September Mourn Page 5

  Twenty or so other protestors milled nearby, their signs also denouncing some aspect of the dairy industry. It made me exhausted just to read them, so I strode off without any further interaction.

  I cruised to the Midway and sought out the games area, which was lined with stalls—balloon darts, frog fishing, basketball, skeeball, ring toss, break-a-plate or whack-a-mole, rubber duck grab—probably fifty stalls in all ringing the sides of the game area with more in the middle. I noted as I walked that either my black mood had affected my senses or I had stumbled into the seedy side of the fair.

  Likely, both.

  The carnies in the game booths cajoled me to buy three darts for $5, or try my luck with a basketball. The crowds were thin here, and so the carnival workers were aggressive, insulting me when I walked by without acknowledging them, catcalling and hooting.

  “Hey baby, you wanna pump my gun? Every girl’s a winner at this booth!”

  “Where you going? Spend some time with a lonely carnie! I promise I won’t bite, sweetheart.”

  The farther in I walked, the higher my hackles rose. I had tripped into the dark side, a mangy place populated with carnie rats, cheap, polyester dolls made in overseas sweatshops, and prize mirrors and T-shirts adorned with pictures of large-breasted women and sexist slogans. It felt like everyone around me had developed flashing eyes and sharp incisors, and when I dared a glance up, I met the gaze of the short-range-shooting booth operator, who was suggestively rimming a Hot Pocket.

  Someone tapped my shoulder. “Where’s the fire?”

  “Mrs. Berns!” My relief was immense. The sleaziness of the moment melted. A family walked past, their little girl smiling at her massive puff of cotton candy, and the wolves retreated into the shadows.

  “Who else? Check these out!” She was cradling two stuffed pitbulls, each the size of a widescreen TV. “I would have won three, but he kicked me out. Said there was a limit, but I didn’t see a sign.”

  My heartbeat slowed to normal. “Maybe he meant a limit to good taste?”

  “Can you carry one of these? A strong wind picks up, and I’ll have to choose between me and them.”

  I hoisted one on my shoulder and grabbed the other with my free hand. “We should probably get these and you into a taxi. It’s been a long day. Where’re you staying?”

  Mrs. Berns smiled at me. “Can I buy you dinner? Deep fried pickle? Chocolate-dipped bacon? Teriyaki ostrich skewers?”

  My shoulders tightened as I realized where this was headed, and all the trauma of the day came home to roost. “Oh no.”

  “Oh yes. There’s plenty of room in that pimpmobile Ron passes for a trailer. No sense me wasting my money on a hotel room. Besides, I already unpacked.”

  “I go to bed early.”

  “You think there’s anyone in Battle Lake doesn’t know that? You’ve gotta be dryer than lint by now, all those nights with just you, the TV, and your animals.” Mrs. Berns cackled. “Don’t worry. I won’t put a dent in your lifestyle. Now let’s go store these dogs. I don’t want people to think I’m a show-off.”

  I considered telling her that with the epée still strapped to her waist, people thinking she was a show-off might be the least of her worries, but why point out a ding in a person’s windshield when they were lucky to have the car running?

  And truth be told, I was more than a little relieved Mrs. Berns would be staying with me. I didn’t want to be alone tonight. I trudged behind her, the bizarreness of the day fully catching up to me and wiping me out, and it wasn’t even suppertime. By the time we reached the campgrounds, I was dragging. I felt like I had walked to the State Fair from Otter Tail County.

  Barefoot.

  “You left the door open,” Mrs. Berns said.

  I shook my head, not even bothering to look up. “No I didn’t.”

  “Well then, it opened itself, because it’s swinging in the wind.”

  I glanced up. She was right.

  I shuddered as my body scraped the bottom of the adrenaline barrel. After finding Mrs. Berns in the trailer earlier today, I had been extra careful to lock the door on my way out. No way had it come open on its own.

  Someone had broken in, and there was a possibility they were still inside. I set down the pitbulls and was reaching to pull Mrs. Berns away from the Airstream when I was sideswiped by my third shock of the day.

  Seven

  When we saw who our guest was, Mrs. Berns’ immediate impulse was to seize a pitbull doll and hurl it at her.

