September Fair Read online

  “Let me guess. You’re going to tell me how cruel the rodeo industry is.” My delayed adrenaline rush had passed, and I was able to stand.

  “It is. But that’s not my thing right now. You sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m okay.” Thoroughly cured of my cow crush, but okay. “What’re you doing here, anyway? I don’t see your sign.”

  “My sign?”

  “Your protest sign.”

  “It wasn’t sewed on.” He smiled genuinely. “I can walk around without it.”

  “Good to know.”

  “Anyhow, I gotta run. Take care.” After a searching look to make sure I was okay, he took off in the same direction the trailer carrying the bull had gone. I watched him go, collected myself, and then walked toward the rear of the Cattle Barn to seek out the Otter Tail folks. The area was still vibrating with excitement, and people whispered as I walked past. I imagine they were sussing out how someone too stupid to jump out of the way of a charging bull was allowed out without a helmet and a fulltime caregiver.

  “I didn’t think it was real,” I mumbled, confirming their suspicions. I ducked quickly to the back of the barn where most people had missed seeing exactly which silly girl had played impromptu toreador. The name of the county the entrants were representing was painted in green on a white placard over every stall, but there didn’t seem to be any method to the organization—Mahnomen, located in the northwest region of the state, followed Kandiyohi, which followed Stearns, both located in central Minnesota, and so on. When I finally found the Otter Tail County stalls, all three were empty of people but full of cows. I stood for ten minutes until two grizzled men and a broad-shouldered teenager in T-shirts and jeans showed up.

  “Nice animals you have here,” I said, indicating the two black and whites and the brownish-reddish one. My brain was still a little jangly or I would have come up with a much better greeting.

  The tallest guy appeared to also be the oldest. His gray hair put him at about sixty, but when he smiled, his eyes crinkled merrily and took ten years off my estimate. “Thank you. You a farmer?”

  “No. I’m a reporter from the Battle Lake Recall.”

  “Ayuh. How’s old Ron Sims doing?”

  “The usual. Eating too much, trying to run the world from behind his desk.”

  The tall guy chuckled. “That sounds about right. I’m Jim, this is my grandson Dan. We’re from over by Fergus. Jack here is from Underwood.”

  “Pleased to meet all of you. I’m Mira.” I pointed at the ribbons nailed to the front of the stalls. “Looks like you came off pretty well. What’d you guys win?”

  “I’ve got dairy cows here, Holsteins, but you probably knew that,” he said kindly. “Lucinda won a blue ribbon, but Jenny didn’t place this year.”

  I pulled my pad and paper out of my purse. “All right if I use some of this in an article? Ron has me covering the State Fair.”

  “That’s fine. And Dan here has a grand prizewinning Araucana over in the poultry barn that he wouldn’t mind showing off if you want to head there next.”

  I was scribbling furiously. I wrote “lizard?” “duck?” next to the word Araucana. “You must be very proud.”

  Dan beamed but didn’t respond.

  “Jack, your cow won something too, right?”

  “This one here’s a beef cow, a Limousin, and a red ribbon will have to do for him.”

  Thoughtfully, I stopped writing, my competitive spirit rising to the top. “Do they have any housecat exhibitions? I’ve got a real beauty at home.”

  Dan snorted, a failed attempt to hold back a laugh rather than a sniff of judgment. “Just livestock.”

  “Bummer.” Tiger Pop would have to settle for being grand kitty in my own little world. “Say, did you hear about Ashley Pederson’s death? She was from Battle Lake.”

  Darkness fell over their faces at my painfully awkward segue. “I know Gary, her dad,” Jack said. “His heart is broken. Saddest thing I ever heard when I found out his daughter died.”

  I nodded. “The police say she was poisoned.”

  “I don’t know who’d do that. She was a sweet girl, and all of us Otter Tail farmers were so proud of her. She represented us well.”

  “Her family didn’t have any enemies, did they?”

  Jim held out his hand. “Hold on. This isn’t CSI New York. You’re talking about Battle Lake. People there don’t get ‘murdered by enemies.’ Worst thing that’ll happen is you lose some fingers in a farming accident. We look out for each other.”

  “So what happened to Ashley?”

