A Carnival of Killing

by Glenn Ickler

  I joined the Vulcans in returning the hugs and high-fives while Al shot about fifty photos. I even applied grease to a few kiddy faces and helped pass out big red-and-black metal pins with Vulcanus Rex’s face on them.

  “Pin one on me,” shouted one of the young women overseeing the juvenile mayhem. She thrust out a substantial bosom, with the top two buttons of her blouse unbuttoned, as my target. I gingerly grasped the open edge of her blouse near a buttonhole and slid the pin into the cloth, hoping I wouldn’t stab too deep. Before I could move my hands away, she pressed that substantial bosom tight against my chest, wrapped her arms around me and kissed me on both cheeks. “Hail, Vulcan!” she said when she pulled her lips away.

  “Hail, Vulcan!” I said with my palms still trapped against her breast. At last I was beginning to understand why men volunteered for this job.

  The woman kissed me enthusiastically again, this time on the lips, and momentarily tightened her bear hug before releasing me. “Thanks for coming,” she said. “The kids just love you guys.”

  “And we love them,” I said, resisting the urge to tell her what else I’d loved about this visit.

  The Vulcans were moving toward the door, so I gave the woman a little goodbye wave and followed the river of red. Outside on the sidewalk, Al fell into step beside me. “Looks like you were keeping abreast of the action in there,” he said.

  “Are you going to bust me for that?” I asked.

  “I do have a photo of your brave frontal advance, which would be of great interest to both your city editor and your live-in lover.” He extended his camera, and in the display window I saw myself wrapped in the daycare worker’s arms with my hands obviously buried against her breasts.

  “But neither Don nor Martha will ever see that photo, will they?”

  “Why won’t they?”

  “Because I’ll throw your camera off the back end of the fire truck if you don’t hit the delete button right now.”

  “You’d have to throw me with it,” Al said.

  “That’s no problem,” I said. I was three inches taller than Al, even if our poundage was roughly the same.

  Al pressed the delete button. “Happy now?”

  “Hit it again,” I said. I knew the first press merely brought up a message asking for confirmation of the order to delete.

  He frowned and pressed delete again. “It’s a shame to lose the photographic record of such a historic act. I even had the perfect cutline in mind.”

  “And what was that?” I asked.

  “Staff writer Warren Mitchell becomes a titular leader of the Vulcan Krewe.”

  Back in the box of the Luverne, I worked my way next to one of the two Vulcans I hadn’t quizzed. There was barely enough skin showing between his goggles and his beard for me to ascertain that he was the African-American. He told me his title was Count Embrious and said he was the Fire King’s Chancellor of the Exchequer. Before I could ask a single question, he said, “I’m not discussing Lee-Ann, any of the other Klondike Kates or anything I saw in O’Halloran’s Bar with you.”

  I wondered if he realized he’d just told me that he’d been in the bar with the murdered woman. Not wishing to press my luck, I said, “I’m not going to push you on that subject. It seems like you guys have decided as a team not to answer any questions about Lee-Ann.”

  “You got that right,” Embrious said. “You want answers, ask the cops.”

  “I’ll do that,” I said. “Thanks for your help.”

  I felt a nudge from the other side and turned to find myself facing the only man (with the exception of Vulcanus Rex himself) I hadn’t spoken with. “I’m the Prince of Soot,” he said. “Talk to me when we get back to the hotel.”

  Chapter Seven

  Foiled Again

  There was one more stop for the Royal Chariot before returning to the hotel. This facility’s residents were at the opposite end of the age spectrum from those in the daycare center. We were parking in front of a nursing home

  Although we were welcomed with smiles in the nursing home parlor, the atmosphere was not nearly as exuberant as our greeting at the daycare center. There were no high-fives, no high-pitched squeals and no little arms locking around our knees like a cowboy wrestling a roped dogie to the ground. Most of our hosts remained seated, many of them in wheelchairs, and at least half of those who stepped up to shake our hands or offer a cheek for marking did so with the aid of walkers.