  There was more power in those stewing-chicken arms than I would have guessed because she knocked Kennie Rogers’ Christina Aguilera weave right off.

  “What in the hell’d you do that for?”

  “You had an animal on your head.”

  The mayor of Battle Lake stepped off the trailer steps and bent her impressive frame to pick up the hair-like product, which consisted of three-foot strands of Barbie-blonde hair woven with startling oranges and pinks. While her hairpiece was relatively modern, her body was screaming to be released from a 1980s time machine. I recognized her tight rainbow shirt, Guess? jeans pinned at the ankles, and the acid-green jelly shoes. I think I’d worn them in my high school senior photo. Also, I was ten plus years younger than Kennie.

  She plopped the weave back on her platinum-blonde head. “In an effort at day-tawn-tay, I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

  Détente? Kennie Rogers was to diplomacy what termites were to wood. Though, to be fair, she and I had reached an uncomfortable truce recently, after she’d been dumped by the Chief of Police for God. The experience had made me feel sorry for her, which was not the same as liking her, but better than wanting to drown her. “What’re you doing here?”

  She harumphed. “As mayor of Battle Lake, it is my right to see how city funds are being spent. The trailer’s spot was paid for by the Chamber of Commerce, you know.”

  It was still a marvel to me how Kennie got away with her thick Southern accent. She was Battle Lake, born and raised, except for a short stint in beauty school which hadn’t stuck. “How’d you get in the trailer?”

  “Key from Ron. And the bed in back will do just fine, thank you.”

  “Oh no,” Mrs. Berns piped in. “You’re not staying here. And even if you are, that’s my bed.”

  I started to walk away. My plan was to find a nice barn, pretend I was a cow, and live it up for the rest of my life. Worst-case scenario, I’d get committed and sent someplace where at least the people knew they were insane.

  “Where’re you going?” Both women called out in unison.

  I kept my stride.

  Kennie continued, her voice cajoling. “That mean you don’t want to know when Johnny’ll be here?”

  I stopped.

  My blood ran hot and cold, creating little explosions where the temperatures collided. Johnny Leeson was the Adonis of Battle Lake. The mere mention of his name brought delicious quivers. He had thick and wavy dirty-blonde hair, eyes blue enough to scare off clouds, sensuous and strong lips, and arms that could pick you up and throw you over his shoulder, if he wasn’t too nice of a guy for such a caveman move.

  He and I had a history, and like most histories, there were a lot of conflicts and misunderstandings. He was sexy, kind, and smart, and too good for me. That last one was the root of most of our problems. That, and my Dork Wattage shot off the charts when he appeared. It was his hands that made me the craziest. They were sun browned, big and capable, his fingers lean and perfectly proportioned. I couldn’t look at them without imagining them tangled in my hair, or moving down my naked back, or pulling me in fiercely for a passionate kiss that set us both on raging, all-consuming fire.

  Of course, any of that had yet to happen outside of my fertile imagination.

  “Might wanna put your leg down,” Mrs. Berns said. “I think you just sprayed that gentleman.”

  I blushed and nodded at the cowboy walking past. Then I turned and marched past the ladies and into the trailer. “We
’re going to sit around the table and discuss this. All of it. Come on.”

  Suddenly, Mrs. Berns and Kennie were a team against me, honking like geese as they entered the Airstream. Kennie squawked the loudest. “Where did you leave off with Johnny, anyhow? Have you two even gotten to first base?”

  “Doubt it,” Mrs. Berns said, taking the bench by the door. “Mira’d have better luck falling up than she does falling in love.”

  They both giggled.

  I shook my head. “Johnny and I have decided to back it up a little. To be friends, and see where that goes.”

  “You can’t back up from nowhere, girl.”

  “Yeah,” Mrs. Berns agreed. “I think you have to be somewhere to back up from it, honey.”

  Sad but true.

  My past was sprinkled with men who had a drinking problem, thought that making sure you were awake first constituted foreplay, and/or were so afraid of commitment that they didn’t even own permanent markers.

  I hadn’t migrated to Battle Lake expecting to change my lousy luck with the opposite sex. In fact, I hadn’t even moved there expecting to find a guy who used correct verb tense, so when Johnny sailed into my life all open and sweet and smart, I hadn’t known what to do with him. Keeping him at arm’s length had worked okay so far, but I could feel my reserve crumbling. “He’s coming to the State Fair?”

