by Jess Lourey
My breathing calmed, and people buzzed around on stage. I recognized Janice Opatz, wearing her signature red suit. She was arranging the blonde hair of a young lady decked out in a glittery, spaghetti-strapped purple gown. I guessed she was Lana Sorensen. She was easily as pretty as Ashley, with wide blue eyes, a proud nose that didn’t take up too much space on her face, and plump lips set in a serious line. I liked that she wasn’t smiling. This was a sad occasion, even if she was benefitting from the tragedy.
A third person was on the stage, his back to the crowd. He was a shorter man, maybe 5’9”. Lana in her heels was a good two inches taller than him. He was trim and slick in his three-piece suit. When he turned, my heart hurdled a beat: he was the same guy who had been at the dorm with Janice after last Tuesday’s press conference and at the Neil Diamond concert with Kate. Given his position on stage, my guess that he had been a regular fair employee was off the mark. He had to be Lars Gunder, P.R. guy for Bovine Productivity Management, and possibly Ashley’s lover. I studied him from a safe distance. He had a quick smile, patting a tense Janice on the back with hands that I was certain were professionally manicured. Lana’s body language suggested she was trying to keep her distance from him, though it was hard to be sure, crowded as they were on the small stage.
After a signal from a cameraman in front, the man I guessed to be Lars grabbed the microphone. “Welcome. Thank you all for coming.” Janice and Lana assumed a post on each side of him. Behind and to the right, coming through the exit door nearest the Booth of Death, ten young women in ball gowns entered. Christine was at the front of the line, followed by Megan and then Brittany, and seven more pretty females I’d never met. They all looked nervous, like kittens at a wolf party, and Brittany appeared to be crying. Megan elbowed her, and she wiped her eyes and stood straighter.
“I’m Lars Gunder, a representative of Bovine Productivity Management. We are proud sponsors of the Milkfed Mary, Queen of the Dairy pageant, which stands for everything our company is about: wholesomeness, a love of the dairy industry, support of farmers, and community. We, along with the entire state of Minnesota, were deeply saddened when Ashley Pederson of Battle Lake died shortly after being crowned the 54th Milkfed Mary.” He didn’t register any change in emotion when referring to her. Either he was one coldhearted bastard, or he wasn’t the older man Ashley had been knocking boots with. “Tonight’s event is set up to honor her, and to pass on the crown, which is what we’re sure Ashley would want. Janice Opatz, the Queen chaperone and a woman who loved Ashley dearly, would like to speak.” People clapped halfheartedly, waiting for the real show to start.
Janice came to the microphone. “Thank you for coming,” she said, her voice clear as crystal. “I knew Ashley Pederson well, and she was a beautiful girl, inside and out. She cared deeply for those around her.”
Behind her and to my right, I noticed Christine roll her eyes so slightly that it could have been mistaken for a long blink.
“She was a shining beacon of the dairy industry, bringing our message of calcium-enriched goodness, conservation, and sustainability to communities all across Minnesota. When farmers achieve, we achieve.” Polite applause again broke out through the echoey building.
I was busy scribbling notes. Janice was parroting the BPM slogan. I wondered what exactly a sponsorship of the pageant entailed. Who paid whom, how much money, and what benefits did they derive from the transaction? Outside, the rain picked up, thrumming a steady drumbeat on the metal roof of the Dairy building.
“Ashley was taken from us far too soon, but her legacy will live on as we continue the good work that she started. Lana, will you please step up?”
The pretty young woman advanced to Janice’s side and peered out at the crowd. She still wasn’t smiling. In fact, she looked grim and more than a little afraid. Someone with a headset on handed a crown to Lars, who handed it to Janice. A police officer to the right of the stage whispered into his shoulder unit.
“It is with a mixture of sadness and pride that I crown Lana Sorensen of Carlos, Minnesota, the reigning Milkfed Mary, Queen of the Dairy. Congratulations, Lana!” More applause rang through the building, louder than before.
Lana tipped her head forward to accept the crown and graced the audience with a tight smile. She stepped to the microphone, and her strong, Minnesota-accented voice filled the building. “I didn’t want it this way.” She turned and lifted her skirts to step down the stairs and off the stage as the crowd began excited whispering. Was this a revolt? The Great Dairy Rebellion?