  The air in the daycare center had been comfortably warm and it smelled of chewing gum, chocolate, and chalk. The air in the nursing home was stifling for people dressed as warmly as we were and it smelled of … well, old people. I was hoping we wouldn’t stay very long. Even the below-zero air outside was preferable to this.

  Al was more selective with his camera work, bypassing patients whose faces remained devoid of expression in favor of those whose countenances glowed with recognition and pleasure.

  “This is a place I never want to be,” Al said sotto voce.

  “You’d better be good to your children then,” I said. “They’re the ones who’ll decide where you end up.”

  “In that case, you’d better get started on your own batch of kids or you’ll be shuffled off to the cheapest place in town by some social worker you’ve never met.”

  My own batch of kids. This was the second time today that this nebulous subject had come up.

  While I was trying to think of a snappy comeback, Vulcanus Rex announced that he was about to conduct “a Knighting Ceremony.” From somewhere under his cloak, he produced a red, black, and gold certificate, held it aloft and called out a name. A stooped, gray-haired woman with a two-wheeled walker and a smile as wide as Alice’s Cheshire cat stepped slowly forward. With great solemnity, the Vulcan leader read the certificate, which proclaimed that the woman was the mother of a previous Fire King, kissed the woman on both cheeks and handed her the certificate. “I dub you Mother of the Perpetual Flame and declare that you are a Fire King Knight forever,” he said.

  The woman thanked him and pressed the certificate to her bosom with one hand while gripping the walker tightly with the other. The room was filled with applause as Vulcanus turned and led us out of the stifling heat and into the stinging but welcome cold fresh air.

  “That was nice,” I said to Vulcanus as I passed him on my way to the rear of the Royal Chariot.

  “You, too, could be knighted if the story you write about your journey with us is deemed suitably constructive,” he said.

  “You wouldn’t be trying to bribe me, would you?” I asked.

  “We hope that no bribe is necessary,” the Fire King said as he climbed into the passenger seat. I wondered if he was using the royal “we” or if he was speaking on behalf of more than one member of the Krewe.

  The ride from the nursing home to the hotel was blessedly short and our recovery from the cold was much quicker than it had been at noon. Al and I were finished with our assignment, but I was eager to talk with the Prince of Soot and to interview Vulcanus Rex. I was less than happy, therefore, when my pursuit of the Sooty Prince was interrupted in the lobby by Ted Carlson, the stiff in the blue blazer and red-and-black tie.

  “Enjoy your day?” he asked as he popped into my path so suddenly that I almost smacked into him head-on.

  “It was great if you like frozen fingers and frosty feet,” I said. I tried to zig past him but he countered with a zag.

  “I’ll be happy to answer any questions you might have,” Carlson said as I watched all eight members of the Krewe squeeze into an elevator.

  “What I really want to do is get up to the Vulcans’ suite and change back into my own clothes,” I said.

  “Me, too,” Al said as the elevator door was closing.

  “Oh, your clothing has been brought down to a room just off the lobby,” Carlson said. “You can change in there while I answer your questions.”

  “I’d also like to talk to Vulcan and some of the other Krewe members a little bit,” I s
aid.

  “They’re about to have a private meeting,” Carlson said. “I’m sure I can answer any questions you might have. Follow me, please.” He turned and led us toward a hallway to the left of the registration desk.

  “I think we’ve been sandbagged,” Al said. “You’ve asked the wrong question of too many people.”

  “I think you’re right,” I said. “My only hope is to find out where they’re going next and try to catch the Prince of Soot there.”

  Carlson stopped in front of a first-floor room, unlocked the door and ushered us in, practically bowing and scraping as we entered.

  “What are they meeting about?” I asked.

  “They always like to compare notes at the end of the day and prepare for the evening schedule,” Carlson said. “Your clothes are on the bed, and I’m here ready to answer any and all questions.”

  I was tempted to ask which Krewe members had been in O’Halloran’s Bar Wednesday night but I knew he’d pass on that one. “Where are they going after dinner?” I asked instead.