  They shook their heads and studied their feet. The cow nearest Jim bent its leg and leaned on him, a restful gesture like a dog leaning against his owner. Jim pushed the cow away, firmly but kindly. It was odd for me to see people so comfortable with huge animals. I tried a different tack. “Do you guys know anything about Bovine Productivity Management? They’re the company sponsoring the Milkfed Mary pageant.”

  Jim spit on the cement. “We prefer to farm the old-fashioned way. One year, only once I needed the money bad enough to try their Milk Enhancer, and never again. The milk tasted funny, salty and sweet at the same time, and I couldn’t keep up with the milking. Hurt my cows.”

  “I heard worse stuff about what that ME does,” Dan said, speaking up for the first time. His dad shot him a look, and he shuffled his feet. “Nothing I know for sure, though.”

  “Ayuh,” Jim said. “You should ask the shyster over at the BPM booth.”

  “Bovine Productivity has a booth here?”

  “Absolutely. We can’t afford most of their stuff, but they figure it doesn’t hurt to try. Ask him about ME.”

  My talk of BPM and Ashley had brought down the congenial mood we’d started with, and I felt bad. “Thank you for your time.” I was walking away when something occurred to me. I walked back and addressed Jim. “When your cows have calves, do they get to drink their mom’s milk, or do you feed them formula?”

  He appeared thoughtful, patting the back of his cow. “Formula’s expensive, so I let them nurse as God intended. They eat only organic grass and feed for the same reason. Mind you, small family farmers like me are a dying breed. The agribusinesses are choking us, squeezing all the milk and meat they can out of an animal with their chemicals and corporate farms.” Dan and Jack nodded in agreement.

  “Thanks.” As I walked away, I wondered what else Aeon had been right about. If most of the milk we drank was stolen from the babies it was intended for, did that also mean that every glass of milk really did have eight drops of pus in it? My stomach did a greasy flip as I thought about all the cheese I’d eaten since I’d arrived at the fair. Maybe I’d need to try life without cheese, I thought as I caught sight of the BPM booth. It was on the far side of the cavernous barn, in the middle of a long line of agricultural product stalls. BPM had more signs than the rest, so many that I was surprised I hadn’t noticed it on a previous trip. I strode up, introduced myself to the fifty-something overweight man behind the counter and asked him if ME really worked.

  Not bothering to ask why I wanted to know, he beetled his bushy eyebrows and pointed to the cow tethered to his booth. Her udders were engorged and popping with veins. She stood lightly on her back feet and munched on the feed in front of her.

  “Doesn’t all that milk hurt her udders?”

  “Not at all. Cows love to make milk. It’s what their bodies were created for.” As he came around the front of the counter, I noticed there was something oddly feminine about him. It wasn’t his height or build—he came from some hearty stock and was a good five inches taller than me. His hair was close-trimmed, too, and his arms and hands were as hairy as a hobbit. I couldn’t put my finger on what was giving me that impression, and so I pulled my stare away from his body and watched as he leaned over to squeeze a teat. The cow recoiled as if she’d been poked with a hot iron. White milk whizzed out, hitting the ground with a ricocheting force.

  “Wow. Impressive. Do you
have any materials I can take with me?”

  He handed me a stack of brochures which I intended to throw away as soon as I left the building. They wouldn’t tell me anything the BPM website hadn’t. I neared the entrance of the Cattle Barn, sidestepping manure deposits and keeping a wary eye out for escaped behemoths. It was time to discover what the Milkfed Mary sculptor knew for sure, and I wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

  I scanned the street for bulls before darting out. I stuck close to the buildings but hit a vulnerable, open area near the Go Cart pit. Rather than risk it, I picked up speed and sprinted the last two hundred yards to the Dairy building. It was stuffed full of fairgoers milling around, pushing against each other, looking for food. I didn’t know if humans had always been so much like cows or if the fair just put an agricultural perspective to everything.

