Hot Dish (11 page)

“The Butter Head?” Bob whispered.

Steve smiled approvingly. So the kid really was an art lover. “Yes. The Butter Head.”

“I thought it was lard,” Fabulousa said.

“No”—Steve swung around—”that would be your—”

“Steve has been asked to return to Minnesota!” Verie broke in. “To be grand marshal of a parade.”

“Actually,” Bob said, “it’s as co-grand marshal.”

He wasn’t the main attraction? Well, that hurt.

“Excuse me,” Verie huffed. “If you think Mr. Jaax is sharing the limelight with—”

“With
The Butter Head
.”

Whatever words any of the trio had been about to say faded away in a moment of unorchestrated wonder.

“The Butter Head,” Steve repeated, staring at Bob. He wouldn’t, he couldn’t, joke about something like that, could he? The butter head, the key, the
Muse
… the last point in the Big Game.

“But they said … they said it had been melted down and used for corn on the cob.”

“I know! I know!” Bob couldn’t have looked any more like a golden retriever if he grew a tail and wagged it. He bounced up and down on the balls of his feet. “Jenn’s mom saved it.”

“Who is Jenn?” Fabulousa demanded.

“Jenn Lind,” Bob said. “The model for the butter head. You might have heard of her?”

The three of them glanced at one another before shaking their heads in unison.

Bob looked a little offended. “That’s okay.” Clearly not. “She’s like the Next Big Thing on cable.”

Fabulousa laughed. “Cable? Are you selling your work on the QVC now, Steve?”

Verie’s breath caught, even Bob paled, but Steve didn’t care. The Butter Head. If he got the key inside it, he could retrieve the
Muse
. It had been stolen before the judge had divided their property. He could get it adjudged his and, even more important, not hers.

Verie was watching him, paralyzed in morbid fascination.

Fabulousa continued. “But you must go, darling boy! Just t’ink of the promotional possibilities! The Next Big Thing and the Last Big Thing. There is a certain … how is zis? Poetry? No.
Symmetry
. You always did love symmetry.”

Her words had no meaning. He couldn’t even hear her. All he could hear was her imagined shriek sometime in the near future when he would send her the cell phone picture of him holding
Muse in the House
. He turned to Bob. “Just tell me where and when, and I’ll be there, Bob.”

Bob’s eyes popped wide. “Really?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He shifted his gaze to Fabulousa, who was shivering with either silent laughter or fury at being ignored. It was hard to tell with Fabulousa. “Well, it’s been great seeing you again after all these years, Fabulousa. Just great. What you’re doing here for charity …” He waved his hand at the room which had begun filling back up. “Special. Really special.”

Verie knew a cue when he heard it.

“Look, the Ackermans! They’ve been pestering me for months to introduce you.” He pointed vaguely into the corner of the room, grabbed Steve’s arm, and pulled him away, the ploy allowing Steve to shrug regretfully as he was forced into the arms of his adoring fans, muttering under his breath, “God, I hate that woman.”

“I know,” Verie said sympathetically.

He smiled. “But I love Minnesota.”

4:40 p.m.

December 5, Tuesday

Fawn Creek Town Hall

Fawn Creek, Minnesota

“Well, now, you know,” began Ken Holmberg, leaning back in his chair and knitting his fingers together over his little round belly, “I spoke to the Rapella people this afternoon, and they’re pretty sure they’re going to donate one of those new clamshell ice houses for the winner of the fishing contest.”

Paul LeDuc, newly elected mayor of Fawn Creek, tipped back in his office chair. In actuality, he’d spoken to the Rapella people last week to secure their donation. Ken was blowing smoke and they both knew it. But Ken was one of those guys who had to lift his leg on every idea another guy had and take ownership of it, and because he was the biggest deal in Fawn Creek, people let him.

“Why, that’s real good news, Ken.” He guessed he probably shouldn’t have gushed by adding “real.” He knew better than to overdo the applause but sometimes he still made the outsider’s mistake of using an adjective when none would do.

