September Fair (13 page)

Kennie’s bed to the right was unmade but empty, makeup stains on her pillow attesting to another late night. Actually, I’d never seen her without makeup, either before or after bed. I tiptoed back to Mrs. Berns’ bedroom. “Hello?” The door was ajar, and I poked my head in just enough to see the corner of the bed. I didn’t want any surprises. “Mrs. Berns?”

The visible slice of the bed was empty, so I risked opening the door a little wider. Still no one. I opened it all the way and was treated to the view of a neatly made bed and pristine room. Mrs. Berns had an admirable work ethic, even when on vacation. I was about to leave and shut the door behind me when an anomaly in the room caught my attention. It was a black shirt lying across the bottom of the bed, and I had seen it somewhere before. Actually, on someone quite famous. I walked over and held it up, affirming that it was, in fact, the same black, ruffled-at-the-collar, sweated-in, chest-hair-framing shirt Neil Diamond had serenaded the State Fair in last night. Oh my. A smile spread across my face against my will. Oh my.

I laid the shirt back where I’d found it after taking a quick sniff (music-man sweat and Paco Rabanne) and returned to the main room of the trailer to log online. Folding my bed back into a table, I set up my laptop. I might be in a “Summer of Love” themed trailer park, surrounded by cowboys and farmers, but I could still connect with the twenty-first century. My computer hummed and clicked as I flipped my notepad open to review my most recent notes relating to Ashley’s murder:
Janice Opatz sneaky. Ashley Pederson dating older man? Christine cheating with Dirk who was cheating on Lana. Christine says older man Swedish-sounding guy from sponsoring company. Kate Lewis acting odd at concert, hanging out with same little guy as Janice. Bovine Productivity Management is sponsoring company, www.bovineproductivity.com, St. Paul, 651-333-5255. Motives for murder: revenge (Lana)? Janice covering something up? Kate Lewis distracting attention from her embezzling? And how and when did Ashley swallow the poison and what poison was used—ask Mrs. Pederson if the police figured it out.

Not much there. When my wireless was connected, I went straight to the Bovine Productivity Management site, wondering what sort of nefarious activities I’d find hiding behind that Orwellian name. The home page was a soothing montage of vibrant greens, earthy browns, and crisp whites. The words
sustainable
,
healthy
, and
help
were connected to
innovatio
n and
conservation
. Photos of lean men biking in front of cornfields and dark-skinned women smiling into cameras as they tended to immaculate herds of cows flashed across the screen. Something about this wholesome and well-oiled operation sparked my warning feelers. In my experience, companies that “helped” and “conserved” as much as BPM claimed to didn’t have enough leftover cash to pay for slick P.R. websites.

I moved my cursor over the “About Us” link and clicked. I was rewarded with this information:

“Bovine Productivity Management is a corporation dedicated to supporting dairy farmers in sustainable efforts designed to decrease costs and increase output. Our scientists are continually seeking ways for farmers to procure more milk from happier cows. We invest our time in improving cow feed, medicine, vitamins, and quality and quantity of milk. When dairy farmers achieve, BPM achieves.”

That sounded good. Vague, but good, which I supposed was the intention. I clicked on “Our Products,” and was rewarded with stultifying information about GrowGood, their patented fertilizer;, Robusto and Cornucopia, the cow vitamins they produced; and ME, or “Milk Enhancer,” their bestselling bovine growth hormone. The website also offered links to their press releases, an investor information page, and a corporate responsibility page with more of the blandly soothing language found elsewhere on the site. It wasn’t until I clicked on the “Meet Our Family” page that I found what I was looking for: a list of employees’ names and job titles.

I counted forty-three, which was a good-sized company in my estimation. Only a quarter were women. Of the remaining three fourths, two had Swedish-sounding names. Per Olafsen was listed as the laboratory director, and Lars Gunder was the marketing manager. After not much thought, I decided Lana would have been far more likely to cross paths with Mr. Gunder, who would presumably be the contact person for the Milkfed Mary pageant. Too bad there weren’t photos of either man so I could guess their ages.

I flipped open my cell and dialed BPM’s number.

“Bovine Productivity Management. How may I direct your call?”

“Yes, is Mr. Gunder in?

“I’m afraid he isn’t. May I take a message?”

I thought quickly. Surprisingly, my brain recommended I tell the truth. Well, part of the truth. “Yes. My name is Mira James, and I’m a reporter for the
Battle Lake Recall
. I wanted to get some quotes from Mr. Gunder about the Milkfed Mary pageant, sponsored by BPM. They’re having a crown-passing ceremony this afternoon.”

