September Mourn

by Jess Lourey

  I stroked the laminated press pass hung on a lanyard around my neck, considering the pseudo credibility it conveyed. I tugged at my navy-blue sundress, trying to free a wedgie as I studied the guys on each side of me. They both wore button-down shirts and ties, tape recorders in hand.

  I turned my attention to the rear of the building, where a makeshift stage had been set in front of the glass-sided butter-carving booth. Minnesota flags had been placed on each side of a podium, and they were almost successful in their effort to obscure the gruesome booth, which was crisscrossed with police tape. Reporters snapped photos of the refrigerated gazebo, angling for a clear shot, but I didn’t have the stomach for it.

  A lone woman stood next to the podium. She was short and overweight with badly permed, dishwater-blonde hair. She wore a cheap suit, the pants of which accentuated her wide hips and was a little too short, exposing the top of her wilted dress socks. Her appearance brought to mind a mad scientist, someone too distracted to worry about how she looked. Even from here, though, I could see the wrinkles around her mouth and eyes that indicated she smiled frequently, under better circumstances.

  She fidgeted under the snapping of cameras before stepping behind the podium at some unseen signal. She adjusted the microphone and leaned into it. “Hello.” Her voice scratched its way out of her throat. She coughed and started again. “My name is Kate Lewis, and I’m the current president of the Minnesota State Fair Corporation. Thank you for joining us here today.”

  Around me, reporters stood at the ready, pen or tape recorder in hand. Cameras rolled. I mimicked their behavior, snapping off four or five shots of Kate before pulling out my pencil and notepad.

  “As you know, yesterday, Ashley Pederson of Battle Lake passed away while…”

  There was a hiss behind the president, and I craned my neck to see Janice Opatz emerge from behind one of the Minnesota flags to shoot knife eyes into Kate’s back. She looked as well-put-together as she had at our last meeting, though her outfit today was an appropriately somber gray.

  Ms. Lewis rerouted her speech. “Ashley Pederson passed away at the State Fair. We won’t have full toxicology reports for another four weeks, but initial results indicate that she died of malicious poisoning.”

  The room buzzed like a hive.

  Ashley had been poisoned.

  I shook my head, thinking immediately of Mrs. Pederson. I hadn’t seen her in the building when I’d entered, but surely she knew by now that her daughter had been murdered. My heart cracked a little for her.

  I waited for Kate Lewis to continue, but she scurried off the stage, herded by Janice, who followed closely behind. I watched them go. That was a smooth move on Ms. Opatz’s part, distancing her role as chaperone from the crime. There had been no mention of Ashley’s Milkfed Mary status or the dairy industry in the entire, brief, announcement. It seemed a little cold. Bet on me not omitting that info from my article.

  A man in uniform replaced Kate Lewis at the podium. “Hello. I’m William Kramer, St. Paul Chief of Police. I would like to concur with Ms. Lewis’ statement that we believe Ms. Pederson was poisoned and to assure the public that we are doing everything in our power to solve this case. I’d also like to offer my sincerest condolences to the family of Ms. Pederson.”

  Hands shot up in the audience. Chief Kramer pointed to someone near the front.

  “This is a homicide investigation?”

  “Yes. Next?”

  Another hand. “What poison was used, and any likely suspects?”

  “We won’t know for certain until the tox screen returns, and until then, we’re considering all avenues open.”

  “How did she get the poison?”

  The chief grimaced. “If we knew that, the case would be closed. We do believe that she ingested it shortly before entering the booth.”

  “Are the other girls in danger?” This question from a woman in the back.

  “We are operating under the assumption that this was an isolated incident, but we’re taking the necessary precautions to ensure the safety of all the Milkfed Mary contestants.”

  Reporters vied for the chief ’s attention. “When will this building reopen?”

  “That depends on the investigation. Our goal is to have the Dairy building reopened on Monday.”

  The man next to me raised his hand and spoke before he was called on, his voice echoing in the vast corners of the building. “How does this murder affect the embezzlement investigation that the State Fair Corporation is undergoing?”