He’d have to watch his step if he wanted the continued support of the rest of the city council, and in Fawn Creek, town council and Ken Holmberg, owner of Minnesota Hockey Stix, were synonymous. The primary reasons Paul had been voted into office were because he was originally from Canada, and thus had a similar accent, and that he’d once played right wing for the Minnesota North Stars and thus had Ken’s blessing. His most effective campaign promise had been that if elected he’d play in the men’s senior league.

He’d yet to prove himself either on the ice or off. But he would. Ken and he had been the force behind the sesquicentennial, which they were going to use to introduce the rest of the state to the golden opportunities awaiting them here for investment, retirement, and recreation. Fawn Creek
was at a crossroads—either people would have to commit themselves to pulling this town from the brink of extinction, or they would have to pull up stakes and let it fade into footnotedom. And among those leaving would be Ken and his hockey stick company.

Ken had been holding on for some time now, ever since the plant expansion he’d thought would bring new prosperity to his little company had failed to produce the anticipated profits. Rumors, coming direct through Paul’s wife, Dottie, who was best friends with one of the officers’ wives over at the bank, were that the company’s pension wasn’t fully funded, the money earmarked for the pension having been used to finance the expansion. It was only a rumor, but it was a rumor that had that pension around ninety thousand dollars shy of what it ought to have had. And while ninety thousand dollars didn’t exactly put Minnesota Hockey Stix in dire straits, any further disappointments or financial troubles and Paul could see Ken saying, “To hell with it.”

And that, everyone understood, would be the beginning of the end. With fifty-three full-time employees Minnesota Hockey Stix was the town’s largest employer. If it went, the domino effect would just lay this town to waste.

Paul would hate that to happen. With a mere ten years of residency under his belt, Paul might still be a newcomer, but he loved this damn little town with the ardor that only a convert can bring. People took care of one another here. They had one another’s backs. No one living in a city—of which Paul was secretly an alumnus—could ever really understand how important that was. Why, hell, where else would the mayor hire a bunch of stoned slackers? Because in small towns, you looked after one another.

“This Jaax guy is really coming all the way out from New York?” Ken asked.

“Absolutely.” Another long hard look from Ken. The only thing a Minnesotan was sure of was death and … well, death.

“Everything is going”—Paul checked himself—”pretty good. Only thing I’m concerned about is that I haven’t heard from Jenn Lind. You know she said no to us originally. I hope she don’t change her mind again.”

“Don’t worry about Jenny,” Ken said stolidly. “She loves this town. She owes this town. And she knows it. Comes back all the time to get away from whatever it is people like that want to get away from. She’s probably out to her folks’ place right now.”

“The Lodge, right?” It was either one of the most exclusive B and Bs in the Midwest or the most unsuccessful, because Paul had never met anyone who’d ever stayed there.

“That’s the place.”

“Well, that makes me feel some better, then, Ken.” In Minnesota there were no absolutes. One lived squarely in the center of the emotional spectrum, being some better and some worse, but never edging too far out in either direction.

“Good.” They sat, staring off at a forty-five-degree angle from each other while Paul tried to think of some polite way to get rid of Ken. By Paul’s estimate, in about ten minutes, Ken would start blowing hard about the great hockey career he never had because he was too busy building a financial empire. Paul was not in the mood.

“I got an idea,” he said when inspiration finally dawned. “Let’s drive up to the lake and check out that ice.”

“It’s okay by me,” Ken said. “But why’dya want to?”

“Well, Butter Sinykin broke through by the spring there last year, didn’t he?”

“So?” Ken’s tone suggested Butter had gotten no better than he deserved. “That was April and Butter was hauling rip rock with his tractor. It’s December and we’re just gonna have a buncha folks sitting around on overturned pails, is all.”

“Well, you can’t be too careful.” No phrase in the entire lexicon of secret code words known as Minnesotan was more calculated to draw a favorable response from a native than this, because, without a doubt, a guy could not be too careful.

Without another word, Ken shoved himself to his feet, following Paul out of the city hall into the parking lot, where Paul’s GM half ton waited, the black umbilicus connecting its block heater to the electric socket lying on the ground like a frozen snake.

