September Fair

by Jess Lourey

  In a short while, the band trickled out, followed by a sexy older guy wearing a tight black, button-down shirt with a head of beautiful, thick and graying hair. “That him?” I asked. My gaze walked him up and down as I tugged at Mrs. Berns to get her attention. “Is that Neil Diamond?” I looked over in time to see her bent double and wrestling something out of her shorts. “For god’s sake, what’re you doing?”

  One good yank, and she was holding a pair of authentic granny panties—white, elastic-hemmed, and approximately the size of a bedsheet. She whooped triumphantly and chucked them at the stage. They fell short, landing on the shoulder of a security guard with his back to the stage. He grimaced and batted them away.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I got plenty more where that came from. I sewed them into the lining of my clothes this morning. Even have a couple bras up here.” She patted her lumpy shorts.

  Good lord. “Glad to hear you came prepared.” A change of subject seemed in order. I nodded toward the stage. “You know, you weren’t lying about him. He’s one silver fox.”

  “Wait until he opens his mouth.”

  As if on cue, he picked up a microphone. “Hello.” His voice was impossibly deep and mellow. It made me shiver a little in my down below. “I’m thrilled to be back in Minnesota, one of my favorite states in the world. How’re you all doing?” Screams filled the outdoor arena, wild, lingerie-laced, sexual-fantasy screams. He chuckled. “I’m doing good, too. How about I sing for you? This is one of my favorites. I call it ‘September Morn.’”

  His voice filled the Grandstand and soared to the stars and back. He wasn’t flashy—no costume changes or dance moves—but he put on a great show. Ten songs in, I asked Mrs. Berns if I could throw a pair of her underwear onstage.

  “Sure,” she agreed amiably, if a little smugly. She was reaching down to pluck me a pair when I spotted something very bad out of the corner of my eye.

  “Mrs. Berns.”

  “I’m trying. Hold on. This one’s sewed up good.”

  “Mrs. Berns.”

  “I think it’s one of the super-reinforced undies. It feels like it’s made out of burlap.”

  “Mrs. Berns, is that Kennie?”

  She looked up just in time to see Battle Lake’s mayor, in full groupie regalia, rushing the stage, wiping out security guards as if they were bowling pins. She was a little old and a lot buxom to be wearing the black bustier over a spandex skirt. She looked like a human tube of toothpaste that someone had squeezed in the middle and then dressed in fishnet stockings and five-inch heels, and topped with hooker makeup and an Alaska updo. “I love you, Neil! It’s me, Kennie Rogers! Remember me? It’s me, Neil!”

  Neil strolled to the opposite end of the stage, belting out “Solitary Man” without breaking stride. I tried to elbow through to Kennie, who was about twenty feet to my right, but there was no moving, so I stayed in my spot, watching the unfolding tableau. I don’t know what I’d have done if I caught her. Probably toss a pair of Mrs. Berns’ underwear over her to cover her up and calm her down.

  She made it all the way to the thin wall separating the crowd from the stage. Behind that barricade was a line of security guards. The one nearest Kennie whispered something to her, and she smiled ecstatically. When he hoisted her on his shoulders, she pumped her bespangled arms in the air and cheered. The guards began to pass her down the line on their shoulders, like she was a sandbag and it was imperative they stop a flood. They were moving her closer and closer to Neil, and a thought struck me: maybe Kennie actually did know him. Maybe for once she hadn’t been stretching the truth, and she was now going to be on stage with him in front of thousands. Next to me, Mrs. Berns watched, her open-mouthed expression mirroring my own.

  When Kennie was directly beneath the superstar, on her back and resting on the broad shoulders of four security guards, she reached up as if to welcome Neil into her arms. Time stood still. A stage camera turned to her, projecting her face fifty feet high on both of the immense concert screens. Her smile curved beatifically as she reached for the music man, but alas, it wasn’t to be. The guards didn’t stop. They kept passing her down the line, farther and farther from her idol, until she was out of sight, and, presumably, out of the Grandstand. Neil’s face replaced hers on the concert screens, and the moment was gone.

  “Well, that’s one way to get kicked out of a concert. I prefer toking on the wacky tobacky myself, but no way am I going to risk it—the show isn’t even half over.”

