September Fair (17 page)

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.

When I neared, two short-haired women in comfortable shoes were inviting them to a parade later that night. “It
does
sound like a happy parade,” Mrs. Berns was saying earnestly, “but we have plans with our friend Mira here. Maybe another time.”

The women nodded and left, stealing glances over their shoulders at the two Battle Lake cowgirls. I tsked, ignoring the cat-who-cornered-the-mouse look they were giving me. “Why are you both dressed like that?”

“You’ll see,” they said and giggled in unison. It was an alarming sound. “Now come on,” Mrs. Berns said, grabbing my hand. “Before our memorable evening begins, let’s get that spicy food I promised you.”

She led me and Kennie toward the ethnic restaurants edging the Bazaar. We strode past the International Grill, Island Noodles, and West Indies Soul Food before stopping in front of the Caribbean Shack, and I sorrowfully realized that I wasn’t going to get my fire fix tonight. “Thanks, Mrs. Berns, but I’ve been here. Their food is only Minnesota spicy.”

“At the front here, maybe, but we’ve got a special seat in back.” She winked at the lean man behind the counter and squeezed the top of her arms together in the universal, saucy “see my cleavage” gesture. Unfortunately, her girls were closer to her knees than her shoulders and had no way of responding to the command. The counter guy smiled broadly, and his beautiful white teeth lit up his face like a beacon. He chuckled as he waved us inside his workspace, through a side door that led behind the customer counter and toward the rear. Two women took his place out front.

The back room was spic-and-span, like the laboratory I’d visited earlier, only with soul, and delicious, hearty smells. Here, the stainless steel counters held pots of rice and dried red beans, spices arranged in alphabetical order, and sealed pots of homemade jerk sauce. I also smelled some spicy heat in the air, the promise of a raucous chili pepper, something that’d clear my nose and jumpstart my heart.

“Welcome back, Mrs. Berns,” he said, indicating three chairs for us. His voice was melodic, rising and falling like the sea in the middle of each word. “You’ll have the usual, then?”

“Three of ’em.”

Kennie fanned herself with her hand as she watched him work, and I had to admit it was a thing of beauty. He looked carved out of stone, every muscle clearly defined in his tank top, his legs strong. He yanked out three plates, lifted a steaming lid off a pot on the stove, and scooped out three servings of red beans and rice. It smelled as comforting as hot tea on a cold night. Replacing that lid, he opened another, and every corner of the back room was filled with the tangy scent of jerk seasoning. The smell was both sweet and peppery and made my nose tingle like I needed to sneeze. He handed us each a steaming plate, which we balanced on our knees.

“Thank you,” I said, accepting a fork. In my experience, jerk wasn’t overly spicy, but the food looked delicious, and I was starving.

“Not yet,” he said, and reached into the refrigerator. He pulled out a gallon jar of what looked like chopped onions laced with bits of carrot, both floating in a brine. When he removed the lid, I stood, drawn to the piquant, vinegary smell.

“What is it?”

“Onion relish.” He smiled his gorgeous grin. “It’s not for little boys.”

“Then you’ll be happy to know you’ve got three real women here,” Mrs. Berns said around a mouthful of rice.

“Make that two.” Kennie took off her neckerchief and mopped her brow, which was dripping makeup-colored sweat. “This here is hot enough as is.”

“Lots, please.” I held out my plate and didn’t take it back until it was generously covered with the white and orange relish. I sat back down and took a bite. The soft and warm rice and beans hit my tongue first, with the cool onion relish tickling the top of my mouth. I moved it all around and bit in. The first taste sensation was the zip of the vinegar as I sunk my teeth into a surprisingly mild onion. The second was the soothing earthiness of the beans. The last, coming out of left field, was a flash so hot it made my eyes smoke. “What’s in here?”

He laughed. “Red Savina habaneros. The spiciest pepper known to man, and now, to woman.”

“Is it in the beans and rice?” I asked. The heat in my head made it difficult to talk. Little bundles of dynamite were going off, starting in my nose and working their way to my brain, clearing one area before blasting another.

“See here?” He indicated the orangish-red bits in the onion relish. “This is the pepper.”

Tears ran down my cheeks as the heat rush began to subside, leaving euphoria in its wake. I felt alert and alive, like I could see in the dark and read people’s minds. “Give me more.”

He looked at Mrs. Berns in mock sadness. “Ah. She is as bad as you said.”

“I warned you.”

He spooned a second layer of onion relish on my plate and cracked us each a can of diet cola. I rarely drank soda, but the combination of fiery food and sweet carbonation was too much of a treat to pass up.

“Can I get some ice?” Kennie asked. Most of her foundation had melted into her collar, but her eyes glowed unusually bright. What a pepper wuss. She hadn’t even tried the onion relish and was sweating her face off.

