September Mourn

by Jess Lourey

  More importantly, had I just exposed myself to a contagious peril?

  I lunged out into the blistering heat and breathed deeply. A parked ambulance flashed its lights to my right, and behind it, two police cruisers pulled up. Of course the State Fair would have its own health and security personnel on the grounds.

  I strode past the Amphitheater and River Raft Ride to Clough Street, took a right, and ducked into the first bathrooms I saw. Inside, I literally and figuratively washed my hands of the whole ordeal. It wasn’t my fault she was from Battle Lake, right? I didn’t know her personally. The ambulance would haul her body away, and the police would find out what had happened to her, not me.

  I’d cover the story, of course. I’d report on any information the police released, but that’s as far as it would go because, while Ashley’s death was terribly sad, it had nothing to do with me.

  Once I’d scrubbed the top layer of skin from my hands and face, I headed north to my trailer, keeping my head down and my hands to myself. The place was so crowded that I couldn’t walk a straight line for more than four feet. All around, the smell of roasting meat competed with the sweetness of fresh Tom Thumb donuts and cinnamon-baked nuts.

  Overhead, the Skyrider carried people from one end of the fair to the other. They laughed and dangled their feet while sipping cool drinks and pointing out the sights, oblivious to the horror at the Dairy Barn. How long until word of the death of the queen spread? Would it clear out the crowds Increase them?

  I shoved those thoughts out of my head and navigated past the Kidway and toward the campgrounds. Crowds grew less dense. My trailer was parked just off of Cosgrove. It was a neat little twenty-two-foot vintage Airstream that Ron had remodeled inside to look like an early-1970s opium den, complete with white shag carpeting and beaded curtains. He had even applied those little flower-shaped stickers in the shower, which I believe were invented to keep stoned people from slipping down the drain.

  That was all fine because I had a bedroom in back, a kitchen with an electric stove, a dining room table, and a pile of books I’d been meaning to read. And right now, I wanted nothing more than to be alone to regroup and relax, and pretend I hadn’t just seen my fifth corpse in as many months. Ron would be calling me and ordering me to cover the story soon enough.

  I unlocked the door, hitched it behind me, and fell into the nearest bench.

  “Mira? Surprise!”

  Three

  My world flip-flopped. “Mrs. Berns?”

  “Well it ain’t Cher. Who pooped in your pants?”

  “What?” I sniffed the air.

  “You look like you just found out your cat died. It didn’t, by the way. I checked your place before I left, and Jed’s doing a fine job. A couple redecorating touches to up the vibe, but those were necessary after the party we had last night.” She pursed her lips and made a show of looking around. “Speaking of vibe, what the hell was Ron Sims smoking when he decorated this place?”

  In deciding to quit drinking last month, I’d had more challenges than the average person. Mrs. Berns was my favorite one. I took a deep breath, more like a gasping for air, really, and started at the beginning. “Why are you here?”

  “I was listening to 103.3 out of Fergus. You know the station?”

  I nodded. Or had a nervous tic. It looked the same.

  “They were ‘getting the Led out’ when all of a sudden, they announced a contest. The first person to answer three questions correctly about Neil Diamond wins two tickets to his State Fair concert and backstage passes to meet him afterward.”

  “Neil Diamond’s at the State Fair?”

  Mrs. Berns tsked. “You might be cute, Mira James, but smart don’t always park in your garage. Of course Neil Diamond is at the State Fair. Didn’t you see all those old ladies with DiamondHead T-shirts walking around?” She indicated her own bedazzled top. It featured a life-sized, three-dimensional rendering of Neil Diamond’s head and shoulders. His face floated above the very top portion of an open-collared shirt, and a healthy patch of black hair that was either glued or sewn on sprouted from the vee of his collar, which was located on the part of the shirt that covered Mrs. Berns’ lower tummy.

  “That’s fake chest hair, right?”

