by Glenn Ickler
“If it’s any consolation, I’ll be running right alongside you.”
“Like hell you will. You’ll be at least five yards behind me so they knock you down first.”
“How ironic if I’m knocked down by the man who knocked up the murder victim,” I said. “I want to start with the Duke of Klinker because he works right downtown in the hockey team’s office.”
“Let’s hope he doesn’t stick it to us if he gets mad,” Al said.
“We’ll just have to get the puck out of there as fast as we can.”
“So what are you going to say to this hockey guy?” Al asked. “Are you going ask him how many times he scored?”
“That’s not my goal,” I said. “These guys all knew Lee-Ann from last year’s carnival. I’m going to tell them that I’m interviewing a lot of Winter Carnival participants for a roundup story prior to her funeral. I’ll ask for their reaction to her murder and see what kind of response I get.”
“And I’m shooting their pictures while they’re punching you in the nose.”
“Oh, come on. It’ll be harmless, like those silly man-on-the-street interviews where you ask six people what they do for April Fool’s Day and run their dopy answers with their pix.”
“And you want us to start now?”
“I do. And, more important, Don wants us to.”
“I’ll get my camera and goalie mask and we can go see the hockey guy,” Al said.
The hockey guy we were going to see was Thor Lundquist, age thirty-four, who lived in White Bear Lake, a northern suburb. According to his bio, Lundquist had a wife and two sons, and was very active in youth athletic programs. The Minnesota Wild office was only a few blocks from Lee-Ann’s apartment, which gave Lundquist easy access if he also chose to be very active in adult bedroom athletic programs.
Thor Lundquist did not look pleased to see us when the receptionist led us into his office, which wasn’t much bigger than a hockey goal. As I’d suspected from the name, he was all Swede, with pale blue eyes and hair so blond that it was almost white. He was also six feet tall and muscled like a hockey defenseman, the kind of man who would attract a large woman and also have the strength to strangle her.
Lundquist did not rise to greet us. Neither did he invite either of us to be seated in the only chair facing his desk.
“We didn’t mean to catch you by surprise, Mr. Lundquist,” I lied. “Our boss sprung this assignment on us very suddenly and we didn’t have time to schedule formal meetings.” Then I explained why we were there and asked the key question.
“My reaction?” Lundquist said. “Jesus, my reaction is pure horror. As I remember Lee-Ann, she was a wonderful Klondike Kate. Full of life and lots of fun to be with. It’s a terrible thing to lose a woman like that.”
I wondered exactly how much fun she’d been when he was with her, but his answer was direct and sincere, and his eyes never wavered from mine. I was inclined to give Lundquist an “I” for innocent, with a notation that he was both physically and geographically eligible for an affair with Lee-Ann.
“When’s this story going to be printed?” he asked while Al was shooting a couple of photos.
“Thursday morning,” I said. “The day of the funeral.” I almost believed it myself.
“Good luck with it,” he said. “You should get plenty of comments. Lee-Ann had a lot of friends connected with the carnival.”
“Any who were particularly close?” I asked.
“I have no idea,” Lundquist said. “Probably some of the other past Klondike Kates would be the closest. They seem to hang together like bananas in a bunch.”
I wondered if I dared push my luck by asking if there was anyone in his Krewe with whom she seemed especially chummy. I decided to hold off, fearing it would alert him to what I was really after and prompt him to call his Krewe mates with a warning. We simply thanked Lundquist and left.
“So they’re like bananas in a bunch, huh?” Al said when we were back out where the temperature was ten below zero.
“The group with appeal,” I said.
“Apparently somebody was stalking one of them.”
After that, we walked in silence for several minutes until Al asked, “What’s next on the agenda?”
I looked at my watch and said, “Lunch.”
“I’ll buy that,” Al said.
“Great. Let’s go some place expensive.”
“I didn’t mean that literally.”
“That figures,” I said.
“Where’s our next target?” Al asked after draining his third cup of coffee.
