September Fair

by Jess Lourey

  Satisfied to have a focus other than my own life, I snuck out the back of the building, intending to return to the trailer to grab a jacket and my camera before returning to snag a good position for the crowning ceremony. The temperature had dropped precipitously since this morning, and the smell of ozone in the air promised a doozy of a thunderstorm this afternoon or evening. An argument about forty feet to my left, in the shadows where the Dairy building abutted the Go Kart lanes, attracted my attention. The spot was loud and littered with cigarette butts and empty cups. I had to squint as I adjusted to the outdoor light, but I didn’t need my eyes to know that this fight was ugly.

  “I told you to shut the fuck up about it,” the man with his back to me raged. He was short, maybe 5’8”, with dark hair. “I’ll get the goddamn money.”

  He was talking to a woman, the side of her face and the wicked grip he had on her left arm visible to me. I stepped closer, alerting them both to my presence. He clammed up, releasing her arm and marching off, sticking to the shadows and never turning to look who I was. That left Kate Lewis, the woman he had been threatening, alone and facing me. She stepped out of the shadows, pulling down her sad, rumpled blazer and covering the bare belly peeking through her untucked shirt. They must have been tussling before I’d happened outside for her to have been so exposed.

  “Hi,” she said, holding her hand out as she walked toward me. Her eyes were unfocused. She recognized me, but wasn’t immediately sure from where.

  “Hi. We were both at the concert last night.” I wondered if the man who had just left was the same guy who was backstage with her. There was no way to be certain.

  “Of course.” She clasped my hand, not releasing it for several seconds.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Fine. How are you enjoying the fair?”

  She was obviously embarrassed, so I allowed her change of subject. “It’s great. I’m having a great time. And you?”

  “I love the fair.” She patted her hair and yanked at her jacket again. “I’m afraid I have to run. Big day here, you know.” She smiled distantly and stepped into the Dairy building.

  I waited until she was out of sight and then jogged out the alley and into the main traffic, which is where the guy who had been hassling her had gone, but he’d been swallowed up by the crowd. I followed the flow back to the Silver Suppository. First grabbing my toiletries from under the front steps where I’d left them this morning, I entered the trailer. “Hello?” No answer.

  Kennie’s bed to the right was unmade but empty, makeup stains on her pillow attesting to another late night. Actually, I’d never seen her without makeup, either before or after bed. I tiptoed back to Mrs. Berns’ bedroom. “Hello?” The door was ajar, and I poked my head in just enough to see the corner of the bed. I didn’t want any surprises. “Mrs. Berns?”

  The visible slice of the bed was empty, so I risked opening the door a little wider. Still no one. I opened it all the way and was treated to the view of a neatly made bed and pristine room. Mrs. Berns had an admirable work ethic, even when on vacation. I was about to leave and shut the door behind me when an anomaly in the room caught my attention. It was a black shirt lying across the bottom of the bed, and I had seen it somewhere before. Actually, on someone quite famous. I walked over and held it up, affirming that it was, in fact, the same black, ruffled-at-the-collar, sweated-in, chest-hair-framing shirt Neil Diamond had serenaded the State Fair in last night. Oh my. A smile spread across my face against my will. Oh my.

  I laid the shirt back where I’d found it after taking a quick sniff (music-man sweat and Paco Rabanne) and returned to the main room of the trailer to log online. Folding my bed back into a table, I set up my laptop. I might be in a “Summer of Love” themed trailer park, surrounded by cowboys and farmers, but I could still connect with the twenty-first century. My computer hummed and clicked as I flipped my notepad open to review my most recent notes relating to Ashley’s murder: Janice Opatz sneaky. Ashley Pederson dating older man? Christine cheating with Dirk who was cheating on Lana. Christine says older man Swedish-sounding guy from sponsoring company. Kate Lewis acting odd at concert, hanging out with same little guy as Janice. Bovine Productivity Management is sponsoring company, www.bovineproductivity.com, St. Paul, 651-333-5255. Motives for murder: revenge (Lana)? Janice covering something up? Kate Lewis distracting attention from her embezzling? And how and when did Ashley swallow the poison and what poison was used—ask Mrs. Pederson if the police figured it out.

  Not much there. When my wireless was connected, I went straight to the Bovine Productivity Management site, wondering what sort of nefarious activities I’d find hiding behind that Orwellian name. The home page was a soothing montage of vibrant greens, earthy browns, and crisp whites. The words sustainable, healthy, and help were connected to innovation and conservation. Photos of lean men biking in front of cornfields and dark-skinned women smiling into cameras as they tended to immaculate herds of cows flashed across the screen. Something about this wholesome and well-oiled operation sparked my warning feelers. In my experience, companies that “helped” and “conserved” as much as BPM claimed to didn’t have enough leftover cash to pay for slick P.R. websites.

  I moved my cursor over the “About Us” link and clicked. I was rewarded with this information:

  “Bovine Productivity Management is a corporation dedicated to supporting dairy farmers in sustainable efforts designed to decrease costs and increase output. Our scientists are continually seeking ways for farmers to procure more milk from happier cows. We invest our time in improving cow feed, medicine, vitamins, and quality and quantity of milk. When dairy farmers achieve, BPM achieves.”