  The Minnesota State Fair is a stew representative of the entire population. Well over a hundred thousand people attend on any given day, so while you get a lot of the blonde, blue-eyed farmers in town for the livestock and agriculture exhibits, you also get the Goth kids who gather to giggle at the suburban families and steal cigarettes, world-weary city people as giddy as schoolchildren at the idea of immersing themselves in a simpler time for a day, and recent immigrants and out-of-towners who want to experience Minnesota Nice firsthand. Children tug at their parents, leading them to the merry-go-round or the nearest Sno Cone vendor, shiny young people on first dates stare in fear as farm animals calve in front of them at the Miracle of Birth Center, and people generally gather in good cheer to celebrate music, food, and the agricultural roots of the state. It’s Disneyland with cows, made more festive by its ephemeral status. From start to finish, the Minnesota State Fair lasts only twelve days, always ending on Labor Day.

  Of all the joys of the fair, the food is the most legendary. When a sunburnt guy, fat hanging from his arms and over his belly, walked by with a creamy white sundae smothered in chocolate sauce, my militant, anti-dairy resolve weakened. What if the ice cream at the State Fair was only made with the milk from happy, organically-fed Minnesota cows, like Jim raised? Yes. That was the reality I was going to accept. The fact that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast sealed the deal. I waited my turn in line at Dairy Goodness, vowing that I would only eat organic ice cream and cheese from homegrown, Minnesota cows.

  Yum. Nothing tastes quite so good as compromised principles. The humid air melted the ice cream quickly, which was just how I liked it. Melting ice cream has worlds more flavor than hard frozen. I licked and smiled, my tummy encouraging my mouth to keep up the good work. The cone was almost demolished when I reached the Milkfed Mary booth on the other end of the building and noticed that it was empty of people. Real people, anyhow. It held Lana’s likeness carved in butter, and now Christine’s poised next to it, both of them looking more like yellow, cartoon renditions of generic, big-haired females than either of the women. I grimaced at the empty booth. Had my gluttony cost me a chance to speak to the sculptor?

  I moved through the crowd over to the blue curtain, tossing my napkin and cone wrapper in a trashcan. “Knock knock?” I said to the curtain.

  “Be out in a minute!” a pleasant female voice answered, and sure enough, sixty seconds later, I was face to face with the butter sculptor, one Glenda Haines. She was a petite woman with strong hands and a lined face. Her winter coat was slung over her arm. “I start sweating as soon as I step outside of that refrigerator. My body knows it’s still summer, even if I refrigerate it for half a day.”

  I put out my hand. “I’m Mira. I’m a reporter for the Battle Lake newspaper, in Ashley’s hometown. Would you be able to answer a few questions for me?”

  She closed her eyes and kept them closed, a tiny frown on her face. When she reopened them, she had tears filling the corners. “Glenda Haines, and I’m trying to move past that.”

  “I’m very sorry, I really am, but I told Ashley’s mom I’d see what I could find out. She’s devastated.”

  The woman sighed and let the coat slip into her hand. “Fine. But I’m starving. Let’s go to JD’s and I’ll tell you what little I know.”

  I didn’t have much time until I was supposed to meet Mrs. Berns and Kennie, but I wasn’t going to let this opportunity slip. I followed her to JD’s Eating Establishment, whose slogan was “Definitely Nothin’ on a Stick!” Their little diner was surrounded by a red countertop and stools. I saved the sculptor a seat while she grabbed a cheeseburger and fries. When she returned, I eyed her fries hungrily. The ice cream cone had been pretty small. “How long have you been carving the Milkfed Mary heads at the fair?”

  She bit into her burger, and grease oozed down her chin. It smelled delicious, but I refused to rethink my position on eating red meat. After all, I was red meat too, and I’d already waffled on one stance today, no matter how weakly or briefly it’d been held. “This is my first year.”

  This triggered an alarm bell. If she was new to the operation, she might be the weak link, someone who could easily be paid off to look the other way as Ashley was poisoned. Or, to poison her. “Who did it before then?”

  “Linda Gerritt. She’s the best, the queen in our field. All of us butter sculptors dream of reaching her level. That woman makes butter come to life under her fingers. And have you seen the hair on her carvings? Stunning. Voluminous. Creamy. I could spend a whole lifetime studying under her and not become that good. God doesn’t spread His gifts out as equally as we’d like.” She crunched on a fry emphatically. “Anyhow, when I got the call to fill in for Linda, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.”

  “So you’re just temporary?”

  “Yeah. Linda broke her arm a week before the fair opened. Don’t know how.”