  The reporters pecked and clucked like excited chickens at this new thread, but the chief didn’t twitch. “They are two completely separate investigations. One has no bearing on the other. Thank you for your time.” He raised his hand, a clear signal that the press conference was over, and ignored the hollered questions that followed him off the stage.

  I scribbled notes on my pad—check on Mrs. Pederson and see what she knows about poison, find background on Janice Opatz, Chief Kramer: “we’re considering all avenues open,” embezzlement?—before turning to the reporter next to me, the one who’d asked the embezzlement question.

  He was also writing in a notebook, and his grim expression mirrored my own. I held out my hand. “Excuse me. My name is Mira. I’m a reporter from Battle Lake.”

  “Where?” His tone wasn’t unfriendly.

  “Small town, a couple hours northwest of the Cities. Too far away for me to have heard about the embezzling that you just asked about. Can you tell me what you were referring to?”

  He studied me, taking my measure. “Battle Lake. That’s where the murdered girl was from.”

  “Ashley. Yep.”

  “You knew her?”

  I shrugged. “I saw her around town. She was much younger than me. Have you heard anything about her?”

  “Sounds like your average eighteen-year-old beauty queen—self-centered, shallow. That’s about all anyone knows.” His eyes narrowed. “You could probably scoop all of us with your connections.”

  I tried out an easy laugh. Pretty sure it sounded like a goose honk. “I’m not much of a scooper. So what’s this about embezzling?”

  He ran his fingers through his hair and spoke reluctantly. “Not much to tell. The attorney general is investigating the Minnesota State Fair Corporation, and the rumors are that someone has been embezzling. There’s no public funds involved because the State Fair’s been a private business since the 1940s. But still, it’d look bad for Minnesota if a certain woman dragged the good name of the fair through the mud with her.”

  “Kate Lewis, you mean?”

  “She’s the president, isn’t she? This murder is probably the best thing that could have happened to her. Takes the limelight off of her while bringing attention to the fair.”

  “But it’s bad attention.”

  He chuckled darkly. “There’s no such thing as bad attention when you’re trying to make money. Have you seen how many people are out there?” He shoved his thumb toward the front door, where people were jostling to see into the disbanding press conference. “The fair’s shattering attendance records. Hold on.”

  He reached for a chirping cell phone in his jacket. I noted that his ringtone wasn’t a hot monkey love song. “Say, gotta go. Here’s my card. Call if you hear anything about Ms. Pederson’s death, okay? We could trade info.” Then he turned away into the phone call.

  I looked down at the business card he’d handed me. Chaz Linder, St. Paul Pioneer Press. I shoved the card into my purse along with my notebook and pencil and stole toward the refrigerated booth that had been the scene of Ashley’s last moments. Police were stationed around the stage, busy arguing with a camera crew that wanted a close-up. I took advantage of their distraction and slipped to the far edge of the stage and around the back, using the flags that hid the booth to conceal my movements.

  From this side, with my back to Dairy Goodness and the stage to my right, I could access the booth unseen, as long as nobody peeked around the far side
of the stage. I planted my fingers on the glass. It was cool to the touch but not refrigerator cold.

  I perched on tiptoes to get a clear view of the interior around the police tape. It’d been scoured clean, not a trace of butter or murder to be seen. The rotating floor of the inner booth was still. I cast a quick glance over my shoulder. The ruckus with the camera crew had gained volume, which meant no one was paying attention to me. Curving close to the booth, I ducked around to the side with the entrance and peeked through the blue curtain.

  The door to the booth was padlocked, and a shadow walking toward me from Dairy Goodness forced me to drop the curtain. Nothing to see back here, folks. I was about to scurry out the way I’d come when a meaty hand clamped down on my shoulder, turning my mouth as dry as dirt.

  “You’re in big trouble, miss.”

  Nine

  Why did police chiefs always have meaty hands? I’d be more inclined to cooperate with them if their mitts were normally proportioned.