  “After dinner they’ll be going to Klondike Kate’s,” he said.

  “Klondike Kate’s is still going to be open after the, uh, after what happened the other night?” Al asked.

  Carlson smiled a promoter’s smile. “This is the Winter Carnival,” he said. “You know the old saying, the show must go on.”

  “The show at Klondike Kate’s would seem to be a lot less fun,” I said.

  “There will be some changes in the program,” Carlson said, looking appropriately sober. “They’re opening with a solemn moment in memory of Ms. Nordquist. And I suspect the atmosphere will be a bit quieter than usual.”

  “Until everybody gets drunk,” Al said.

  “I assure you that Vulcan and his Krewe will remain sober,” Carlson said. “Our current Fire King has expressly forbidden excessive drinking by the Krewe.”

  “Speaking of that, can you give me a list of the Krewe’s real names?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid not,” he said. “The identity of Vulcan and his Krewe is never revealed until King Boreas is banished at the climax of the carnival.”

  “We have to wait for Vulcan to climax?” Al said.”

  Carlson’s ears turned an interesting shade of pink. “Correct,” he said after a slight pause. “I’m sorry, but this is the Winter Carnival and tradition is tradition.”

  “And the show must go on,” I said.

  The smile returned to Carlson’s face. “Absolutely right,” he said. “Now, do you have any other questions?”

  “Not at the moment,” I said. “Can I reach you tomorrow morning in case I need something while I’m writing the story?”

  “I’ll be here in the hotel. Here’s my card with my cell phone number. I always have it turned on.”

  I took the card and thanked him. He said if we had no further questions he would leave us in private to get dressed. We both shook his hand and bade him farewell.

  “Does he think we’re embarrassed to strip to our skivvies in front of him?” Al asked after Carlson left.

  “Maybe he thinks we need to be alone to compare notes and prepare for our evening schedule.”

  “That was total bullshit,” said Al.

  “My thoughts exactly,” I said.

  Our evening began with Martha and me dining with the Jeffrey family at their Midway area abode. Dinner followed by conversation or games or a DVD movie was becoming a Friday routine, but on this night Al and I were going to Klondike Kate’s. We invited the women to join us in this adventure, but they chose playing games with the children, Kristin and Kevin, over frolicking with us at Klondike Kate’s. Under the circumstances, I thought it was a damn smart choice—the one I’d have made if I’d had the option.

  Whatever. We dutifully kissed Carol and Martha goodbye and went off to pretend to have fun, me with a tiny tape recorder in my shirt pocket and Al with his smallest digital camera in his.

  Chapter Eight

  Whooping it Up

  The booming voice of the newly-anointed Klondike Kate, Angela Rinaldi, was calling upon the crowd to observe a moment of silence for Lee-Ann Nordquist when Al and I walked into the cabaret. The room fell quiet, and after an appropriate interval Angela broke the spell by observing that, as a faithful and fun-loving Kate, Lee-Ann would want the celebration to go on. Therefore, the bar was declared open and the ensemble that accompanied the singers was ordered to commence playing the “Beer Barrel Polka.”

  Angela was joined immediately by the two Kates who had visited me that morning, Toni Erickson and Esperanza de LaTrille, and they began to sing with as little gusto as you’d expect from three women who’d just lost a good friend. But they were troupers, and after a couple of listless verses they began to loosen up, whereupon the atmosphere in the cabaret improved from funereal to banal.

  We seated ourselves at a table, and when an angular, blue-eyed blonde who introduced herself as Britney appeared and said she would be our server, we ordered a tap beer for Al and a ginger ale for Mitch the recovering alcoholic. After Britney delivered the drinks, we sipped them slowly, listening to the music and wondering when the Vulcans were going to come storming in.

  Our glasses were almost empty, and Britney was looking our way, hoping to be summoned for a refill, when Al said, “Our frost-bitten buddies must have a lot to talk about over in the Crowne Plaza.”