  “You smoke pot?” I asked, wondering what plan Kennie was currently hatching to sneak back into the Grandstand. She wasn’t a woman who gave up.

  “Helps my glaucoma. There’s a great many advantages to getting old, but we don’t like to tell you pups too much. Gotta have a few surprises when you grow up.”

  I smiled, putting Kennie’s mini-drama behind me to enjoy the rest of the concert. For the record, though, I’d be thrilled to grow up into a Mrs. Berns. We swayed to the music, danced to the numbers that rocked, and generally partied like it was 1999. The concert was off the charts, and when it was time to go backstage, I was surprised to find myself as excited as if I were going to meet a real rock star. “What should I say to him?” I said.

  “Lemme do the talking. Always let me do the talking.”

  As we were ushered past the security and toward the backstage, the bustle was more intense than front stage as people rushed about with equipment and instructions. Our badges were checked again and we were ushered into a large room replete with bottles of icy champagne and trays of fruit, cheeses, prosciutto, and other meats they couldn’t pronounce in Battle Lake. Mrs. Berns took out a Tupperware container from her purse and began filling it. “No use having this all go to waste,” she said to no one in particular.

  I sniffed at the food but was too excited to eat. The room was filled with other people who wore badges similar to ours, presumably also radio contest winners. Many of them held posters and T-shirts in their shaking hands, or autograph books, and most were dressed in their best—dresses, heels, ties. The few people my age or younger were not quite as spiffy, but they looked as awestruck and out of place as I felt. We all shuffled around trying to appear as though we’d spent most of our lives backstage. No biggie. I’m with the band. The only person I recognized besides Mrs. Berns was the woman from the press conference—Kate Lewis, president of the State Fair Corporation. She looked as rumpled and mad-scientisty as she had at the press conference, and if anything, seemed more pale and distracted than she had then. A man broke away from the buffet line and joined her. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t immediately place him.

  I sidled up to the two of them, wanting to share my joy at the concert. “Hi, I’m Mira James. I’m a reporter for the Battle Lake Recall, and I was at the press conference the other day.”

  She reacted as if I’d offered her a blanket with smallpox. “I’m here on my own free time,” she said, backing up toward a wall. “I don’t have to answer any questions.”

  “Oh no. I just came over to say hello. A friend of mine won backstage passes, which is why I’m here. She’s over by the door.” I pointed toward where Mrs. Berns was hitting up an uncomfortable-looking security guard, her last pair of sewed-in underwear dangling from the rear waistband of her shorts. At least I hoped they were her sewn-in underwear. “Did you enjoy the show? I couldn’t believe how awesome it was! I wish I had brought my camera. I haven’t had it out since the first day of the fair, when I was covering the butter-sculpting. I was right up front for that, too, but this show was way better. Of course it was. No one got hurt here.” I clamped my mouth shut. Have I mentioned I gush when I’m excited? That’s another good reason to avoid emotions.

  Kate stepped away from me. “The concert was very good. I hate to be rude, but it’s been a very long day. If you don’t mind?”

  I thought she was going to leave, but instead, she turned her back to me and began whispering to the man who was digging into his plateful of buffet food.
I traveled back to Mrs. Berns, remembering where I knew him from. He was the same guy Janice had been speaking to at the bottom of the dorm stairs on Saturday, while the police were still on guard. He must be an employee of the fair. When I reached Mrs. Berns, I subtly leaned over to yank the dangling underwear free, shoving them into her purse. “When will Neil get here?”

  “Addicted, ain’t ya? Told ya’ so.”

  Suddenly, the room grew quiet, and we heard that sweet, booming voice of the sexy man in the black button-down shirt. His laughter filled the hall as he neared us, and it was almost enough to distract me from the agitated conversation Kate was involved in on the other side of the room.

  I woke up relatively happy, considering that I was covering the murder of a teenager and a few days earlier I’d rebuffed the advances of the hottest guy to ever utter my name. That aside, I had enjoyed an amazing concert the night before and left the after party early, without imbibing and after briefly meeting the charming and utterly sexy Mr. Neil Diamond. Last night’s dancing must have exhausted me in a cleansing way, because I’d slept like the dead, waking up around nine a.m. on the pull-out couch with a warm yellow sunbeam across my face. Kennie was still sleeping on her bed across from mine, and I assumed Mrs. Berns was doing the same in the back bedroom.