  “If by ‘fake’ you mean it isn’t really Neil Diamond’s, you are correct. Now stop interrupting.” She cleared her throat. “I was baking bread in the kitchen of the nursing home when the contest was announced. By the time I got my hands clean, three people had called in and lost. They answered the first two questions, but the third stumped ’em. I knew all the answers, of course, but I couldn’t get through.” She threw her hands in the air, reenacting her exasperation.

  “I was redialing, redialing, but there were so many idiots clogging up the line that I couldn’t make contact. Finally, a ring! The announcer picked up, and he asked me question number one. ‘What was the first song Neil Diamond wrote?’ he asked. ‘Hear Them Bells,’ I told him, and you can bet I was right. Then he says, ‘What type of scholarship did Neil Diamond go to NYU on?’”

  “Charisma?” I asked

  “Nope. Fencing.”

  I pointed at the blade she had strapped to her waist. “That explains the sword.”

  “It’s an epée. Neil will appreciate the symbolism. Anyhow, those were the easy questions. Number three was a killer.”

  Did I mention Mrs. Berns is eighty-four if she’s a day? We should all be so lucky to age this gracefully. Here she was, her lipstick bright and shiny, her apricot-tinged hair crisp with curls. In fact, I think there was a curler or two still clinging to her scalp, which just added to her general je ne sais quoi. I loved the woman even though she made me crazy. Or maybe because of it.

  “And what was the third question?”

  “Which Neil Diamond song contains the lines, ‘We danced until the night became a brand-new day, two lovers playing scenes from some romantic play?’ And understand that the man has a gobzillion songs.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Which song?”

  Mrs. Berns crossed her arms triumphantly. “‘September Morn.’ And voilà!” She pulled two laminated tickets out of the purse slung over her forearm. “You and me are going to meet The Man! Monday night!”

  “Whuh?” I was on sensory overload. “But it’s only Thursday. And I’m not a DiamondHead.”

  “All it takes is one show, sister.”

  That wasn’t the main point I was arguing. “But why are you here now if the show’s not until Monday?”

  “What else do I have to do? I’m retired.”

  My chest tightened with worry. “Um, actually, you’re my assistant librarian. I left you in charge for the next ten days.”

  She waved her hands. “Pah. A monkey could do that job. I left Curtis Poling in charge.”

  Curtis Poling, the Battle Lake Senior Sunset resident who periodically fished off the roof into the grass below. His eccentricity made him a town legend, but he was also cagier than he let on. I knew firsthand that he was as sharp as a knife and completely responsible. He’d do for the moment. “Okay. How’d you get out of the nursing home?”

  “Paid a woman to pretend she was my daughter and sign me out for a family vacation.”

  “And you paid that same woman to drive you here?”

  “No, I hitchhiked.”

  My jaw dropped. “That’s dangerous!”

  “You’re a fine one to talk, Ms. Finds Dead Bodies. And it’s not as bad as it sounds. The first woman drove me as far as Alexandria, where I wandered around pretending I had dementia until a nice older couple stopped for me. I told them I was from St. Paul and didn’t know where I was. They drove me to the Lyngblomsten Nursing Home right over here on Como, where a friend of mine stays. She was in on the plan and welcomed me like her roommate.” Mrs. Berns grinned. “If not for the kindness of strangers.”

  I dropped into the nearest seat.

  “You don’t need to look like such a sourpuss. I’m here and I’m fine. What
’s wrong with you, anyhow? When you first walked in here, you looked like you seen a…” A shadow passed across Mrs. Berns’ face as she stared at me, her eyes growing wider. “Oh no. Tell me you didn’t.”

  I tried swallowing but didn’t have enough spit. I knew where this conversation was going. “Didn’t what?”

  “Find another dead body.”

  Yep. I sat up straighter. “Technically, I didn’t find it.”

  She tsked. “Someone OD on hotdish-on-a-stick right at your feet?”

  “Worse.”

  She rubbed her chin. “You see one of those Skyride bubbles crashing to the ground and crushing young lovers below, popping them like slugs? I always knew that was going to happen. You wouldn’t catch me on one of those death traps.”

  “Worse.”

  She leaned toward me. “Out with it, then.”