  Actually, Linda’s coincidentally being rendered unable to work the same week as a Milkfed Mary was murdered in her booth was momentarily less interesting to me than the underground world of butter artistry that I’d stumbled onto. “How many of you are there? Butter sculptors, that is?”

  “More than you’d think. Between state fairs, weddings, corporate retreats and all, we keep busy. But the Minnesota State Fair? That’s the top of the heap, let me tell you. Actors have their Broadway. Country singers have the Grand Ole Opry. Seed artists have the Corn Palace. Us butter sculptors have the Milkfed Mary booth at the Minnesota State Fair.”

  “So Ashley’s death must have been pretty devastating.”

  She set her burger down and placed her hand on mine. “It was the worst day of my life. The very worst day. I had a new snowsuit all ready to go, and I was as nervous as a bride on her wedding night before I went up those stairs into The Booth.”

  I could hear the capital letters on her words. She was a bit of a ham, but harmless, I’d decided. No killer described butter-carved hair as “voluminous.” I made a note to ask her if she had any family from Battle Lake.

  “I followed right behind Ashley, who looked a little peaked. I mentioned that to the police already, you know. No, that girl didn’t look right, but she was a professional, and she kept that smile plastered on her face right up until the lights went out. As soon as they did, I heard her begin to thrash and gag, and I felt around for her, but it was dark as the devil’s heart in there.”

  “Did she throw up?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t know that for sure until the lights came back on. So I heard the coughing and gagging, and I’m reaching around for her, and she swings her arms and knocks me over. Before I could get to my feet, the lights snapped on, and she was there on the floor, turning the oddest red color.”

  “What’d you do next?” I prodded.

  She looked away from me, picking up a french fry and putting it down. “I ran out to get help. I’m not proud of the fact that I didn’t stay and try CPR or something, but the police told me I couldn’t have done anything for her. Once their skin starts turning color, they said, the cyanide’s already got them in its death grip.”

  “The police told you what kind of poison it was?�
�

  Her mouth widened in an “O.” “No! I’m not supposed to tell anyone. Darn it. I promised the police officers I wouldn’t, but I was just so hysterical after she died that one of the officers let slip that it looked like cyanide. He wanted to assure me that I couldn’t have helped her, I think.”

  I nodded. “I wonder where somebody’d get cyanide.”

  She looked at me wide-eyed. “I know! This is Minnesota!” She said the last part as if the idea of poison being in the state was as ludicrous as the Pope stealing a pair of high tops. I know! He’s the father of the Catholic Church! Craziness!

  “The police have any leads?”

  “Not that they told me. I’m just an artist. Police don’t take us creative types real seriously.” She shrugged. “Going back into the booth after Ashley died was scary, but it was all disinfected and clean. I think I did a pretty good job on Lana. Christine was hard. She’s got those round cheeks, which can be difficult to re-create in butter. Too much and it looks like she’s smuggling acorns. Not enough, and it doesn’t resemble the subject.”

  “You’re doing good,” I assured her. “Beautiful. Say, you wouldn’t happen to have Linda Gerritt’s number?”

  She pulled out her cell phone. “I’ve got her on speed dial what with all my questions. Here you go.”

  I wrote down the number. “I really appreciate your time, Glenda.”

  “My pleasure. You’re going to stop by to see Brittany’s carving tomorrow?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I said, patting her on the arm as I took off to meet my roomies. And if I’d had the foresight of a hamster, I would have instead run in the opposite direction.

  As I strolled toward the International Bazaar, I wondered how I was going to find Mrs. Berns and Kennie. The front entrance spanned a block, and there were also two large side entrances. The entire area was swarming with people, pawing through the silks and spices and standing in line for Minnesota-ized fried rice, baba ghanoush, and tostadas. We should have been more specific about our meeting location, I thought, right up until the main Bazaar entrance was in sight. That’s when I realized those two Battle Lake ladies wouldn’t, couldn’t blend into any crowd. They were both dressed like harlot cowgirls in the flouncy, gingham miniskirts professional square dancers wear. Mrs. Berns was attired in head-to-toe green and Kennie in pink, but they otherwise wore matching cowboy hats, neckerchiefs, snap-front checked shirts, and cowboy boots. They were straight out of a Lawrence Welk episode.