father purchased the establishment from him, Roy was always quick to throw me one of the Brach’s butterscotch disks he kept tucked in a jacket pocket. I used to think he had an endless supply, because he never ran out. Believe me, there were a few times I gave him a run for his money. I figured he probably grew them on a butterscotch tree at home.

Even better than the candy was that Roy talked to me like an adult, wasn’t ever condescending, and generally treated me well. That he and my dad were still friends after all this time—and after all my father’s
shenanigans—spoke volumes about his character, even if he did
spend much of his time these days knee-deep in kitty litter.

“Shay!” Roy held his arms out. I stepped in and gave him a hearty squeeze. He pushed me back and gave me the up-down assessment the older generation gives the younger when it’s been some time since they’ve seen each other. Roy beamed at me. “You’re looking well!” His gaze caught Lisa over my shoulder. “And you’re a special friend of Shay’s, may I assume?”

Lisa’s look of surprise quickly morphed into mischievousness. “No, I’m not that kind of friend, but I’m working on it.” She blatantly ogled me up and down, much as Roy had done, but with very different intent.

I did an internal eye roll. “This is Lisa Vecoli, and no, she’s not that kind of friend.”

Roy always tried hard to show me he was down with the whole gay thing. Even if it was a little overdone, I appreciated his efforts. I thought of him as that odd yet kind uncle who everyone seems to have in the family.

“Roy,” I said, “can we talk to you for a couple of minutes?”

“Of course. Vi, will you please excuse me for a moment?”

The woman we’d met in the elevator smiled. “Absolutely.”

We followed Roy out into the hall and to a conference room. The focal point was a fancy, high-gloss oval table that sat at least ten. A bar with a mini-fridge was situated in one corner, and a white board took up the bulk of two walls.

“Sit,” Roy waved at the table. “Can I get either of you anything? Water? A Coke?”

We both declined and settled into well-cushioned, smooth leather chairs. Apparently the kitty litter biz was doing pretty well.

Roy pulled a bottle of water from the fridge and twisted off the top as he sat.

One of the techs I’d seen working on the set stuck his head in the door. “Hey Roy, sorry to bother you. We’re almost ready for the first take with the cats if you want to watch.”

“Thanks, Joe. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Joe nodded and disappeared.

Roy took a deep swallow from the bottle. “So what brings you here, Shay?”

I told him a brief version of what had been happening since New Year’s Eve. I ended with, “I’ve looked everywhere. I don’t know where my dad is. Did he say anything to you Friday night during the game? Did it seem like something was wrong?”

Roy took two more glugs and gently set the bottle on the tabletop. “No, Pete seemed fine. A little preoccupied, perhaps. He’d had a substantial amount to drink, and I know when I left I was glad he didn’t have to drive anywhere. But Pete could drive a straight line even when he was pickled.”

That was the first anyone mentioned my father drinking more than his usual fair share that night.