  I drew a ragged breath. “Ashley Pederson, the newest Milkfed Mary, Queen of the Dairy? She died about an hour ago while she was getting her head carved out of butter.” I finished defensively. “I was there, but so were a thousand other people.”

  “Whoof.” She pushed her sword toward her front and fell onto the bench across from me. “I’m surprised they let you outta your car. You’re the Grim Reaper in person. So how’d that little tart die?”

  “‘Little tart?’”

  “Yes.” She floofed her hair. “Her parents are nice folks, but they spoiled that girl rotten. She was as mean as the day is long. That’s what happens when you never say ‘no’ to a pretty girl.”

  I had never met Ashley in person—I’d planned to interview her immediately after the butter carving—but had on occasion ran into her parents when stopping by the Recall office. They were pleasant people whose life, by all accounts, rotated entirely around their only child. “They’re going to be devastated.”

  “That’s an understatement. So how’d she die?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. It started out everything was fine. Ashley was waving at the crowd, smiling. She stepped into the carving booth, and the sculptor followed her. Everyone was snapping pictures, me included.” I indicated the camera still dangling at my neck.

  “They’re in there for not more than five minutes, the sculptor carving and Ashley posing, when the lights in the whole building snap out. Actually,” I continued, realizing something that had eluded me, “all the power went out. I know because the ice cream machines stopped whirring, too.”

  I blinked, seeing the tableau emblazoned on the back of my lids. “When the lights came back on, Ashley was dead in the booth. And her skin was the brightest red I’ve ever seen. It was gross.”

  Mrs. Berns nodding as if she’d expected this. “Probably the goat milk people offed her. They’re always conniving for their piece of the dairy market. You said this happened just this morning?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, let’s see ’em.”

  “What?”

  She pointed at the camera still around my neck. “The pictures. You said you were snapping them right before she died. You probably captured her last breath.”

  My intestines spasmed. The camera suddenly felt heavy, like a yoke. I took it off and handed it to her, remembering the feeling that I’d watching Ashley through my viewfinder just before the lights went out. “You know, I noticed something odd about Ashley just before the building lost power.”

  “Probably her guardian angel flying the coop,” Mrs. Berns said as she turned on the camera. “No reason to stay if the girl’s about to croak.”

  “No, that’s not it. Go to the last picture.” I leaned over Mrs. Berns’ shoulder as she scrolled through the photos. The thumbnails displayed the image of a lean young blonde in perfect health, a crown glittering on her thick hair.

  I stabbed my finger at the camera when she reached the end. “That one.”

  Mrs. Berns selected the last photo and enlarged it as much as the small screen would allow. “It’s a picture of the back of her head.”

  “I know.”

  “What could possibly be odd about the back of someone’s head?”

  I shook my head, frustrated. “I’m not sure. I didn’t quite have it when I took the shot. It was more of a sensation than a formed thought. Maybe if I upload the photo to my computer and enlarge it?”

  “Maybe, but it’ll have to wait.” She handed the camera back to me. “We need to go.”

  “Where?”

  “To the scene of the crime, Mira! You’ve gotta cover it for the paper. People’ll be dying to know what happened.” She laughed dryly at her word choice. “So turn that frown upside down, and let’s hit it.”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “You can’t just sit here and mope.” She stood. “If there’s as many people around as you said, no one can pin this one on you. She probably just choked on some flying butter, and you’ll feel better once you find out it was some freak accident.”

  It would be nice to know she wasn’t murdered, which I was ashamed to say was my first thought. “You know I swore no more murder investigations the same time I gave up drinking,” I said, starting to cave.

  She held her hand out to me. “We’re not investigating. You’ll be doing the job you were sent to the fair to do: write articles about Battle Lake.”

  “I don’t know …”

  “I saw some deep fried Nut Goodies on a stick on my way over here,” she coaxed.

  I sat up straight. “You didn’t.”

  “I did. Let’s go. I’ll buy you one.”

  I sighed. I hated being cheap, but not enough to do anything about it. “Fine. But you’re going to tell me all about this redecorating Jed’s done at my house. And we’re not doing any investigating.”

  “I’m sure we won’t need to.”