“Actually, it is Target,” I said. “Last year’s Count Embrious manages one of the departments at the Target superstore on University Avenue.”
The man we saw there was Dustin Wright, age thirty-one, who lived in South St. Paul with his wife and one daughter, and reportedly was “active in community affairs.” Could he also be active in extra-marital affairs?
It seemed that interview would yield nothing of interest until Wright dropped the tidbit that Ted Carlson, the Vulcans manager, was one of the most active “party animals” among former Vulcans.
“Is he hitting on the women at those parties?” Al said.
“Oh, yeah, big time,” Wright said. “But, hey, I’d better shut up. You won’t tell Ted I was bad-mouthing him, will you?”
“No way,” I said. “Al took his shots and we left, convinced that Wright had nothing to do with Lee-Ann’s demise.
Our next stop was the 3M plant at the eastern edge of the city, to question chemist Donald Kryzak, the erstwhile Grand Duke Fertilious. Kryzak turned out to be short in stature (maybe five-five wearing shoes) and short of useful information.
However, he was long on brain power. He quickly saw through our scam and told us we were wasting our time because nobody in his crew had been laying Lee-Ann.
“I’d bet my next patent on that,” he said. “We’re all family men, except for Peter, and I think he’s gay.”
Peter had been the Count of Ashes. I mentally crossed him off my list.
We had two more men to call on, but their jobs were farther away and Al’s shift was ending at 3:00 p.m., so those visits would have to wait until morning.
Wednesday morning found Al and me in a staff car heading east on Highway 36 to interview George Bailey, age thirty-three, a fireman in Stillwater who had served as the previous year’s Baron Hot Sparkus.
I wasn’t yawning as much as I was Tuesday morning because Martha and I had gone right to sleep after the news Tuesday night. We’d both been exhausted by the energy requirements of Number 60 on the swami’s list, and agreed that Number 61 would have to wait for another night.
The meeting with Bailey was short but not sweet. He’d been warned by Kryzak that we were coming and was ready with denials about partying with the Klondike Kates or having anything beyond casual contact with Lee-Ann. Another blank page in my notebook.
Still hoping to strike pay dirt, we drove south toward Hastings, a city located south of St. Paul at the confluence of the St. Croix and Mississippi rivers. Our target there was Edward St. Claire, last year’s General Flameous, whose bio said he was thirty-eight years old, had a wife and two children and worked for an automobile dealer.
“We’re going to ask a car salesman to tell us the truth?” Al asked.
“And nothing but the truth,” I said. “Just don’t let him sell you a used gas hog.”
We found the dealership on Main Street, parked in a spot marked CUSTOMER and went into the showroom, where we were greeted immediately by a man with a smile as wide as a piano keyboard. He was dressed in a red-and-green plaid sport coat, red tie, and dark-green trousers. Apparently the spirit of Christmas Past still glowed brightly in this shop.
“Welcome, gentlemen,” he said. “My name is Lee and I’ll be happy to help you.”
“That’s nice,” I said. “The best way you can help us is to take us to a salesman named Edward St. Claire.”
The keyboard di
sappeared. “Oh, I’m sorry,” Lee said. “Ed isn’t in today. In fact, he hasn’t been in for a couple of days.”
“Really? When’s the last time you saw him?” I asked.
“Um, actually he was here Monday, but he went home early. I think he left right after we got done watching the breaking news on that Winter Carnival singer’s autopsy.”
Al and I exchanged looks with eyebrows raised. “And he hasn’t been back since then?” I asked.
“I don’t think so. I could check with the manager,” Lee said.
“Please do,” I said.
“Interesting coincidence?” Al asked, as Lee hustled away.
“I’ve heard that timing is everything,” I said.
Chapter Twelve
Where’s Eddie?
She thinks her husband ran away with some bimbo?” Al asked when I recounted my conversation with Connie St. Claire.