Janice and Lars exchanged worried looks, but visibly relaxed when the same assistant who had handed over the crown approached Lana with a winter coat. With no more pomp, Lana was led from the stairs at the side of the stage, past the booth and behind the blue curtain that guarded its entrance. When she disappeared, workers emerged from the shadows and quickly disassembled the stage, giving us an unbroken view of the glass-sided gazebo, eleven butter mountains spinning quietly inside. The crowd that had seconds ago been humming their surprise went silent.
I had the distinct feeling we were all witnessing a virginal sacrifice when the door to the booth opened and Lana entered, beautiful and pale, followed by the same woman who had sculpted Ashley’s likeness. Part of me wanted to put a stop to it, to cry out how ridiculous it was that we were letting this happen a second time, but I knew an outburst would only get me kicked out. As Janice had said, the show must go on.
The crowd held its collective breath as Lana placed herself in the designated chair in the center of the booth, ten blocks of butter arranged around her and an eleventh directly across from her. In front of each of the ten surrounding blocks of butter rested a life-sized head and shoulders shot of the remaining princesses, all of them wearing the same ornate Dairy Association pin on their lapels. The sculptor, looking shaky but determined, sat behind the central slab of butter and across from Ashley, quickly pulling a bread knife and a clay ribbon tool out of the white chest near her feet. Through the open doors behind us, a flash of lightning lit up the preternaturally leaden sky. We all turned around to glance back at the torrential rains, glad we were inside, and then returned our attention to the booth. The air was heavy with the salty, metallic smell of ozone, humidity, and people packed tightly.
The central floor of the butter-carving booth lurched and then began slowly turning. Lana and the sculptor began to rotate, both of them blanching for a moment for very different reasons, saying prayers to whomever was listening. The first rotation was uneventful, and then the second, and then the third. When it became apparent that both winter-jacketed women were going to remain safe, everyone in the Dairy building heaved a collective sigh of relief. No one was going to die here today.
The ten princesses-in-waiting were ushered into the crowd, where they began to hand out Milkfed Mary trading cards and reassure us with their healthy, calcium-rich smiles. I was given an Emily and a Lana. Emily was from International Falls and next fall would be attending the University of Minnesota at Duluth to pursue a career in agronomics. Lana was from Carlos, which I already knew, and would be a student at the University of Minnesota, Twin Cities, in the fall, majoring in math and English. She wanted to work as a high school teacher when she graduated. Thank god for martyrs.
I slid both cards into my back pocket, curious as to whether there had once been an Ashley trading card. That puppy would be worth some money. I kept one eye on Lana and one on Lars as I ruminated. He watched the sculpting for half an hour, answering reporter’s questions as they came up to him, his body language oozing a precise balance of solicitude and charm. I still wasn’t ready to introduce myself. Outside, the storm abated, and through the doors a crack of sunlight glimmered through the gloom. It had been one of the quick and intense late-summer storms common to the upper Midwest.
When Lars finally sauntered toward the nearest exit, I squeezed through the crowd and followed at an appropriate distance. If he was simply going to his car, I’d run up to ask questio
ns. If he stopped by the cyanide booth to refresh his supply, I’d take him out at the knees.
He did neither. Instead, he peeled off his jacket as he strolled to the east and then north, stopping outside the Kidway to remove his tie.
“Daddy!” Two little girls dashed out from the Kidway, a cordoned-off section of the fair devoted to rides for children five and under. The girls splashed through puddles and latched themselves to Lars’ legs. Neither child appeared to be more than four, and both had sandy brown hair curling haphazardly around their heart-shaped faces. A tiny woman with a large bag over her shoulder and a stick of pink and blue cotton candy in each hand followed the girls and stretched up to give Lars a peck on his cheek. From my position twenty feet away, I noticed they both wore wedding rings, so I used my amazing deductive powers to mark them as husband and wife. I became more certain I was following the wrong guy with a Swedish-sounding name.
