by Glenn Ickler
“Tired?” I asked. Again the ever-observant reporter.
“Pooped,” Martha said.
“Any luck?”
“The usual.”
“All bad?” I said as I dragged her to the couch and sat her down beside me.
“You got it.”
“Can I get you something to drink? Ginger ale? Root beer?” I’d have offered something stronger but you don’t keep booze in the home of a recovering alcoholic. I’ve been a faithful participant in Alcoholics Anonymous meetings since going through rehab eight years ago.
“Just let me sit for a while,” Martha said. “I’ve been climbing stairs and looking under sinks all afternoon. And we have to be out of here in thirty-three days. But who’s counting?”
“Maybe I can help with dinner. What are you planning to make?”
“Reservations. You’re taking your exhausted lover out to dinner tonight.”
“I can handle that. Any place in particular?”
“Some place with a glass of wine for me and no sports TV for you.”
“The utmost in cruelty, making me watch nothing but you while you’re sitting there bibbing wine.” I’ve reached the stage where I can watch others imbibe without jealousy or desire. Well, maybe a little twinge of jealously.
“I’ll be happy to trade,” Martha said. “You take over the apartment hunting and I’ll take you to a restaurant with giant TVs on every wall.”
“Suddenly a place with wine and no TV sounds really good.”
It was Saturday night and the restaurants with wine and without TV were full. We wound up settling for an 8:30 reservation at a dimly-lit restaurant in south Minneapolis. We arrived at 8:15 and finally were seated at 9:15 in the center of a packed dining room with a noise level that bordered on painful.
“Can you stand the noise?” I said at nearly a shout.
“I can if you can,” Martha said at equal volume.
“It’s either the noise or McDonald’s.”
“Noise? What noise?”
When my eyes had adjusted to the semi-darkness, I looked around the room for familiar faces—a reflex acquired by every reporter. One never knows what useful information might be gleaned from observing who is dining with whom.
Checking in all directions, I saw no one I recognized. Or did I? There was something vaguely familiar about the man with the dark moustache and flashing smile at a table against one wall. His companion was facing almost straight away from me, but her long red hair reminded me of someone. They were laughing and nodding a lot, and their faces nearly touched as they leaned across the table to hear each other above the dining room din.
“What are you staring at?” Martha asked.
“Try not to be too obvious, but take a look at the redhead and the guy with the big smile over by the wall at your left,” I said. “See if they look familiar to you.”
Martha turned her head with the subtlety of a striking rattlesnake and studied the pair for a moment. “Nope,” she said. “Neither one rings a bell.”
“I swear I’ve seen both of them someplace. His face and her hair are familiar but I can’t think where the hell it could be.”
Even after our food was set before us, I couldn’t keep myself from taking occasional glances at the smile and the redhead. Who were they? Did I really know them from somewhere?
“Hello,” Martha said when we were halfway through our entrees. “Remember me? I’m the lady you came in with.”
“Oh, sorry,” I said. “I don’t mean to ignore you but that couple is driving me crazy. I just feel like I should know them.”
“Why don’t you go over and say hello?”
“Oh, right. I can start with, ‘Hi guys, I’m just wondering who you are.’”
Feeling duly chastised, I turned my attention to Martha, but I kept the mysterious couple under surveillance out of the corner of my eye. When they stood up to leave, the woman turned toward us and I saw her boobs I realized who I’d been watching.
“It’s the square dance caller from the State Fair,” I said. “His name is Scott Hall. I didn’t recognize him with his hat off and his clothes on.”
“And the redhead is his wife?” Martha said.
“Yeah, the redhead is his wife.” I was about to wave a hand at them when the reality light in my brain went on. “No, wait,” I said. “The redhead is the dance club president’s wife.” I was glad I hadn’t waved.
“So she’s married to somebody else?” Martha said as the couple went out the door.
“Her husband runs Parkside Players. They’ve got a show tonight so that’s where he is while she’s dining with the club caller.”
“Do you think there’s some hanky-panky going on?”
“I’ve been told that square dancers don’t mess around,” I said. “Whatever’s going on, it’s none of my business.” But I filed the couple’s liaison in the memory corner of my brain. As previously noted, one never knows what information might be useful at a later date.
Chapter 7: Northern Exposure
What a hell of a way to start a Monday morning I thought as I punched in the number of the Falcon Heights Police Department. “Detective Barnes, please,” I said to the officer who answered.
“The detective is in a meeting,” he said. “Can I take a message?”
I had my doubts about getting a response. I couldn’t picture KGB taking the time to call and say, “We have nothing for the media at this time.” I left the message anyway.
Al arrived at my desk with the day’s first cup of coffee as I was putting down the phone. “Any word from the Falcon Heights Dragon Lady?” he said.
“She’s in a meeting,” I said. “Probably telling everybody in the department to say nothing to the press. I left a message but I’m not holding my breath until she calls.”
“You could suffocate while you wait. That woman’s got a manic phobia about reporters and photographers.”