“You’re in luck! He’ll be there, and he’ll be more than happy to answer questions before or after the event.”

“Thank you.” I hung up, scribbled a note in my pad, and called Ron to get Mrs. Pederson’s number.

“What have you found out?” He grunted.

I was loathe to tell him that Ashley appeared to be a boyfriend-stealing manipulator lacking a moral compass. He probably already knew it, but I wasn’t eager to speak ill of the dead, especially the youthful dead. Where’s the justice in not living long enough to fix your mistakes? “Not much. I’m following some leads.”

“The older man?”

“I don’t know anything for sure.”

He paused, and when he spoke, his voice was pained. “She had a reputation around town.”

“Ashley? You mean being snotty?”

“I mean being friendly with older gentlemen.”

I raised my eyebrows. “This firsthand information?”

“No.”

I let that lie. “So you gonna give me Mrs. Pederson’s number?”

“Are you going to ask her what poison was used?”

“If you’ll admit to being too chicken to do it yourself. You’re her friend. It’d be a lot easier for you to ask her.”

“You’d be surprised,” he said. “Hurry up and get me the full story.” He rattled off the Pederson home number before hanging up without saying goodbye, as was his pattern.

“I’m working on it,” I muttered, staring at the quiet phone. I took several breaths, steeling myself before making the difficult phone call.

“Ron?”

I forgot I had one of his cell phones. It must have come up as Ron on her caller ID. Her voice was sad and distant. “No, Mrs. Pederson. It’s Mira James. I have one of Ron’s cell phones while I’m at the fair.”

“You’re still there? Did you find anything out?”

“I’m afraid not. That’s why I’m calling. I have some difficult questions for you, but they might be helpful if you’re up for them.”

Her voice came out a little stronger. “Ask.”

“Do the police know how Ashley came in contact with the poison yet?”

“Not really. Right now, they’re assuming she ate or drank it, but it’ll be two or three weeks before we get the official toxicology reports. The medical examiner said it must have been something she consumed right before she went into the booth, though, because cyanide acts quickly.”

“Cyanide?”

“Yes. The examiner believes that was the poison used, based on her … on the way she died. We’re not supposed to release that information to the public until it’s been confirmed.”

I sat back in the bench, my brain whirring. “I’ll forget I heard it. Does cyanide have a taste or a smell?”

“She said it can smell like almonds, but not everyone can smell it. In small doses, depending on what form it is, it doesn’t seem to have any taste or color. She said that it was likely Ashley drank it, but all the other girls who were in the dorm with her right before she left for the Dairy building said Ashley only drank a diet cola, and she opened it right there in front of all of them. Lana specifically remembers Ashley opening it because the can was a little fizzy, and Ashley was upset because she was worried it would stain her outfit.”

That confirmed what Christine had said about Ashley’s last meal having been a diet soda. “How long after she drank it would the effects begin to show?”

“Not more than ten minutes, the medical examiner said.”

“So it must have been something she came in contact with while she was in the dormitory with the other princesses, on the way to the Dairy building, or in the booth itself?”

“That’s what they think.”

I triple-underlined the “
talk to Lana
” note I had written to myself. “Just one more thing, Mrs. Pederson. Do you know anything about an older man Ashley might have been seeing?”

There was a long pause on the other end. Her voice, when it came, sounded pinched. “She was seeing Dirk Holthaus. Only Dirk. They were very much in love.”

I felt like a total asshat for asking, and it struck me that Mrs. Pederson, like most mothers of teenagers, would have had little idea who her daughter was spending time with. In fact, I was willing to bet there was a lot Carlotta didn’t know about Ashley. “Thank you. I’m sure you’re right. How’re you and Gary holding up?”

“We’re still in shock, to be honest.” Her voice cracked. “You’ll tell me if you find anything out?”

“Of course I will. You’ll be the first to know.” It was a white lie, probably, because I certainly wasn’t going to tell her anything that would make her life more difficult. We exchanged more small talk and then I hung up. While my computer was still warmed up, I researched cyanide poisoning. Med-e-cine.com confirmed what Mrs. Pederson had told me. It also explained Ashley’s cherry-red skin after she died. Cyanide worked by inhibiting the body’s ability to process oxygen, trapping it in the blood and not letting it reach the cells, thereby turning skin pink or red. Cyanide was more easily available than I would have guessed. Apricot pits, cassava root, the burning of plastic, silk, or rubber all produced cyanide. People in certain industries, like electroplating and photography, had access to the toxin. Also, those who worked in chemical labs. I made a note next to the Bovine Productivity Management page of my notepad. I didn’t know how one went about asking a receptionist if her company created or used cyanide, but I’d put it on my to-do list.

