A Carnival of Killing (6 page)

“Well, it seems to me that’s for the cops to determine,” said Hot Sparkus. “Why don’t you ask them who they think did what? Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take a leak.”

He rose and walked off to the men’s room. When he returned to the table, he sat on the opposite side, as far from me as he could get.

I had now struck out with four members of the Krewe. The only item of interest so far was the discrepancy between the responses of the Duke of Klinker, who said he’d never met Lee-Ann, and the Grand Duke Fertilious, who told me that everybody in the Krewe knew her.

Still to be approached were Count Embrious, General Flameous, the Prince of Soot and Vulcanus Rex. I rose and was heading toward one of the men I hadn’t questioned when the Herder of the Flock announced that it was time to don cloaks, goggles and hats and hustle our buns out to the Royal Chariot. Foiled again.

“Where to this time?” I asked the Vulcan on my right as the truck roared out of the hotel garage with siren screaming.

“A big daycare center,” he replied. “Lots of little kids. It should be fun.”

“Which Krewe member are you?”

“General Flameous at your service, sir. I’m the Keeper of the Flame, which is a huge responsibility because legend has it that if the flame dies, the Fire King dies, and that would be the end of us all.”

“That is a huge responsibility. I can’t imagine the Winter Carnival without the Vulcans.”

The general smiled and nodded in agreement. “Without Vulcanus Rex to bring him down, King Boreas would rule forever and winter would never end. St. Paul truly would become another Siberia, and it would be freezing here all year round.”

“Well, take good care of that flame,” I said. “Stay out of dangerous places, like parties in rowdy bars.”

His smile disappeared. “If you’re leading into asking me if I was in O’Halloran’s the night Lee-Ann Nordquist was killed, don’t bother,” he said. “I’ve already told the cops that I wasn’t there and I don’t know who was.”

“What makes you think I was going to ask that?”

“The word was passed at lunch that you’ve been nosing around about who was in the bar that night. What’s the big deal about that, anyway?”

“I’ve been told that several Vulcans were in the bar that night. I’m working on that story and I’m wondering if any of them talked to Lee-Ann or saw anything that might be helpful in identifying the killer.”

“Like I said, I don’t know who was there and what’s more I don’t care who was there. I’m sure none of our guys had anything to do with what happened to Lee-Ann.”

“I’m not implying that they did,” I said. “As I said, I’m just wondering what, if anything, they saw.”

“Then ask the cops who questioned them,” General Flameous said. “If the cops want the press to know who was there and what they saw, the cops will tell you. You’re not going to get anything from our guys so you might as well stick to the subject at hand, which right now is a visit to the daycare center we’re parking at.” He turned his back to me and jumped off the back of the truck the second it quit rolling.

We were in front of a sprawling, two-story, red-brick house surrounded by a four-foot-high wrought-iron fence. Arranged on the snow-covered side yard was an assortment of swings, slides, and various climbing structures in every color of the rainbow. A recently fallen layer of snow clinging to these playthings had not been disturbed, which, considering that the temperature had soared to the day’s high of six degrees below zero, showed good judgment on the part of the daycare center employees.

Inside, we were greeted by about twenty screaming and giggling pre-schoolers who charged fearlessly at us, hugged us, high-fived us and generally treated us like a football team coming home after winning the Super Bowl.

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.”

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 said.

“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?”