  That sounded good. Vague, but good, which I supposed was the intention. I clicked on “Our Products,” and was rewarded with stultifying information about GrowGood, their patented fertilizer;, Robusto and Cornucopia, the cow vitamins they produced; and ME, or “Milk Enhancer,” their bestselling bovine growth hormone. The website also offered links to their press releases, an investor information page, and a corporate responsibility page with more of the blandly soothing language found elsewhere on the site. It wasn’t until I clicked on the “Meet Our Family” page that I found what I was looking for: a list of employees’ names and job titles.

  I counted forty-three, which was a good-sized company in my estimation. Only a quarter were women. Of the remaining three fourths, two had Swedish-sounding names. Per Olafsen was listed as the laboratory director, and Lars Gunder was the marketing manager. After not much thought, I decided Lana would have been far more likely to cross paths with Mr. Gunder, who would presumably be the contact person for the Milkfed Mary pageant. Too bad there weren’t photos of either man so I could guess their ages.

  I flipped open my cell and dialed BPM’s number.

  “Bovine Productivity Management. How may I direct your call?”

  “Yes, is Mr. Gunder in?

  “I’m afraid he isn’t. May I take a message?”

  I thought quickly. Surprisingly, my brain recommended I tell the truth. Well, part of the truth. “Yes. My name is Mira James, and I’m a reporter for the Battle Lake Recall. I wanted to get some quotes from Mr. Gunder about the Milkfed Mary pageant, sponsored by BPM. They’re having a crown-passing ceremony this afternoon.”

  “You’re in luck! He’ll be there, and he’ll be more than happy to answer questions before or after the event.”

  “Thank you.” I hung up, scribbled a note in my pad, and called Ron to get Mrs. Pederson’s number.

  “What have you found out?” He grunted.

  I was loathe to tell him that Ashley appeared to be a boyfriend-stealing manipulator lacking a moral compass. He probably already knew it, but I wasn’t eager to speak ill of the dead, especially the youthful dead. Where’s the justice in not living long enough to fix your mistakes? “Not much. I’m following some leads.”

  “The older man?”

  “I don’t know anything for sure.�
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  He paused, and when he spoke, his voice was pained. “She had a reputation around town.”

  “Ashley? You mean being snotty?”

  “I mean being friendly with older gentlemen.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “This firsthand information?”

  “No.”

  I let that lie. “So you gonna give me Mrs. Pederson’s number?”

  “Are you going to ask her what poison was used?”

  “If you’ll admit to being too chicken to do it yourself. You’re her friend. It’d be a lot easier for you to ask her.”

  “You’d be surprised,” he said. “Hurry up and get me the full story.” He rattled off the Pederson home number before hanging up without saying goodbye, as was his pattern.

  “I’m working on it,” I muttered, staring at the quiet phone. I took several breaths, steeling myself before making the difficult phone call.

  “Ron?”

  I forgot I had one of his cell phones. It must have come up as Ron on her caller ID. Her voice was sad and distant. “No, Mrs. Pederson. It’s Mira James. I have one of Ron’s cell phones while I’m at the fair.”

  “You’re still there? Did you find anything out?”

  “I’m afraid not. That’s why I’m calling. I have some difficult questions for you, but they might be helpful if you’re up for them.”

  Her voice came out a little stronger. “Ask.”

  “Do the police know how Ashley came in contact with the poison yet?”

  “Not really. Right now, they’re assuming she ate or drank it, but it’ll be two or three weeks before we get the official toxicology reports. The medical examiner said it must have been something she consumed right before she went into the booth, though, because cyanide acts quickly.”

  “Cyanide?”

  “Yes. The examiner believes that was the poison used, based on her … on the way she died. We’re not supposed to release that information to the public until it’s been confirmed.”

  I sat back in the bench, my brain whirring. “I’ll forget I heard it. Does cyanide have a taste or a smell?”

  “She said it can smell like almonds, but not everyone can smell it. In small doses, depending on what form it is, it doesn’t seem to have any taste or color. She said that it was likely Ashley drank it, but all the other girls who were in the dorm with her right before she left for the Dairy building said Ashley only drank a diet cola, and she opened it right there in front of all of them. Lana specifically remembers Ashley opening it because the can was a little fizzy, and Ashley was upset because she was worried it would stain her outfit.”

  That confirmed what Christine had said about Ashley’s last meal having been a diet soda. “How long after she drank it would the effects begin to show?”

  “Not more than ten minutes, the medical examiner said.”

  “So it must have been something she came in contact with while she was in the dormitory with the other princesses, on the way to the Dairy building, or in the booth itself?”

  “That’s what they think.”

  I triple-underlined the “talk to Lana” note I had written to myself. “Just one more thing, Mrs. Pederson. Do you know anything about an older man Ashley might have been seeing?”

  There was a long pause on the other end. Her voice, when it came, sounded pinched. “She was seeing Dirk Holthaus. Only Dirk. They were very much in love.”