Paul waited while Ken climbed into the cab and looked around. It had started to snow again, and though night had fallen, the light reflecting off the new snow had turned the sky above to pewter. Around the overhead arc lights, the snow flakes swirled like gnats around a bug zapper, thick and anxious, while on the edge of the parking lot, the windbreak of pines whispered. Fawn Creek, which honesty compelled a guy to admit it wasn’t all that comely most of the year, looked downright picturesque tonight—and more snow was promised.

Better than pretty, this year’s unprecedented snowfall after three brown winters meant that the sound of snowmobiles, too long dormant, would once more be roaring through the winter landscape, bringing a smile to the face of every tourist-based operator in town. As well as bringing back the snowmobilers, the snow meant that the muzzle-loader deer season was bound to be a success, and that meant that this Sunday,
when the sesquicentennial got under way with the opening fishing tournament, there would be Polaroids of trophy-sized bucks pinned to every corkboard in every diner and supermarket in town.

And if the tourists didn’t want to snowmobile or hunt, there was the casino twenty miles to the north. They were holding their first annual all-amateur, dusk-to-dawn poker tournament this weekend, and that looked like it was going to be a big deal, too. The winner of the tournament was going to get a cash prize, aside from the pot, of one hundred thousand dollars.

Best of all, no catastrophes had hit the country all week and hopefully none would because that meant that coming into the holiday season as it was, the network reporters would be cruising the AP briefs for human interest stories, and with both Jenn Lind and this sculptor coming to town, Fawn Creek had one tasty story. Why, the NBC affiliate in Minneapolis was doing a piece on them for the five o’clock news tonight.

“You going to get in or what?” Ken’s muffled voice came from inside the truck.

Paul smiled. “You bet.”

5:20 p.m.

The Ramsey County Adult Detention Facility

Plymouth, Minnesota

The Ramsey County Adult Detention Facility had a crappy lounge with a crappier television watched by the crappiest bunch of sad-ass losers “Dunk” Dunkovich had ever had the misfortune to see. And Dunk, slouched in a leatherette armchair, had seen a lot.

They all stared up at the TV watching the local news, afraid that their panicked faces were going to be plastered across the metropolitan viewing area, revealing them as losers. Like it was a secret.

“
Though not unexpected, few in key management positions are expected to retain their positions after Davies takes possession of the company
,” the news anchor guy was saying.

“I believe it Davies is a complete prick,” a forty-something guy with a Florida tan and a fifty-dollar haircut said. He claimed to be a consultant from Chicago here on a long-term project and that he got lonely and went to bars. Evidently, he got lonely a lot. Because this was his third DWI.

“How would you know?” another guy asked.

“I did a thing for his company a few years back. Had to report to old Dwight himself. He fired me the first time we met and all because I swore in front of his secretary. Shit”—he sneered—”all I said was ‘shit.’ The guy is a sanctimonious, tight-assed dog turd.”

“
And when we come back, a related story. A small town gets some big-name visitors
.”

Dunk’s fellow detainees went back to babbling among themselves. Most were in for DWIs, a couple for failing to comply with restraining orders, and some, like Dunk, for violating the terms of their parole. Losers to a man.

Except for Dunk. He caught sight of his reflection in the darkened window overlooking the parking lot and smoothed back his hair. By God, he still had that “look,” like he was the top salesman for some high-tech
business, or maybe a junior college teacher. This latest trip to the workhouse was just bad luck. He’d be out of here in another fifteen hours and back in the game.

But what game? Grifting? Gaffing some Lotto tickets? Scamming high school hotties at the malls by signing them up for his “model agency?”

Small change. His looks weren’t going to last forever. He was fifty years old and getting older and he didn’t have a pension and lately that had started bothering him. He needed something big. Something to fund the Dunk Dunkovich Retirement Plan. What he needed was an IRA—

“—
ALREADY KNOW THAT LOCAL CELEBRITY JENN LIND WILL BE STARRING IN THE NATIONALLY SYNDICATED
COMFORTS OF HOME.”

Someone had cranked the volume way up on the television. A ratty-looking kid popped up out of his seat and readjusted the volume on the set while the anchor guy flashed more teeth than a shark.

“
Jenn launched her career at the Minnesota State Fair twenty-two years ago as a finalist in the Minnesota Dairy Farmer Federation’s Buttercup pageant
.”