“Manic or womanic?”
“Unisex, like the bathrooms.”
“Well, in her own way she’s flush with success. But enough about the bitch. How did your book signing go?” Al’s first book of photos had been released by the publisher the previous week, and his Sunday afternoon had been spent signing copies at Barnes & Noble. The book was a collection of Al’s personal scenic photos, candid people shots and portrait work, along with a selection of his best shots for the newspaper.
“My hand isn’t cramped from signing books, but it went okay,” he said. “I met a lot of people, including too many who don’t read the paper.”
“They’d never heard of you?”
“They’d never heard of the Daily Dispatch. Some said they get all their news from TV and a few, god help us, said they just listen to talk radio.”
“That’s a great unbiased source.”
“I do have one fan, though,” Al said. “A woman named Willow bought six books, for herself and her family and friends, and she kind of hung around all afternoon. Talked to me when no customers were at the table.”
“Willow?” I said. “Willow what? The Wisp?”
“Don’t have a clue. When I signed her book she said make it to Willow. Later on she asked for my card and I asked about her last name, but she said just call her Willow.”
“Is she some kind of performer? Like Prince?”
“Didn’t sound like it from the chitchat. Mostly she wanted to talk about me and how my photos show my feelings about this and that.”
“Your feelings? Maybe she’s a psychologist,” I said.
“Better a psychologist than a psychopath,” Al said.
“Maybe she is a psychopath. You said she bought six of your books.”
“I told you they weren’t all for her. I signed five of them to other people.”
“You only address them to first names. You know that.”
“Well, I’m glad you had a nice time with Willow,” I said. “If you run into her again you should find out more about her family tree.”
“Like I said, I tried to go out on a limb but she stumped me,” Al said.
Before I could branch out on this discussion my phone rang. To my amazement, it was KGB. Without so much as a “how are you,” she informed me that Doctor Leo Longwell, the medical examiner, had determined the cause of Vinnie Luciano’s death to be strychnine poisoning.
“So your first observation was correct,” I said. “Congratulations.”
“The doctor will be e-mailing his full report to all the media within the hour,” KGB said.
I tried again. “As I said, your first observation was correct.”
“We have no comment on that. Have a good day, Mr. Mitchell.”
I shook my head as I put down the phone. “Talking to KGB is like talking to a computerized robot,” I said to Al.
“Maybe she needs rebooting,” he said.
“I’d love to reboot her. Right square in the ass with my size twelve boot.”
“Well, I need to butt out to an assignment,” Al said. “See you at lunch?”
“I’m thinking about eating at the Northern Exposure, where the owner supposedly does not like Vinnie Luciano.”
“Too rich for my blood. And I can’t justify it on my expense account.”
“I can and I will,” I said. “See you whenever.”
The ME’s e-mail arrived a few minutes later, giving me the basis for a story. After sending the finished piece to Don O’Rourke, I followed up by walking to his desk and telling him where I’d be having lunch and why.
“Better wait to talk to Oscar until after you eat,” Don said. “If he poisoned Vinnie he might slip something into your coleslaw.”
“Not the coleslaw,” I said. “He’s very proud of the coleslaw. He’s more likely to sprinkle strychnine on the French fries.”
The Northern Exposure, in a high-buck district on Grand Avenue, had one of the city’s pricier luncheon menus. The owner, Oscar Peterson, grew up in Norway and his speech bore a strong Scandinavian influence. In fact, his accent would make him the perfect caller for a square dance club named for Ole and Lena.
Oscar always greeted his customers at the door with a wide smile and a vigorous handshake before passing them on to the hostess for seating. I mimicked his joviality and said I hoped he’d stop at my table while I was there, and he promised he would. I was about halfway through my batter-fried walleye with fries and coleslaw when Oscar plopped down in the chair across the table.
“So how ya been then, Mitch?” he asked. “Ain’t seen ya here for a long time.”
“Been keeping busy,” I said. “If you’d move your restaurant down to Sixth Street you’d see me more often.”
“Yah, I s’pose I’d get more business downtown, but I kinda like it up here. Does somethin’ special bring you in today then?”
I took a sip of coffee before I answered. “I’m working on the Vinnie Luciano murder story. I’m gathering the reactions of prominent people who knew him.”
“Oh, yah? Well, I don’t know I’m so prominent, but my reaction is I won’t miss the old bastard.”
“Why’s that?”
“He was greedy. He gobbled up all the business from the goddamn politicians and sports teams in the city and didn’t leave nothin’ for nobody else. You probably don’t want to print that.”
“You don’t think all those people went to King Vinnie’s by choice?”
“He went after ’em,” Oscar said. “He was like a goddamn Marine recruiter. Sucked up to them with a lot of special deals and that kinda stuff. He coulda left a few for the rest of us, ya know. And now he was goin’ into the State Fair to boot.”
“You have a State Fair booth, don’t you?” I asked.
“You bet’cha. And I aim to protect it.”