  Stretching like a kitty before rising, I snuck to the showers for a quick rinse and tooth brushing, pulled on the navy blue tank top and cut-off shorts I’d brought with me, dropped my toiletries and pajamas under the trailer so as not to risk waking the ladies, and set off to catch a Metro bus to the West Bank. My plan was to visit my old hunting grounds and exorcise some demons before taking in the crown-passing ceremony at the Dairy building later today. As I walked along, the balmy late-summer sun was behind me one hundred percent.

  This trip to the State Fair had been my first return to the Cities since I’d left for Battle Lake last spring. That was an easy fact to forget because I’d been isolated in the biome that was the fair since I’d arrived. A person had everything she needed here—food, community, water, showers, bed. There was absolutely no reason to leave, and as I did, I realized the State Fair was just another small town, much like Battle Lake. That thought made me apprehensive to step outside the gate and into the gesellschaft that was Minneapolis/St. Paul. I’d changed a lot since I’d left last March, but was it a change for the better?

  I kept my face to the glass of the MTC bus as it puttered down Como, heading west. Forty-five minutes later, I recognized the familiar businesses of Riverside Avenue. I’d worked here, in the Cedar-Riverside neighborhood, for almost ten years before escaping to Battle Lake. I pulled the stop cord and stepped out tentatively, not sure what I was expecting to find.

  The area had been a hippie hangout when I’d left, a throwback culture with a flavor reminiscent of a 1990s Grateful Dead concert, peopled with a generation clinging on to something they’d never known. The Riverside Café had taken up most of the block with its usually vegan and more frequently flavor-free dishes. Chili Time Café had been across the street, patronized by college freshman dabbling in Marxism. Patchouli and Nag Champa incense were the scent of choice outdoors, and street musicians wandered in all weather. Now, both restaurants were gone, one replaced by an Ethiopian grill and the other sitting empty. I smelled curry and cigars, and the scarves and India print skirts had been replaced by suits and burqas, but the place still had the same energy. There was room to be different here. The diversity of color and appearance let me relax in a way I couldn’t in a small town, a fact I’d forgotten in my rural isolation. My shoulders eased a little.

  I strolled past the empty windows of the Riverside Café, toward Perfume River, the Vietnamese restaurant I had waited tables at for many years before answering the siren song of Battle Lake. The outside was still painted salmon and yellow, two bay windows leading into a narrow restaurant that had room for only three rows of tables, seven tables deep. I pulled the door open and smiled to hear the same tinkling bell, the familiar scent of lemongrass and curry washing over me.

  I’d hoped Alison would be working the lunch shift, but she was nowhere in sight. I stood at the front counter and waited for someone to come from the rear of the restaurant, where the kitchen and wait station were. A teenage girl appeared, wearing the requisite black skirt, white shirt, and tie. I recognized the bow tie. It was the one we all fought over because it was the only clip-on and didn’t constrict your throat like the real ones.

  “Hello. Can I help you?”

  “Is Alison working?”

  She smiled prettily. “Sorry?” Her Vietnamese accent was faint.

  “Alison Short? The manager?”

  “Oh, she doesn’t work here anymore. My family bought the restaurant in May. The food still is very good, though. Would you like to see a menu?”

  I peeked around her, peering at the kitchen behind the glass of the waitress station. I saw one man chopping vegetables and another stirring a steaming soup pot. I didn’t know either of them. “Maybe later. Thanks.” I shoved my hands in my pockets and retreated quickly. I took a left out the door and walked north toward Washington Avenue, in the direction of my old loft apartment above an Indian restaurant. I still dreamt about that place, with its three doorless rooms and ten-foot windows. When I lived there, I shared a bathroom with the guy next door, but it’d worked fine as he kept to himself. I didn’t know what I was looking for returning to the apartment. Maybe a banner proclaiming I had made the right choice in leaving?

  As I crossed the Washington Avenue Bridge toward my old abode, a young woman walked toward me. She was about my height, with long brown hair. Her head was down, but there was something familiar about the way she carried herself. As she drew closer, I noted the short-sleeved white blouse she was wearing over a dark cotton skirt. She had on comfortable black shoes. Her only break from the uniform was a dramatic amber ring on the middle finger of her right hand. When we passed, she didn’t look up, and I didn’t say anything because I’d suddenly realized who she was: me, a year ago.