  I felt like a total asshat for asking, and it struck me that Mrs. Pederson, like most mothers of teenagers, would have had little idea who her daughter was spending time with. In fact, I was willing to bet there was a lot Carlotta didn’t know about Ashley. “Thank you. I’m sure you’re right. How’re you and Gary holding up?”

  “We’re still in shock, to be honest.” Her voice cracked. “You’ll tell me if you find anything out?”

  “Of course I will. You’ll be the first to know.” It was a white lie, probably, because I certainly wasn’t going to tell her anything that would make her life more difficult. We exchanged more small talk and then I hung up. While my computer was still warmed up, I researched cyanide poisoning. Med-e-cine.com confirmed what Mrs. Pederson had told me. It also explained Ashley’s cherry-red skin after she died. Cyanide worked by inhibiting the body’s ability to process oxygen, trapping it in the blood and not letting it reach the cells, thereby turning skin pink or red. Cyanide was more easily available than I would have guessed. Apricot pits, cassava root, the burning of plastic, silk, or rubber all produced cyanide. People in certain industries, like electroplating and photography, had access to the toxin. Also, those who worked in chemical labs. I made a note next to the Bovine Productivity Management page of my notepad. I didn’t know how one went about asking a receptionist if her company created or used cyanide, but I’d put it on my to-do list.

  Cyanide could come in a lot of forms, according to the website, but gas and water-soluble salts were the most common. In Ashley’s case, gas seemed unlikely as she hadn’t been alone all morning, and she was the only one poisoned. A selective version made more sense. Swallowing only 300 milligrams of hydrogen cyanide salts would be enough to kill a person. More would do it more quickly. As to the symptoms of poisoning, it was likely that Ashley had experienced brief but intense pain, including nausea, inability to breathe, and seizures right before her death. That would explain the bricks of butter scattered around her body when the lights came back on.

  I sat back in my bench. To hear that Ashley had suffered, even for a brief moment, was sobering. Even if she was a catty person, she had still been little more than a girl. I was about to shut down my computer when, on a whim, I Googled Shelby Spoczkowski, 1977 Milkfed Mary, Queen of the Dairy. The odds that she still went by her maiden name were slim, but in a country where 50 percent of marriages ended in divorce, I could hope. And it was my lucky day. I stumbled across a realty website in Florida that listed Shelby Spoczkowski as their number-one seller. They even posted a picture of her, but it was tiny, and I couldn’t tell if she was the same woman I had seen on the Midwest Milk Organization website. I tried the realty office number, but the receptionist said she had no idea where Shelby had grown up. She gave me her cell phone number. When I tried it, I was directed to voice mail after four rings. Not ready to leave a message, I jotted down her cell phone number so I could try back later and glanced at the time in the corner right of my computer screen. The passing of the crown was going to start in fifteen minutes. Time to skedaddle.

  I scratched the ladies a quick note to let them know I wouldn’t be back until late, made sure I had enough paper in my notepad, and knelt to grab my digital camera from underneath the main bench. It wasn’t where I left it, so I searched in all the other likely spots. When I couldn’t find it there, either, I scoured the trailer end to end but it was no good. Someone had stolen my camera.

  The realization made my skin clammy. Relax, I told myself. Mrs. Berns or Kennie probably borrowed the camera. Still, on my way out, I made sure to lock the door, and I checked all the windows. The ones at the front and back were open, but they were at least nine feet off the ground. I double-checked the lock on the only exterior door and noticed several scrapes on it, brighter than the surrounding metal, but I didn’t know if they were new or not. I didn’t have any more time to worry, though. I was already late for the ceremony. A growl of thunder rumbled across the sky as I took off.

  My plan was to amble into the Dairy building, hang back, and see if I could spot Lars Gunder. Once I introduced myself, I’d no longer be able to spy on him, so I’d just play it cool and observe how he interacted with the princesses and Janice Opatz before introducing myself. Then, I’d try to catch up with him after the butter-carving began and see what information I could extract. That’s where my plan got a little hazy, but I’d winged my way through worse.

  When I neared the Dairy building, I realized that taking precious time searching for the camera had put me at a serious disadvantage. The place was packed as tight as a church on Christmas
, and the heavy raindrops that had started to fall were only going to add to the crowd scrambling to get inside. I searched my purse for my press pass. Thankfully, it hadn’t gone the way of my camera. I held it up to the security guards stationed at the front doors, elbowing my way to the front of the crowd. People glared, but I didn’t let that slow me down. Bunch of rubberneckers, as far as I was concerned, come to watch another queen enter the Booth of Death. At least that’s what I had started calling it, and judging by the return of the security guards outside and police officers stationed nearby, I wasn’t the only one worried about how this story was going to end.

  I was able to squeeze all the way to the rear of the enormous building, about fifteen feet from the butter-sculpting booth and the platform erected in front of it, a smaller version of the stage used for the initial post-murder press conference. Actually, I was standing in about the same spot as I had when the lights had gone out last Thursday. My heart chilled at the thought, as if it had just entered its own refrigerated booth. Were we in for an encore presentation of a beauty queen murder? I dismissed the idea out of necessity. I needed to talk to Lars and Lana, and besides, there were police officers stationed discreetly all around the room. We’d be fine.