  “I’m sorry, Chief Kramer. I thought my partner went back here.”

  St. Paul’s Chief of Police checked my press pass, which clearly identified me as a reporter for the Battle Lake Recall, and then raised his eyebrows to indicate I had one chance to revise my story for plausibility.

  “Not my partner, exactly. Chaz Linder, with the Pioneer Press? He’s the one who asked you the embezzlement question.”

  “I know.” This close, he smelled like Old Spice. The gray of his beetling eyebrows intensified his brown eyes, eyes that had seen lots of liars in their time.

  “I wanted to ask him about the embezzlement because today was the first I’d heard of it, and I thought I saw him come back here. Is there anything you can tell me about that case?”

  To be a good liar, you have to have an innate sense of when you’ve gone too far. As the chief cocked his head, I realized I had passed that point when I first opened my mouth. I waited to see what the consequences would be.

  He sighed, brushing aside my question about embezzling and getting to the heart of the matter. “I’m sorry for the loss your town must be feeling, but you’re not going to help by getting in our way. The police department knows what it’s doing. Let us find out who killed Ms. Pederson, and I promise we’ll contact your paper when we know anything for sure. Deal?”

  He could have made life difficult for me, but instead was letting me off the hook. Strangely, his kindness made my eyes go blurry with unshed tears. It must be the stress of the last twenty-four hours. I pretended to brush hair from my face. “Sure. Thanks. Can I go?”

  He nodded and pointed toward the front door. I tromped outside, past the memorial of flowers and stuffed toys, past at least three television crews sharing the news of the tragic “Princess Poisoning” (Ashley would not be happy with the demotion, but alliteration was its own force), and across the street to the Cattle Barn to check out the dormitories. I owed Ron a story, and I still didn’t have much. I was hoping to flesh it out by interviewing Lana.

  Inside the barn, the cows looked as happy as ever. Maybe “unconcerned” was a better word. Or “regal.” Was I getting obsessed with cows now? I usually saved that type of laser focus for Chief Wenonga, the hot, twenty-three-foot fiberglass statue I’d left behind in Battle Lake. That man, well, that fake giant with a six-pack as tall and wide as a refrigerator, was a hottie. He’d kept me mental company since I’d arrived in Battle Lake. Strong and silent, just like I liked ’em. Probably, someone needed to stage an intervention for me.

  But back to the cows.

  They lowed and ate and pooped, and I walked past them on my way to the dormitory to see if the remaining princesses were around. When I spotted the police officers at the base of the dorm stairs, however, my plan and I did an about face. One run-in with an officer a day was my quota.

  I didn’t have many options left. I wasn’t ready to return to the stinky steambath of the trailer, so I decided to stroll the fair to organize my thoughts.

  My favorite place so far was the International Bazaar, a huge tented area that was laid out like a world market. Food booths rimmed the outside of the Bazaar, and inside, tiny shops were arranged in rows, separated by narrow aisles with musicians sprinkled here and there. I could hear easy Jamaican reggae played live near the hot sauce booth and walk ten feet to sample spicy olives from Greece while listening to dizzying Egyptian drumbeats emanating from the booth one over with the mummy out front.

  The air was redolent with curries, vinegars, and the smell of sweet rice, and people bargained and hollered for my dollars and rearranged their shiny silks and cheap Austrian crystal jewelry to catch my attention when I strode by. It was anonymous chaos, and I loved it.

  By nature, I am a bulimic shopper. I like to buy stuff on impulse, confident that it would fill a hole in my life. Within twenty-four hours, however, I’d realize I’d wasted my money, and so I returned whatever bauble had grabbed my attention. It was a bad habit, one I was going to break as soon as I bought the diamond-shaped prism throwing sunny rainbows across the walkway.

  Twenty dollars later, a rainbow in my pocket and a vegetarian gyro in my hand, I ambled through the wall of fair smells and sounds back to the Silver Suppository, which is what I’d affectionately nicknamed the Airstream. Happily, Mrs. Berns and Kennie were both gone. I lugged my laptop out on the front steps to write the article. At least there would be a breeze.