Cyanide could come in a lot of forms, according to the website, but gas and water-soluble salts were the most common. In Ashley’s case, gas seemed unlikely as she hadn’t been alone all morning, and she was the only one poisoned. A selective version made more sense. Swallowing only 300 milligrams of hydrogen cyanide salts would be enough to kill a person. More would do it more quickly. As to the symptoms of poisoning, it was likely that Ashley had experienced brief but intense pain, including nausea, inability to breathe, and seizures right before her death. That would explain the bricks of butter scattered around her body when the lights came back on.

I sat back in my bench. To hear that Ashley had suffered, even for a brief moment, was sobering. Even if she was a catty person, she had still been little more than a girl. I was about to shut down my computer when, on a whim, I Googled Shelby Spoczkowski, 1977 Milkfed Mary, Queen of the Dairy. The odds that she still went by her maiden name were slim, but in a country where 50 percent of marriages ended in divorce, I could hope. And it was my lucky day. I stumbled across a realty website in Florida that listed Shelby Spoczkowski as their number-one seller. They even posted a picture of her, but it was tiny, and I couldn’t tell if she was the same woman I had seen on the Midwest Milk Organization website. I tried the realty office number, but the receptionist said she had no idea where Shelby had grown up. She gave me her cell phone number. When I tried it, I was directed to voice mail after four rings. Not ready to leave a message, I jotted down her cell phone number so I could try back later and glanced at the time in the corner right of my computer screen. The passing of the crown was going to start in fifteen minutes. Time to skedaddle.

I scratched the ladies a quick note to let them know I wouldn’t be back until late, made sure I had enough paper in my notepad, and knelt to grab my digital camera from underneath the main bench. It wasn’t where I left it, so I searched in all the other likely spots. When I couldn’t find it there, either, I scoured the trailer end to end but it was no good. Someone had stolen my camera.

The realization made my
skin clammy.
Relax,
I told myself.
Mrs. Berns or Kennie probably borrowed the camera.
Still, on my way out, I made sure to lock the door, and I checked all the windows. The ones at the front and back were open, but they were at least nine feet off the ground. I double-checked the lock on the only exterior door and noticed several scrapes on it, brighter than the surrounding metal, but I didn’t know if they were new or not. I didn’t have any more time to worry, though. I was already late for the ceremony. A growl of thunder rumbled across the sky as I took off.

My plan was to amble into the Dairy building, hang back, and see if I could spot Lars Gunder. Once I introduced myself, I’d no longer be able to spy on him, so I’d just play it cool and observe how he interacted with the princesses and Janice Opatz before introducing myself. Then, I’d try to catch up with him after the butter-carving began and see what information I could extract. That’s where my plan got a little hazy, but I’d winged my way through worse.

When I neared the Dairy building, I realized that taking precious time searching for the camera had put me at a serious disadvantage. The place was packed as tight as a church on Christmas, and the heavy raindrops that had started to fall were only going to add to the crowd scrambling to get inside. I searched my purse for my press pass. Thankfully, it hadn’t gone the way of my camera. I held it up to the security guards stationed at the front doors, elbowing my way to the front of the crowd. People glared, but I didn’t let that slow me down. Bunch of rubberneckers, as far as I was concerned, come to watch another queen enter the Booth of Death. At least that’s what I had started calling it, and judging by the return of the security guards outside and police officers stationed nearby, I wasn’t the only one worried about how this story was going to end.

I was able to squeeze all the way to the rear of the enormous building, about fifteen feet from the butter-sculpting booth and the platform erected in front of it, a smaller version of the stage used for the initial post-murder press conference. Actually, I was standing in about the same spot as I had when the lights had gone out last Thursday. My heart chilled at the thought, as if it had just entered its own refrigerated booth. Were we in for an encore presentation of a beauty queen murder? I dismissed the idea out of necessity. I needed to talk to Lars and Lana, and besides, there were police officers stationed discreetly all around the room. We’d be fine.

