by Jess Lourey
Once I had 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, and on each side 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 were less dense here. 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 floor stickers in the shower, which I believe were invented to keep stoned people from slipping and disappearing down the drain while bathing.
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!
“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. Some friends and I checked your place before I left, and Jed’s doing a fine job. A couple redecorating touches, but those were necessary after the party we had last night. I think you’ll agree they improve the vibe.” 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 one of them, albeit 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 announce 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, which had in the center a life-sized, three-dimensional rendering of Neil Diamond’s head and shoulders. On the image, 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. 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. 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.”
“That explains the sword at your waist.”
“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. This impression was further accented by her eye-catching T-shirt over elastic-waisted shorts and the epée hanging saucily at her side. On her feet, ever sensible, she wore shapeless white tennies over booties with little colored balls at the heels. 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.”
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? But it’s only Thursday. And I’m not a DiamondHead.”
“All it takes is one show, sister.”
“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.”
“That’s dangerous!”
“You’re a fine one to talk, Ms. Finds Dead Bodies. And it’s not as bad as it sounds. That woman drove me as far as Alexandria, where I wandered around like 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. If not for the kindness of strangers.”
I shook my head and slunk deeper in my seat. After all, what were my options? She was a grown-up, and then some.
“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.”
“Didn’t what?”
“Find another dead body.”
I sat up straighter. “Technically, I didn’t find it. But I saw one.”
“Someone OD on hotdish-on-a-stick right at your feet?”
“Worse.”
“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.”
“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 was there, but so were a thousand other people.”
“Whoof.” She 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. 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.”
Ron, who was good friends with Ashley’s parents, had also confided that Ashley was ungrateful and uppity. “Entitled,” he had called her. 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 don’t know. It started out everything was fine. Ashley was waving at the crowd, smiling like royalty, she stepped up in the 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, and the lights in the whole building go out. Actually,” I said, realizing something that had eluded me, “all the power went out. I know because the ice cream machines stopped whirring, too. When the power came back on, Ashley was dead in the booth. And her skin was the brightest red I’ve ever seen. It was gross.”
“Probably the goat 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?”
“The pictures. You said you were snapping them right before she died. You probably captured her last breath.”
My stomach turned. The camera suddenly felt heavy around my neck, like a yoke. I took it off and handed it to her, and as she turned it on, I remembered the feeling that I had 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 leaving her. No reason to stay if the girl’s about to die.”
“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. “That one.”
Mrs. Berns selected the last photo in the lineup and enlarged it as much as the small camera screen would allow. “It’s 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, and then the building went dark and I lost it in the commotion. Maybe if I upload the photo to my computer and enlarge it.”
“Maybe, but it’ll have to wait. 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.”
“No.”
“You can’t just sit here and mope. 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.
“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, 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.
The line wasn’t long. Unless you’re an addict. “What’s the hold up? 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. “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 to my teeth. 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, I don’t think I can share. Maybe 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 when biting in 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 and 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, KSTP television out of St. Paul had cleared an area around a thick and towering teenager in a letter jacket. Behind him, two young, golden-haired women were laying white flowers near the door to the Dairy building, which was cordoned off with police tape. The KSTP interviewer was speaking to her camera man. “OK. We’re on in ten.” After a countdown and a signal, the light on the camera snapped on. “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 Dai
ry, 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 the image of Ashley’s slack face and her brightly colored skin back into my head, 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. I was involved, like it or not.
“Here with us is Dirk Holthaus, Ms. Pederson’s boyfriend. How did you find out about her death, Dirk?”
He blinked and adjusted his letter jacket, which must have been an XXXL. The medals sewn on the front jangled, and I squinted, trying to figure out what sports he was in. “I was in the building when it happened. I saw the ambulance take her away. Her mom was there, too.”
“What can you tell us about the circumstances surrounding her passing? Did she have a heart condition, or was she in some way predisposed to premature death?”
He seemed to struggle, whether with the length of the words or his recent loss, I didn’t know. I also didn’t recognize his name or face, which meant he wasn’t from Battle Lake. It was odd for an Otter Tail County girl to date an outsider, though summers brought vacationing families from the Cities to the region, so maybe that’s how the two of them had met. I wrote down his name and placed a question mark next to it.