He relieved his wife of the bag, hoisted the smallest daughter on his shoulders, and took the other by her hand. I followed them around the rides for forty-five minutes, beginning to feel more and more like a heel. They were the sweetest foursome. When the youngest child fell and skinned her knee, he scooped her up and found a bench to settle her on while he fished out a first-aid kit from the bag. She sniffled as he cleaned and dressed her wound. Then he walked his three ladies over to the bathroom and waited outside.
Weighing Mrs. Pederson’s voice against the faces of his daughters, I decided it was now or never. I walked rapidly toward him. “Mr. Gunder?”
He turned, a mildly surprised look on his face. “Yes?” Up close, his skin was as smooth as a baby’s. His eyes were cerulean, but the hefty bags underneath gave them a gray tinge.
“Hi. You don’t know me. My name is Mira James. I called you at work earlier today and left a message. I’m a reporter with the Battle Lake Recall, and I wonder if you’d mind answering a few questions about Ashley Pederson?”
His mouth tightened around the edges, but he kept his delivery cordial, slipping back into the super-smooth P.R. voice he’d used at the ceremony. “Not if you’re quick. I’m here with my family and like to keep them separate from my work. Battle Lake is Ms. Pederson’s hometown, if I’m not mistaken. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. Had you met Ashley?”
“Of course. I know all the girls in the pageant. It’s part of my job as marketing director at BPM. At least, it is this year. This is the first time we’ve sponsored the pageant.”
“Well then, I’m sorry for you as well for the tough situation this must put you in. Has it generated a lot of bad publicity?”
“Too soon to tell, but I shouldn’t think so. Ashley’s death is an unfortunate situation, but it’s not tied to our company.”
“What exactly does your company do?”
“Support farmers. We help them to grow their stock in a sustainable fashion, getting the most productivity out of their cows as possible.”
“That sounds interesting,” I lied.
He glanced around, obviously trying to get rid of me before his family came out of the bathroom. “It really is. If you’d like, I can give you a tour of the factory tomorrow.”
What was I going to say? “That’d be awesome. Thank you.”
“No problem. Just show up before noon and ask for me at the front desk.”
He didn’t tell me where they were located, and I didn’t ask because I already knew. “Great. Thanks for your time.”
He nodded and excused himself as his wife and daughters walked toward us. I took off toward the Dairy building for my first meeting with the elusive Lana Sorensen.
Turns out it takes a crazy long time to carve a head out of butter. It was nearly nine o’clock before Lana exited the booth, whole and alive but looking like she had just spent six hours in a rotating refrigerator with no bathroom breaks. The press, who had earlier packed the Dairy building, were no longer around. In fact, not many people remained, at least up close to the booth, and Lana and the sculptor’s descent was anticlimactic. Out of habit, I stayed back and watched as Janice strode up to Lana in front of the blue curtain and patted her hair into place. The motion seemed more possessive than affectionate.
After every one of Lana’s hairs was in its approved location, Janice gave a curt nod to the sculptor and led her charge out with one arm over her shoulders and the other grasping her elbow. They beelined to the dormitories, and I hung back, waiting until they were out of sight to follow up the stairs. Janice’s gravelly voice floated down toward me.
“… very well tonight. But would it have killed you to smile?”
Lana murmured something in return, and Janice spoke again. “Well, it’s done now, so I don’t suppose it matters. Just remember, if you say one word, the whole thing is lost. And who does that help? No one. But it’ll hurt plenty.”
My foot slipped down the face of a stair, and I banged my shin, drawing an abrupt halt to the conversation on the top floor. So much for stealth. I pattered quickly back down the stairs and toward the center of the barn. Blending in with the crowds and the cows, I kept one eye on the entrance to the second floor as people milled in front of me. Sure enough, Janice came down and cast a suspicious glance around the Cattle Barn. I ducked behind a milking machine display. When I looked up again, I caught her red jacket slipping out of the barn, her purse in her hand. I waited for ten full minutes before darting back up the stairs, cringing at the bruise I could feel swelling on the front of my leg.
I knocked on the closed door at the top of the stairs. “Lana?”
“Come in.”