  “Maybe Brownie called them downtown to ask some more questions,” I said.

  “Oops! Speak of the devil, or in this case, devils,” Al said as the door swung open and eight scarlet-cloaked, black-booted men stomped in, waving their arms and shouting, “Hail, Vulcan!” They spread through the crowd like legs on a spider, repeating the salutation and applying a greasy V to the cheek of every woman they encountered. Nobody rejected the markings and some turned the other cheek for a duplicate decoration.

  The energy level in the room soared, the trio of Kates onstage sang louder and lustier, and I was reminded of the Robert Service poem that began with, “A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute saloon.” The only thing missing was Dangerous Dan McGrew, and for all I knew one of the whooping Vulcans could be his evil equal.

  “Well, the Fire King sure warmed things up,” Al said as Britney approached our table with an expectant smile.

  “I’d like to put a little heat on him,” I said.

  “Another round, gentlemen?” Britney asked.

  “Why not?” Al replied. “We might as well join the party.”

  “Nothing worse than a party pooper,” I said. “Bring me another one of those exotic ginger ales.”

  Britney hustled away and Al slipped the palm-sized camera out of his pocket. “Might as well take a few shots of the festivities,” he said. “If nothing else, it’ll justify these beers on my expense account.” He moved away to a corner where he could get a better view of the crowd.

  I was thinking about the Prince of Soot’s offer to talk with me and I looked around the room hoping to spot him. My search was unsuccessful because even in the dim light of Klondike Kate’s Cabaret the Vulcans were wearing their dark goggles, so they all looked alike. I remembered the Prince of Soot being shorter than I was, but the same could be said for four other members of the Krewe.

  “Can you pick out the Prince of Soot?” I asked when Al returned.

  “Are you kidding?” Al replied. “I can’t tell Soot from Ashes anymore than you can tell your ash from a hole in the ground.”

  Britney was setting the drinks on the table, and she gave him a look that would have shriveled a grape into a raisin before she walked away.

  “Soot is older than the rest of them, but with those damn goggles on they all look like Satan,” I said.

  “The devil, you say.”

  “Yes, and I also say that this is turning into one hell of a job.”

  “Well, it’s about to take a turn either up or down,” Al said, looking past me. “One of our jolly Satans is headed this way.”

 
I turned to see one of the shorter Krewe members weaving through the crowd in our direction. He grabbed an empty chair from another table, slid it into place beside me and sat down. “Hail, Vulcan,” I said.

  “Very good,” said the man in red. “In case you don’t recognize me, I’m the Prince of Soot. If you remember, I spoke to you this afternoon.”

  “I do remember,” I said. “In fact, I’ve been trying to pick you out of the crowd.”

  “That’s the wonderful thing about these costumes,” he said. “You can pull off all kinds of crap and nobody knows which one of us to blame.”

  I wanted to ask if “all kinds of crap” included murder, but I knew that question would bring the conversation to an abrupt halt. Instead, I said, “What do you want to talk about?”

  “The same thing you were trying to talk about all during the ride,” Soot said. “I want to warn you not to jump to any conclusions about who did what in O’Halloran’s.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look around the room for a minute.”

  I looked. Then I looked back at the Prince of Soot. “Okay, what am I supposed to be seeing?”

  “How many red suits do you see?” he asked.

  “There should be seven, including yours, plus Vulcanus Rex in a black one.”

  “I didn’t ask how many there should be. I asked how many do you see?”

  I looked again. To my amazement, I saw more than seven. “There’s a dozen. What’s going on?”

  “Former Vulcans,” the Prince of Soot said. “We get to keep our costumes at the end of the carnival. Sometimes some of the old Krewe members put theirs on and join the fun.”

  “So, what you’re saying is that all the Vulcans seen in O’Halloran’s last Wednesday night might not have been members of the current Krewe?” I asked.

  “Yes, that’s what I’m saying.”

  “That broadens the list of suspects seen at O’Halloran’s to … how many?”