  “Saturday,” Kennie confirmed. “His band’s playing. They just booked it, filling in for a cancellation. He made me promise not to tell you, but as your friend, I couldn’t do that. He shows up to surprise you, and there you are all tree-frog ugly with your hair uncombed and wearing no makeup. Ugh.”

  “I never wear makeup, Kennie.”

  She pursed her lips and nodded, her expression saying, and see where it got you?

  I changed the subject to distract from the sudden thrumming in my rib cage. Johnny was coming to the State Fair, and honestly, there’s nothing like seeing your crush on stage, shaking his hair and singing for strangers, to make a gal hot. It’s primal. It’s mysterious. It explains how Roy Orbison and Bob Dylan ever managed to get laid. “So you’re up to see the sights?”

  “Oh no, baby. sight-seeing isn’t a tax write-off. I’m up here to work.” Kennie said this loud, as if the IRS may have planted a hidden microphone behind Ron’s lava lamp. “Battle Lake has a booth here, for one day only. It’s going up a week from this Saturday, on ‘I Love the Fair!’ day. All the proceeds will go to the municipal liquor store. I wanna get in some of that vodka with gold flecks in it, but Bobbie said we can’t order stuff that might not sell unless she’s got more cash in the pot.”

  I furrowed my brow. I’d never fully understood the concept of city-owned liquor stores, though the financial investment made sense the more time I’d spent in Battle Lake, where Old Milwaukee was one of the four food groups. That aside, a Battle Lake fundraiser at the State Fair actually sounded like a good idea, which made me suspicious. Kennie was known for her ideas, but not one of them had been good. In fact, most of them weren’t even legal. “How’re you going to raise the money? Specifically, what kind of booth is this going to be?”

  She smiled like a satisfied cat. “That’s a big ’ol surprise.”

  Uhn-hunh. Thought so. “And you need to be here a week early to set up?”

  “Yes.” She raised her voice. “I must work while I am here at the Minnesota State Fair.” She drew it down to a whisper. “But between you, me, and the wall, I’m going to also reacquaint myself with one Mr. Neil Diamond.”

  Any camaraderie Mrs. Berns had shared with Kennie at my expense vanished. “What do you mean, ‘reacquaint’?”

  Kennie fluttered fake, glitter-sprayed lashes. “A girl’s gotta have her secrets. But if you insist. I have a little history with Neil. We shared a special night many years ago. I think he’ll be pleased to see me again.”

  “Were there five thousand other people there, sharing this special night?” Mrs. Berns asked, her voice growing high. “And did you have to pay to get into this special night, and was there stadium seating?”

  “Now, now,” Kennie said, leaning back and crossing her legs. “No need to be jealous.”

  Mrs. Berns scowled, then grabbed me by the arm and led me to the back of the trailer and into the only room with a door. She had already laid her clothes across the bed and had my suitcase packed near the door. “If you tell her I have backstage passes, I’ll pee on you while you’re sleeping.”

  My eyes widened. “Was that called for? Couldn’t you just ask me to please not tell?”

  “If she finds out, she’ll steal those passes from me as sure as you and I are standing here,” Mrs. Berns said, pinching my upper arm. “I know how weak you are. You cave at the drop of a hat. Now, you keep my secret, and I’ll throw in a little something extra for you on Neil night. Deal?”

  I yelped and rubbed at the sore spot she’d made. “You don’t need to bribe me. How about I just don’t tell her?” Mrs. Berns peered at me doubtfully, but she didnt pinch me again.

  “When you’re sleeping. Remember,” she hissed, before striding back into the RV’s main room. “We agreed, Kennie. I’m the old lady, I get the back bedroom. I need my sleep, you know, and I snore like a buzz saw. The two of you can take the fold-out beds in this main room.”

  Kennie looked from me to her, not trusting us. She understood squatter’s rights, though, and replaced her look of doubt with a broad smile. “Fine. Isn’t this going to be fun? Just like a slumber party.”

  And those words were the last I heard before I entered the third circle of Hell.

  Eight

  It should come as no surprise that Mrs. Berns and Kennie Rogers were appalling roommates.