“She does,” I said. “But I think it’s more likely he ran away after knocking off the bimbo. Think about it. He’s married, has two kids and a good job and is getting some on the side from a very pretty blonde. She tells him she’s pregnant, he tells her to get an abortion and she refuses. He panics, dresses up in his old Vulcan suit, strangles her in the ladies room during the hubbub at O’Halloran’s and for some reason dumps the body in a conspicuous driveway. Then, when he hears that the cops are doing DNA tests to find the baby’s father, he panics again and skedaddles for parts unknown.”
“Makes sense to me. Have you tried it on Brownie?”
“Not my job. Let him find Connie and talk to her, and then I’ll trade theories with him. Meanwhile, I have a sobber to write.”
I had phoned several other participants in the previous year’s Winter Carnival, including King Boreas, the Queen of Snows, a couple of snow princesses, and Vulcanus Rex. From their statements, I was cobbling together a sad story about what a great person Lee-Ann was and how bad they felt about her untimely demise.
When I finished, I sent it to Don, who said it would be a one-Kleenex tear-jerker for the touchy-feely segment of our readership. “It’s sentimental crap but we need to throw them a bone every now and then,” said my sensitive city editor.
Filled with pride from such high praise, I went back to my desk, where I reorganized my notes on the Klondike Kate killing, shut down my computer, and put on my coat, hat and gloves.
Martha was already home when I arrived. She greeted me with the usual hug and kisses and said, “Ready for Number 61?”
“Can we eat first?” I asked.
“That’s part of the plan. You’ll probably need the additional fuel.”
“How do you know that? Have you been reading ahead?”
“You know what they say: Forewarned is forearmed.”
“I hope I won’t need four arms,” I said.
“You’re going to be very busy with the two you have,” Martha said. “Maybe you should warm them up with some pushups while you wait for supper.”
Thursday morning found Al and me at the O’Dell & Son Funeral Home, trying to be inconspicuous while friends of the dead woman and her family filed in. Al stood with his arms folded and I stood with my arms hanging at my sides because the triceps were sore from excessive stress in the performance of Number 61.
Lee-Ann’s parents and sister, and a woman of about eighty, stood by the casket for forty-five minutes to accept words of condolence and hugs of sympathy. Five-year-old Sarajane was not in the receiving line, nor did she join the family for the service.
The sister, Lori-Luann, kept glancing at Al and me between hugs until we decided to step up and introduce ourselves. The parents gave us stiff hellos and brief handshakes. The sister thanked us curtly for our expressions of sympathy and kept her hands at her sides. The octogenarian offered a surprisingly firm hand, smiled graciously and said she was Lee-Ann’s grandmother.
“Are you the one that wrote the story in this morning’s paper about how Winter Carnival people loved Lee-Ann?” she asked.
“I’m the one,” I said. “Al took the pictures that went with it.”
“It was wonderful,” she said. “I’ll treasure it the rest of my days.” I could hardly wait to pass that word to Don. Sentimental crap, indeed!
We thanked grandma for her compliment and retreated to the back of the room. Once seated in the last row of chairs, I took out a pocket-size notebook and began to jot down the names of the people I recognized, including some of the past Klondike Kates, most of the former Vulcans that we’d interviewed and some of the current Winter Carnival royalty I recognized.
The family had retreated to a side room, all the mourners were seated and the organist was playing the prelude when eight men in dark suits walked in, followed by Ted Carlson.
“That’s the Vulcans we rode with,” Al said. “They clean up pretty good.”
“And they’re all here,” I said. “As are most of last year’s Krewe, with the notable exception of one Ed St. Claire.”
“Oh, and look who else just came in.”
“Morning, gentlemen,” said Detective Curtis Brown as he plopped onto the chair beside me. He placed the tip of his right index finger on my shoulder and said, “You I want to talk to as soon as this is over.”