  Carlotta’s face was in my mind the entire time I wrote.

  “Battle Lake Loses Ambassador”

  Ashley Kirsten Pederson, 18 years old and recent Battle Lake High School graduate, died on the opening day of the Minnesota State Fair. Ms. Pederson was beginning her duties as Milkfed Mary, Queen of the Dairy when the tragedy occurred. Police believe she was poisoned, and that she unknowingly ingested the poison shortly before entering the butter-carving booth. They don’t yet have a suspect.

  Kate Lewis, president of the Minnesota State Fair Corporation, broke the news at a press conference the day following Ashley’s death. According to St. Paul Police Chief William Kramer, they’re “considering all avenues open.” The chief said that he believed Ms. Pederson’s murder was an isolated incident and that none of the other contestants are in danger. He sent his condolences to the Pederson family and to the town of Battle Lake.

  Ms. Pederson was enrolled at Alexandria Technical College, where she planned to attend the Sales and Marketing program in the fall. She is survived by both parents, Carlotta and Steven Pederson, as well as her paternal grandparents, Ivy and Steggard Pederson. Funeral arrangements are pending.

  I searched for wireless networks, found a free one, and sent the article hurtling through cyberspace to Ron’s desk.

  As it flew, I thought, that’s not enough.

  I need to help Carlotta.

  Ten

  The Dairy building’s normal hours were nine a.m. to nine p.m., but it had not been officially reopened since Ashley’s murder. I hadn’t expected the situation to be any different this morning and so was not surprised when I found the building still cordoned off. The security detail out front had all the warmth of palace guards of London, standing stiffly with an angry set to their jaw.

  It wasn’t entirely their fault.

  The crowd of well-wishers and memorial stockers had grown impossibly larger, and a wall of teddy bears threatened to collapse on the guards. Three young women were lighting a white candle, which they placed next to a handwritten sign that read, “We lost you too soon. Let the angels guide you.” The candle was outshone a million times by the sun, already promising heat even though it was just pinking the horizon.

  Today would be a scorcher.

  I turned toward the Cattle Barns, considering the oddness of humans. No way had all these people met Ashley, and if they had, by all accounts, they wouldn’t have liked her. But she represented something to them, maybe lost youth or a rip in the bonds of community that they wanted to repair with flowers and tears. Whatever it was, I was grateful for the appearance of it, a
t least for the surviving Pedersons’ sake.

  Inside the Cattle Barn, my heart gave a little skip as I saw the door to the dormitory was unguarded. I hurried toward it just as Janice Opatz came down, followed by a compact, well-dressed man who looked closer in age to me than to her. I tried to disappear, but too late.

  Janice caught sight of me.

  “Mira.” She covered the ten feet between us as her companion stayed back to speak with the police officer who had followed them down the stairs.

  “Hi, Janice. Are the girls up there?”

  She glanced behind her absentmindedly. The movement of her hair released her signature scent, a combination of disinfectant soap and Aqua Net. “No. They’re no longer staying on the grounds. They’ll return soon, we hope. What can I do for you?”

  “Um, nothing.” The fib came quickly. “I’m here to cover some Battle Lake dairy farmers for the paper.”

  “I see. Where are their stalls?” She stared at me archly, but I wasn’t biting.

  “Over there,” I said, indicating the entire barn. “Can I ask you something?” When she didn’t respond, I continued, scratching an itch that I’d had since I’d first laid eyes on her. “Did you used to be a Milkfed Mary?”

  Her hands went immediately to her hair, which she fluffed despite its resistance to movement. It was a perfect shell of black. “First runner-up, 1977.”

  “How long have you been a chaperone?”

  “Three years after I wo—” She caught herself and continued. “Three years after I ran. I’ve been the chaperone since then.”

  I made a mental note to research the pageant of 1977. Janice had just about said she’d won, which was not nearly the same as being first runner-up. “And as chaperone, you were present the whole time Ashley was in the booth?”