I took a bite of walleye, chewed it and swallowed. “How were you planning to protect it from Vinnie?” I said.
Oscar frowned. “You ain’t thinkin’ I’d be crazy enough to kill my competition now, are ya, Mitch?”
“I’m just asking what you’d do for protection.”
His voice got louder. “That’s my business, and it ain’t for the press. But you can bet’cher boots it don’t include no murder.”
“Any murder,” I said in a reflex blurt.
“What’d you say?”
“Nothing important. I’m glad to hear you wouldn’t commit murder, Oscar.”
“You better believe it, Mitch,” he said. “Now I better get back to the door. You enjoy your lunch then and don’t worry about the check.”
I thanked Oscar for his time and for picking up the tab, and he walked away. I wanted to believe him, but the quick denial without an actual accusation left me unconvinced. But what the hell—the walleye and the coleslaw were delicious and the price was right.
* * *
“How’d it go at the Northern Exposure?” Al asked as we sipped our late afternoon coffee in the Daily Dispatch cafeteria.
I replayed my conversation with Oscar and explained my uncertainty about the truth of his denial. “He got defensive real quick,” I said. “A little too quick.”
“So you can’t write him off as a suspect.”
“Afraid not. So how was your assignment?”
“Boring. Shot a grab-and-grin at City Hall with the mayor handing a plaque to the big-shot developer building that new condo tower on the East Side. The day wasn’t a total loss, though.”
“How so?” I asked.
“When I got back here, I had two e-mails from that woman I told you about. The one that hung around at the signing.”
“Willow?”
“Yeah, Willow. Told me how much she loved the book and what a great photographer I am. Good for the old ego. I sent back a thank you note.”
“Always nice to be appreciated,” I said. “You can’t have too many friends.”
“She’s sexy, too,” Al said.
“That makes it even more fun.”
Chapter 8: Stonewalls and Willows
My problem with alcohol began a dozen years ago when my wife and baby boy were killed in a collision with a jack-knifing eighteen-wheeler. I began pouring down the booze to blot out the pain but the drunken haze only increased the agony. I had sunk deep into an ever-darkening pit when Al and Carol persuaded me to go to rehab. Since then I’ve stayed dry with the help of an Alcoholics Anonymous group that meets within walking distance of my apartment every Monday night.
My most reliable crutch at AA is Jayne Halvorson, the mother of two teenage daughters who fled to St. Paul from an abusive husband in North Dakota. Jayne and I chat over a glass of ginger ale at a neighborhood bar called Herbie’s after every Monday night meeting. More often than not, Jayne can look at a problem that has me stymied and come up with a workable solution. For example, without her assistance (and insistence) I never would have pushed myself into a jewelry store to buy an engagement ring for Martha. The last time I’d gone out on that limb, I’d found the intended ring recipient between the sheets with an old high school boyfriend.
“You didn’t sound sincere tonight when you told us that everything was going well in your life,” Jayne said after the usual Herbie’s small talk.
“Most things are okay,” I said.
“And what things are not?”
“Only one, really. The detective from the Falcon Heights PD. I can’t get anything out of her for a story about Vinnie Luciano’s murder. Not even a hint as to whether she’s looking at a suspect or a person of interest. Normally, investigators will let out little scraps of inf
ormation as the case develops, but this one’s lips are clamped as tight as a pit bull’s jaws on a mailman’s leg.”
“Have you tried schmoozing her with the old Mitch Mitchell charm?” Jayne said.
“I’ve tried the ‘I’m your buddy’ smile, I’ve tried flattery, I’ve tried the old teamwork routine, I’ve tried asking her to lunch,” I said. “It’s like banging my head against a steel door.”
“Is she that way with all reporters?”
“Apparently. I haven’t seen any comments from her on TV or in any other paper.”
“So it’s not personal?”
“No, I think it’s psychological. Maybe she’s been burned by a reporter, or maybe she’s just paranoid.”
Jayne took a long swig of ginger ale. “Maybe it’s time to go over her head.”
“What do you mean?” I said.
“Talk to the chief. Describe to him how other departments—St. Paul PD, for example—deal with the press and tell him you would appreciate the same courtesy from the Falcon Heights PD.”
“The chief is a her, not a him, and I suspect she might be as tough to deal with as KGB.”
“KGB?”
“Those are the investigator’s initials, and they fit her personality. She goes by K.G. Barnes. I don’t know what the K and the G are for.”
Jayne drained her glass. “Maybe the chief will surprise you if you approach her diplomatically.”
“Maybe,” I said. “It’s worth a try.”
“Remember, the key word is ‘diplomatically.’”
“You know me.”
“That’s why I’m reminding you.” She put enough money on the table to cover her half of the tab and stood up, signaling it was time to go home.
* * *
Martha greeted me with the usual hugs and kisses, and Sherlock Holmes welcomed me by winding himself around my ankles until I pushed him away with my foot. After Martha and I swapped stories about our days’ work—her day had been much more productive than mine—we sat down to watch the ten o’clock news.