  And with those optimistic words, I took her hand, and we stepped out of the Airstream and put our feet onto the most dangerous path the two of us would ever walk.

  We wouldn’t come out of it together.

  Four

  The line wasn’t long.

  Unless you’re an addict.

  “What’s the hold up?” I got on tiptoes to see to the front of the fried Nut Goodie line. “How long do they take to make? How do you think they fry it without it melting?”

  “Would you relax? For $5 a pop, let’s assume they’re using space technology.”

  When it was finally our turn, Mrs. Berns traded the clerk an Abe Lincoln for what looked like a palsied funnel cake on a stick. “Where’s the Nut Goodie?” I asked.

  The man behind the counter smiled. “We freeze it, bread it, fry it, and sprinkle powdered sugar over the top. Trust me. It’s in there.”

  Not convinced, I turned away and sniffed at it. It smelled like a donut.

  Mrs. Berns nudged me. “Shit or get off the pot.”

  “Fine.” I bit in, expecting molten lava to sear my tongue. Instead, my mouth was filled with warm, chocolatey, nutty, maple goodness. I moaned. “I might need some time alone with this.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “No, seriously. Try this.” As she ducked her head in for a taste, I pulled the fried Nut Goodie back. “On second thought, you should get your own.”

  Mrs. Berns shook her head in disgust and took off toward the Dairy building. I followed, whispering endearments to the fried candy bar as I nibbled at it.

  Nut Goodies have been a part of my life for over a decade, ever since I’d bought my first green-and-red-wrapped one on a whim at a gas station. Out of the wrapper, the candy is round, brown, bumpy, and looks about as appetizing as a hairball. One bite, though, and you’ll be hooked. The first sensation you encounter is decadent chocolate, which is quickly countered by a satisfying peanut crunch, and finally, complete immersion in a blissful wave of maple candy center. I’d eaten them quick, like a naughty habit, and slow out of the freezer, but never deep fried before.

  The holy trinity was complete.

  My private ecstasy was cut short by the horde of rubberneckers an
d camera crews lining Underwood Street in front of the Dairy building and curving around Judson Avenue. The chocolate that had just brought me so much joy abruptly grew leaden in my stomach as the reality I’d been trying to avoid ever since the Dairy building went black hit home. A young woman in the prime of her life had just died in front of a crowd of hundreds, and I had known her parents.

  The death was new, but already the front of the building was lined with teddy bears, pom-poms in Battle Lake’s signature red and blue, and small bouquets of flowers. I swallowed the starchy taste in my mouth, chucked my licked clean Nut Goodie stick, clipped on my press badge, and took out my pad and pen. Mrs. Berns, who was nowhere in sight, had been right: I had a duty as the only Battle Lake reporter at the fair to cover Ashley’s death.

  Near me, two young, golden-haired women were laying white flowers near the door to the Dairy building, which was cordoned off with police tape. Next to them, a KSTP interviewer was speaking to her camera man.

  “OK. We’re on in ten,” she said. After a countdown and a signal, the light on the camera snapped on, and her face became somberly animated. “Hello! I’m Angela Klein, reporting live from the Minnesota State Fair. Today, in a tragic turn of events, Ashley Pederson, Battle Lake native and recently crowned 54th Milkfed Mary, Queen of the Dairy, died.

  “In a time-honored State Fair tradition, Ms. Pederson was inaugurating the fair by posing as her head was carved from butter. She and the sculptor, Glenda Haines, were sitting in the rotating, refrigerated booth supplied by the Midwest Milk Organization when the lights temporarily went out in the building. When power returned, Ms. Pederson was discovered dead in the booth. At this time, police have not ruled out foul play.”

  A weight, heavy as a gravestone, pushed down on my shoulders. The announcement brought back the image of Ashley’s slack face and her brightly colored skin, and I’d been trying hard to erase it. I sighed. As much as I wanted her death to be from natural causes, it was time to face facts. Someone was to blame. Eighteen-year-old beauty queens with their lives in front of them didn’t just keel over and start glowing like a cherry lollipop.