My breathing calmed, and people buzzed around on stage. I recognized Janice Opatz, wearing her signature red suit. She was arranging the blonde hair of a young lady decked out in a glittery, spaghetti-strapped purple gown. I guessed she was Lana Sorensen. She was easily as pretty as Ashley, with wide blue eyes, a proud nose that didn’t take up too much space on her face, and plump lips set in a serious line. I liked that she wasn’t smiling. This was a sad occasion, even if she was benefitting from the tragedy.

A third person was on the stage, his back to the crowd. He was a shorter man, maybe 5’9”. Lana in her heels was a good two inches taller than him. He was trim and slick in his three-piece suit. When he turned, my heart hurdled a beat: he was the same guy who had been at the dorm with Janice after last Tuesday’s press conference and at the Neil Diamond concert with Kate. Given his position on stage, my guess that he had been a regular fair employee was off the mark. He had to be Lars Gunder, P.R. guy for Bovine Productivity Management, and possibly Ashley’s lover. I studied him from a safe distance. He had a quick smile, patting a tense Janice on the back with hands that I was certain were professionally manicured. Lana’s body language suggested she was trying to keep her distance from him, though it was hard to be sure, crowded as they were on the small stage.

After a signal from a cameraman in front, the man I guessed to be Lars grabbed the microphone. “Welcome. Thank you all for coming.” Janice and Lana assumed a post on each side of him. Behind and to the right, coming through the exit door nearest the Booth of Death, ten young women in ball gowns entered. Christine was at the front of the line, followed by Megan and then Brittany, and seven more pretty females I’d never met. They all looked nervous, like kittens at a wolf party, and Brittany appeared to be crying. Megan elbowed her, and she wiped her eyes and stood straighter.

“I’m Lars Gunder, a representative of Bovine Productivity Management. We are proud sponsors of the Milkfed Mary, Queen of the Dairy pageant, which stands for everything our company is about: wholesomeness, a love of the dairy industry, support of farmers, and community. We, along with the entire state of Minnesota, were deeply saddened when Ashley Pederson of Battle Lake died shortly after being crowned the 54th Milkfed Mary.” He didn’t register any change in emotion when referring to her. Either he was one coldhearted bastard, or he wasn’t the older man Ashley had been knocking boots with. “Tonight’s event is set up to honor her, and to pass on the crown, which is what we’re sure Ashley would want. Janice Opatz, the Queen chaperone and a woman who loved Ashley dearly, would like to speak.” People clapped halfheartedly, waiting for the real show to start.

Janice came to the microphone. “Thank you for coming,” she said, her voice clear as crystal. “I knew Ashley Pederson well, and she was a beautiful girl, inside and out. She cared deeply for those around her.”

Behind her and to my right, I noticed Christine roll her eyes so slightly that it could have been mistaken for a long blink.

“She was a shining beacon of the dairy industry, bringing our message of calcium-enriched goodness, conservation, and sustainability to communities all across Minnesota. When farmers achieve, we achieve.” Polite applause again broke out through the echoey building.

I was busy scribbling notes. Janice was parroting the BPM slogan. I wondered what exactly a sponsorship of the pageant entailed. Who paid whom, how much money, and what benefits did they derive from the transaction? Outside, the rain picked up, thrumming a steady drumbeat on the metal roof of the Dairy building.

“Ashley was taken from us far too soon, but her legacy will live on as we continue the good work that she started. Lana, will you please step up?”

The pretty young woman advanced to Janice’s side and peered out at the crowd. She still wasn’t smiling. In fact, she looked grim and more than a little afraid. Someone with a headset on handed a crown to Lars, who handed it to Janice. A police officer to the right of the stage whispered into his shoulder unit.

“It is with a mixture of sadness and pride that I crown Lana Sorensen of Carlos, Minnesota, the reigning Milkfed Mary, Queen of the Dairy. Congratulations, Lana!” More applause rang through the building, louder than before.

Lana tipped her head forward to accept the crown and graced the audience with a tight smile. She stepped to the microphone, and her strong, Minnesota-accented voice filled the building. “I didn’t want it this way.” She turned and lifted her skirts to step down the stairs and off the stage as the crowd began excited whispering. Was this a revolt? The Great Dairy Rebellion?

Janice and Lars exchanged worried looks, but visibly relaxed when the same assistant who had handed over the crown approached Lana with a winter coat. With no more pomp, Lana was led from the stairs at the side of the stage, past the booth and behind the blue curtain that guarded its entrance. When she disappeared, workers emerged from the shadows and quickly disassembled the stage, giving us an unbroken view of the glass-sided gazebo, eleven butter mountains spinning quietly inside. The crowd that had seconds ago been humming their surprise went silent.