The minister proclaimed the occasion as “a celebration of Lee-Ann Nordquist’s life.” We soon learned that this meant that a lot of people would get up and talk about what great times they’d had with the guest of honor while she was among the quick. Lori-Luann went on at length about their childhood together. Grandma told about teaching little Lee-Ann to bake cookies at Christmas. A dozen or so friends, including the three former Kates I’d interviewed, gave anecdotes that were either funny or poignant or both.
Last to speak was Kitty Catalano, who looked stunning in a form-fitting black dress and four-inch black heels as she announced that the Royal Order of Klondike Kates would be organizing a scholarship fund in Lee-Ann’s name. This brought smiles and a murmur of appreciation from the crowd.
Through it all, Lee-Ann’s parents sat still as stones in the front row, with their arms folded and their heads hanging down.
At the end, as the organist played “Amazing Grace,” Lori-Luann helped her mother rise, and supported her with an arm and a shoulder as they followed the pallbearers up the aisle and out of the church. The father walked behind them, his eyes still cast downward, acknowledging no one as he passed.
“You’re not going to the cemetery are you?” Brownie asked. Al slid past us and hurried out to get a shot of the crowd on the funeral home steps as the pallbearers slid the casket into the hearse.
“No, we don’t need to report on that,” I said. “Besides, it’s ten below again this morning.”
“Yeah, I wish the damn Winter Carnival would end so the weather would warm up,” Brownie said.
“Me, too. But you’re not here to talk about the weather.”
“How very perceptive you are. I came because you can sometimes learn a lot by checking out who attends a murder victim’s funeral. Finding you here is a bonus.”
“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Treasure it,” Brownie said. “It might be the only nice thing I ever say. What I want to know is what Connie St. Claire said to you.”
I recapped my conversation with Connie as we walked together to the front hall of the funeral home. “Does that square with what she told you?” I asked, assuming that he had questioned the woman.
“When we got to the house late yesterday afternoon it was empty. Neighbor lady said Connie came home just after the kids got home from school, and they all got in the car and drove off. We put a watch on the house and they still haven’t come home.”
“Why do you suppose she did that?” I asked.
“Maybe she did know who her hubby was banging,” Brownie said. “And my guess is that she doesn’t want to talk to us about what happened to the bangee last week.”
“So, where does that leave me for tomorrow morning’s sto
ry?” I asked. “Can I say you’re looking for a person or persons of interest?”
“You can. Just don’t say who. And don’t mention the Vulcan connection until after the big battle Saturday night.”
“Do I get an exclusive on that in return for being a good boy all this time?”
“I’ll let your competition read all about it in the Daily Dispatch before I talk about it officially. Have a good day, Mitch.” Having made my day substantially better, he turned and made a quick exit.
Back at the office, I wrote a story that described the size and makeup of the funeral crowd, quoted a couple of the more poignant anecdotes and mentioned the proposed Klondike Kate scholarship. Don played it on the local front, along with Al’s photo of Lee-Ann’s family huddled on the front steps of the funeral home, a package no reader with a heart could possibly pass by.
I was starting to write a sidebar about the missing anonymous person of interest when Kitty Catalano appeared at my side. Her coat was unbuttoned, revealing the same form-fitting black dress she’d worn at the funeral, but I noticed that she had replaced the four-inch heels with the more comfortable red boots. She carried a large manila envelope in her right hand.
“I saw you at the funeral taking notes,” Kitty said. “I thought I’d bring you the outline of the scholarship fund that the Kates are setting up.” She offered the envelope, and I stood up, took the offering and laid it on my desk.
“That’s a very nice gesture,” I said. “Who can apply for this scholarship?”
“It’s for young people who want to go into the performing arts. Music, acting, TV news, whatever.”
“Very appropriate. Thanks for bringing this in.”
“My pleasure,” Kitty said. She took half a step closer so that our noses were only inches apart and her green eyes were looking directly into mine, and in a softer voice added, “If you have any questions about the scholarship, or want to talk about anything else at all, give me a call.” She was so close that I detected the light odor of a dusky perfume, and I wanted to explore her body to locate the source.