  First, Mrs. Berns was not exaggerating about her propensity for snoring. Her presence in the trailer at night was like trying to fall asleep in the middle of a rip-roaring lumber camp.

  And there was no silence during the day. Oh no. Turns out Kennie Rogers had some sort of disorder which required her to hum when she wasn’t talking. I’d never been around her where she was quiet for any length of time so I hadn’t noticed before. The next morning, though, when I tried to piece together the little I knew about Ashley’s death into an article, there she was: Hmmmmmm hmmm hummmm.

  It was toneless, tuneless, and a prescription for making a quiet gal insane.

  I thought Kennie was giving me a reprieve when she left the trailer to find breakfast, but in an apparent effort to make our “slumber party” a multi-sensory experience, she vomited on the front steps on her way back. Apparently, a breakfast of corn dogs and deep-fried Twinkies followed by a ride on The Scrambler had been her undoing.

  Mrs. Berns wasn’t silly enough to go on any rides, but she did love the cheese curds, which gave her farts that sliced through metal. That, combined with the heat of the day, transformed the metal Airstream into a Dutch sulfur oven.

  Fortunately, a phone call from Ron Sims right before lunch saved me. He had forced the cell phone on me, and as his was the first call I had received on it, I was startled by the ringtone, a jarringly tinny rendition of Barry White’s, “I’m Qualified to Satisfy You.” Had he given me his wife’s phone? His insurance agent’s? I snapped it open to end the song. “Hello?”

  “What do you know about Ashley?” Ron had never been a loquacious man, but his speech was more clipped than usual.

  His familiar voice brought it all back. “It’s terrible, isn’t it? I don’t know much, probably less than you. I ran into Carlotta, though, right after Ashley was… right after Ashley was found. That poor woman looked terrible.”

  Silence at the other end. A cough. “Carlotta and Steven are not doing well. We have to find out what happened to their daughter. I need an article before tomorrow.”

  I pulled the phone back from my head in disbelief, looked at it, and then shoved it back to my ear. “What? How am I supposed to find out how she died by tomorrow?”

  “Press conference. In an hour, at the Dairy building. Th
ey’re announcing the cause of Ashley’s death. Get me the story.”

  Click.

  I was left with a lot of bluster and nowhere to aim it. A raucous rumbling from the back room pulled me out of my funk. Mrs. Berns was waking from her nap, and I didn’t want to be sitting here when the smell caught up with the sound. I snatched my notebook and pen, shoved them in my big embroidered purse along with my press pass, threw my camera around my neck, and took off toward the Dairy building.

  The day was bright, the sun at its zenith. It was one of those dog days of summer that was so hot, you wished your skin had a zipper. I pulled out my oversized sunglasses and plowed through the crowd, snagging bits of conversation about the rides, or the baby animal exhibit, or whether Pig Lickers or gyros were a better option for lunch.

  An uncomfortably obese man carrying a yardstick in one hand and a sweating glass of fresh-squeezed lemonade in the other plowed into me. “Sorry,” he said, but not before his drink sloshed onto my arm, leaving a cold and sticky spot.

  The frenetic mood of the fair changed when I neared the Dairy building. The crowds were still packed as tight as grapes, but they were quieter, whether out of deference to Ashley’s recent death or because they thought that’s what the camera crews circling the building expected, I couldn’t be certain. I slid between them, stopped short by the mountain of flowers and stuffed animals that had grown since yesterday. The entire front of the building was flanked with memorial offerings for Ashley.

  Apparently, she’d become the sweet princess in death that she had never been in life.

  “We are at the scene of the death, where Battle Lake’s fallen queen took her last breath.” I stepped around the hyperbolic television reporter intoning into his microphone and pulled out my press badge for one of the police officers at the front door. He glanced at it and nodded me in.

  It was creepy being back in the Dairy building. I counted fifty plus people inside, which seemed like a lot unless you were in a cavernous pole barn with a cement floor. Yesterday, the place had been wall-to-wall bodies, thrilled to be part of history as Milkfed Mary commenced the State Fair. Today, most of the people here looked like vultures instead of fairgoers, leaning forward to catch a whiff of the luridness surrounding Ashley’s death, something that would sell papers and coerce people to leave the TV on through commercials.