  I spun around abruptly, following her toward the West Bank. I pushed down the anxiousness that rose in me when she turned into Perfume River to start her shift. I didn’t look in because I knew what she’d do next: go into the back room. Punch in. Say hello to the cooks. Slip on her apron and tie, cursing the other waitress for getting the good one. Begin to fold silverware in paper napkins until customers arrived. Dream of a different life.

  I blinked rapidly and crossed Riverside against the light. That put me in front of the 400 Bar, which had been another favorite hangout. I’d danced to a lot of bands and drank a lot of vodka there. The bartenders and bouncers had known me by name, and that was the shameful truth. I considered coming back to the bar later tonight, when it was open, to confirm with someone that I had in fact once lived here and was not disposable or easily replaced, but what does a person do at a bar if they don’t drink?

  A bus stopped in front of me with a pneumatic wheeze and huff of exhaust, and I stepped in, pausing to look around one last time before the doors closed behind me. I felt oddly unrooted, vulnerable, but also free. It was a lonely, scary feeling, like the bird who doesn’t know what to do when her cage door is opened. The world was pretty big. It was too much to fit in my head, and as if in reflection of my mood, the sun crept behind the clouds and a deep rumble echoed along the sky. The humid temperature dropped noticeably.

  I forced my thoughts to shift focus. I didn’t like the unmoored feeling. More importantly, there was nothing I could do about it. What I could do was find out who had killed Ashley Kirsten Pederson. And if I succeeded, people would realize they needed me.

  In a few hours Lana would be officially crowned Milkfed Mary, Queen of the Dairy, and get her beautiful young head enshrined in Grade A, unsalted butter. Hopefully, she wouldn’t also get it handed to her by the same person who had offed Ashley. I had been lax in not yet successfully tracking down Lana to question her about Ashley’s murder and to make sure she felt safe
herself. I would fix that. I would also phone Mrs. Pederson to see how she was doing and if she had any new information, including, if I could swing it without further damaging her, asking her if she knew what poison had been used to kill her daughter.

  Yes. The relief of a plan.

  Today was the day the Dairy building’s doors would be swung wide to the public, but the operation was nearly four hours behind schedule. The sign out front said, “Open Soon!” and workers were scurrying in and out setting up the stage for the passing of the crown and stapling extra twinkle lights onto the butter-carving booth.

  I followed one of them into the building and kept to the perimeters so as not to attract attention. Those on the job were intent on their tasks, like ants working feverishly to beat a rainfall. I knew they needed the ceremony this afternoon to go smoothly. One slip-up, and the Milkfed Mary pageant would be considered certifiably cursed, years of positive publicity for the dairy industry down the drain. Right now, Ashley’s death could be written off as an aberration, but a second event, even something like a nerve-jangling squeal of feedback on the mic or the booth not rotating, and it’d be all over. Someone would be forced to develop a new, less-cursed gimmick, like a Prince Gouda, King of Dairy-Based-Fooda contest. See how hard that’d be? No, they needed to make certain the new queen was installed without a hitch.

  “Excuse me,” I asked a worker with an armful of carving tools. “What time is the ceremony supposed to start?”

  He tried to look at his watch, but it was too buried under his armload. “Three o’clock. Then the butter-carving starts at 3:15 sharp. Let’s hope no one dies.”

  Very blunt. He must not be from around here—and by here, I meant the Midwest. I raised my eyebrows and nodded in agreement and let him go past. I glanced around to see if there was anything else I needed to know before the place started filling up with the general public. The cavernous building was extra spic-and-span, but otherwise, everything seemed as it was when I first was here, five days previous. Including, I noticed, the sponsorship banner touting the Bovine Productivity Management group over the top of the carving booth. I hadn’t noticed it when I’d covered Ashley’s ceremony because it blended with all the other signs strung about touting the dairy industry. Plus, I hadn’t been looking for it. Now that I knew that Ashley may have been dating an older man with a Swedish-sounding name who worked for the company sponsoring the pageant, it became important. Yanking out my pad and pencil, I copied down the company’s name, website address, and phone number.