I had the distinct feeling we were all witnessing a virginal sacrifice when the door to the booth opened and Lana entered, beautiful and pale, followed by the same woman who had sculpted Ashley’s likeness. Part of me wanted to put a stop to it, to cry out how ridiculous it was that we were letting this happen a second time, but I knew an outburst would only get me kicked out. As Janice had said, the show must go on.

The crowd held its collective breath as Lana placed herself in the designated chair in the center of the booth, ten blocks of butter arranged around her and an eleventh directly across from her. In front of each of the ten surrounding blocks of butter rested a life-sized head and shoulders shot of the remaining princesses, all of them wearing the same ornate Dairy Association pin on their lapels. The sculptor, looking shaky but determined, sat behind the central slab of butter and across from Ashley, quickly pulling a bread knife and a clay ribbon tool out of the white chest near her feet. Through the open doors behind us, a flash of lightning lit up the preternaturally leaden sky. We all turned around to glance back at the torrential rains, glad we were inside, and then returned our attention to the booth. The air was heavy with the salty, metallic smell of ozone, humidity, and people packed tightly.

The central floor of the butter-carving booth lurched and then began slowly turning. Lana and the sculptor began to rotate, both of them blanching for a moment for very different reasons, saying prayers to whomever was listening. The first rotation was uneventful, and then the second, and then the third. When it became apparent that both winter-jacketed women were going to remain safe, everyone in the Dairy building heaved a collective sigh of relief. No one was going to die here today.

The ten princesses-in-waiting were ushered into the crowd, where they began to hand out Milkfed Mary trading cards and reassure us with their healthy, calcium-rich smiles. I was given an Emily and a Lana. Emily was from International Falls and next fall would be attending the University of Minnesota at Duluth to pursue a career in agronomics. Lana was from Carlos, which I already knew, and would be a student at the University of Minnesota, Twin Cities, in the fall, majoring in math and English. She wanted to work as a high school teacher when she graduated. Thank god for martyrs.

I slid both cards into my back pocket, curious as to whether there had once been an Ashley trading card. That puppy would be worth some money. I kept one eye on Lana and one on Lars as I ruminated. He watched the sculpting for half an hour, answering reporter’s questions as they came up to him, his body language oozing a precise balance of solicitude and charm. I still wasn’t ready to introduce myself. Outside, the storm abated, and through the doors a crack of sunlight glimmered through the gloom. It had been one of the quick and intense late-summer storms common to the upper Midwest.

When Lars finally sauntered toward the nearest exit, I squeezed through the crowd and followed at an appropriate distance. If he was simply going to his car, I’d run up to ask questions. If he stopped by the cyanide booth to refresh his supply, I’d take him out at the knees.

He did neither. Instead, he peeled off his jacket as he strolled to the east and then north, stopping outside the Kidway to remove his tie.

“Daddy!” Two little girls dashed out from the Kidway, a cordoned-off section of the fair devoted to rides for children five and under. The girls splashed through puddles and latched themselves to Lars’ legs. Neither child appeared to be more than four, and both had sandy brown hair curling haphazardly around their heart-shaped faces. A tiny woman with a large bag over her shoulder and a stick of pink and blue cotton candy in each hand followed the girls and stretched up to give Lars a peck on his cheek. From my position twenty feet away, I noticed they both wore wedding rings, so I used my amazing deductive powers to mark them as husband and wife. I became more certain I was following the wrong guy with a Swedish-sounding name.

He relieved his wife of the bag, hoisted the smallest daughter on his shoulders, and took the other by her hand. I followed them around the rides for forty-five minutes, beginning to feel more and more like a heel. They were the sweetest foursome. When the youngest child fell and skinned her knee, he scooped her up and found a bench to settle her on while he fished out a first-aid kit from the bag. She sniffled as he cleaned and dressed her wound. Then he walked his three ladies over to the bathroom and waited outside.

Weighing Mrs. Pederson’s voice against the faces of his daughters, I decided it was now or never. I walked rapidly toward him. “Mr. Gunder?”

He turned, a mildly surprised look on his face. “Yes?” Up close, his skin was as smooth as a baby’s. His eyes were cerulean, but the hefty bags underneath gave them a gray tinge.

“Hi. You don’t know me. My name is Mira James. I called you at work earlier today and left a message. I’m a reporter with the
Battle Lake Recall
, and I wonder if you’d mind answering a few questions about Ashley Pederson?”