She was the only girl in the dorm, and she was sitting in front of a vanity wearing sweats, still in the heavy makeup from the ceremony. Next to her rested an uneaten peanut butter sandwich on white bread. She was leaning forward and removing her contacts when I entered, and she glanced at me without interest before returning to her task. “Did Janice send you to keep watch on me?”
“No. My name is Mira.”
“Lana.” She reached for a pair of glasses as thick as hockey ice and slid them on her nose. They transformed her from a nubile beauty queen into an earnest primary school teacher. “What can I do for you?”
I’d heard of people who rehearsed conversations beforehand. I wrote myself a mental note to be one of those people when I grew up. “I’m a friend of Christine’s.” The sideways lie felt sticky coming out of my mouth. Lana struck me as a straightforward, likeable person.
“She’s not here.” She indicated the room behind her.
“I know. She told me that Ashley stole your boyfriend.”
Lana reappraised me, her eyes as big as moonstones behind her glasses. “You’re that reporter from Battle Lake. Christine told me about you.”
She had a natural shit-cutter. I’d had to work years to develop mine. Now I really liked her. “Yeah, that’s me. Ashley’s mom asked me to find out what happened to her daughter. From what I gather, Ashley was generally a pain in the ass, but she was all her mom and dad had. Do you know what happened to her?”
Lana turned to fiddle with a pot of lip gloss in front of her. “I know she was poisoned, but I don’t know who did it, if that’s what you’re asking.”
I didn’t respond, and after a handful of uncomfortable seconds, she filled in the space between us. “She did steal Dirk, I suppose, but he didn’t put up much of a fight. Anyhow, he wasn’t worth killing anyone over. Besides, where would a farm girl like me get poison?”
“I don’t know where anyone gets poison.” She didn’t respond, so I continued. “Can I ask you something?”
“You already have.”
I smiled. “This is even more personal. You don’t seem like the beauty queen type. You’ve got the looks, but you’re way too no-nonsense for the job.”
She laughed, but it was a melancholy sound. “I ran to help out my family. I never cared if I won or not.”
“Help your family how?”
“To make my mom proud. To br
ing good press to the farm. The usual.”
“Why do you think Ashley entered the pageant?”
Lana sighed. “I think she’s one of those girls who just needs attention. She’d shrivel up and die if she didn’t have it.”
I didn’t point out that Ashley’s fame hadn’t done her any favors in the staying alive department. I was just happy that Lana was opening up. “I heard from a few people that Ashley was seeing an older guy, probably someone from Bovine Productivity Management. You know anything about that?”
“Yeah. She was fooling around with Mr. Gunder.”
“You sure? He’s married with kids.”
“Sure as I have eyes on my face.” She blinked the magnified googlers for effect.
“Is that what you and Janice were talking about when I came up here? The secret that you shouldn’t let anyone know about?”
Her enormous blue eyes turned chilly, and I lost any edge I had won. “That’s none of your business.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I really am. I’m just trying to help Ashley’s mom.”
Lana studied me, finally making some quiet decision. “Look, one thing has nothing to do with the other,” she said, her voice soft. “The secret Janice was talking about is not connected to Ashley’s death. I promise you that.”
Knowing possibly less than I had since the day had started, I thanked her and returned to the trailer to type up a draft of the second Ashley article I had promised Ron. There was no sign of Kennie or Mrs. Berns.
The Passing of the Crown
Ashley Pederson secured Battle Lake’s place in the state history books when she was crowned the 54th Milkfed Mary, Queen of the Dairy, making Battle Lake the home of more Milkfed Marys than any other city. That pride turned to sorrow when Ms. Pederson was poisoned during the opening ceremony of the Minnesota State Fair.
At a ceremony on Tuesday honoring Ms. Pederson, Janice Opatz, Milkfed Mary chaperone, had this to say: “[Ashley] was a beautiful girl, inside and out. She cared deeply for those around her.” Lars Gunder, a representative for Bovine Productivity Management, the sponsor of the Milkfed Mary pageant, said, “We … were deeply saddened when Ashley Pederson of Battle Lake died shortly after being crowned the 54th Milkfed Mary.”