Taking a cooling chug off my can, I had a sudden vision of Ashley drinking her last diet cola, the only food or drink anyone saw her partake of during the window of time in which she had been poisoned. Lana had seen Ashley open her can, just as I had seen mine opened right in front of me, and then pour it over ice. Could the cyanide have been in the cubes? The thought was revelatory, and if I was right, who had supplied the ice? I made a mental note to look into that, turning back to my homemade, soul-cleansing food.

Later, bellies full and heads completely cleared, the three of us made our way to the west end of the fair. We passed the Haunted House on our way, something I had taken pains to steer clear of since I’d arrived. Avoiding it was hard, since it was situated right next to the International Bazaar, but with a map and a little creativity, it had been possible. I didn’t want to freak out Kennie and Mrs. Berns by exposing my neuroses, though, so I simply looked away as we walked in front of the gray Victorian mansion and pretended I couldn’t hear the screams, though my palms grew wet and my stomach bubbled. Delayed reaction to the spicy food, I told myself.

Mrs. Berns was eying me suspiciously, so I took control of the conversation. “So where’re we going now? You’ll have to tell me sooner or later.”

“First, put this on.” Mrs. Berns, easily distracted, fished in her purse and pulled out a Care Bear pin. Funshine Bear, if I wasn’t mistaken, and he was about an inch-and-a-half tall, yellow, with a smiling sunshine on his belly.

“What do you mean?”

“You gotta wear it to get in, dummy,” Mrs. Berns said.

Too
many questions. Head full. Play dead
.

“Here, I’ll do it.” Kennie took the pin from Mrs. Berns, inserted the pointy end into the strap of my sundress, and snapped it tight. “Perfect, though I still think Grumpy Bear would have been a better fit for her.” Again, that shared snicker that turned my blood cold.

“You have to tell me something about where we’re going, or I’m not taking another step.” I stood firm in front of the Sheep and Poultry building.

Mrs. Berns nodded at it. “It has something to do with what you see up there, Mary.”

Mary? Was she becoming senile? I looked up where she was indicating, at the green, blue, and white sign that said, “Sheep and Poultry.” Because I knew Mrs. Berns so well, I made a leap from sheep to Mary, who had a little lamb. “Sheep and lambs aren’t the same thing.”

“Close enough. And I told you something, like you asked, and that’s all I’m gonna say. Besides, we’re almost at our destination.”

My head spinning, we navigated two more blocks through the crowds and then past what I thought was the westernmost edge of the fair—the Swine Barn. When we kept walking, I said, “I don’t think there’s anything back here.”

They didn’t answer. Instead, they kept moving forward as the crowds thinned. It’d be another two hours before the sun set, but the night was still hot and the road was dusty from animals crossing it. I wished I had brought some water. We turned sharp to the right and walked another four hundred yards to stop in front of a pole barn colored a dull brown. Few people were around, yet both Mrs. Berns and Kennie instantly tensed up, scanning the perimeters as if we were about to exchange top secret spy information.

“What is it?” I whispered. They shushed me and slipped between the metal doors of the pole barn, tugging me in behind them and closing the doors tightly.

“Fair Bear badges?” A gruff voice asked. This anteroom was close and dark except for a slit of light peeking through the doors opposite the entrance. The buzz of a crowd leaked through the slit, and the air smelled like manure and close-packed bodies.

Mrs. Berns and Kennie produced Care Bear pins from their oversized purses, so I flashed Funshine. The doorman ushered us in, through a sealed door, and then between metal gates, down some sort of animal run, and out into an amazingly well-lit barn. The smell was stronger in here, musky and pungent. Platform benches ringed the interior, cascading down to the middle where they encircled a large corral with half a dozen sheep milling around. The benches were packed full of men, women, and children, most of them wearing blue jeans and snapfront western shirts, and more than a few in cowboy hats and boots, just like Mrs. Berns and Kennie. The crowd was rumbling as if something exciting was about to happen.

“What is this?”

“Welcome to the Mutton Busting competition!” Kennie whooped.

I looked down past the bleachers at the sweet little fluffy balls of sheep in the corral and back at the audience, staring avidly at them. “Is that like cockfighting?”

“Not at all,” Mrs. Berns said. “We just ride ’em. We don’t make them fight each other.”

“We?”

“Well, not technically.” Mrs. Berns eyeballed Kennie. “The mayor here exceeds the weight limit, and why the hell would I want to ride a sheep? Fortunately, Kennie’s just the right size to be a Mutton Busting clown. I’m her manager. Turns out I like her just fine when I can tell her what to do.” Mrs. Berns smiled broadly.

I began piecing together odd, unconnected observations I’d made the last few days. Kennie and Mrs. Berns getting along. Kennie complaining about soreness, and then giggling conspiratorially with Mrs. Berns. Both of them smelling like beer and wool when they stumbled in late at night. “And the Care Bears?”

“Fair Bears,” Kennie corrected. “This here is a secret operation under the radar of the State Fair Corporation. Only Fair Bears know about it, among other fair secrets.”

I glanced around at the be-Wranglered audience, most of them looking like hardworking farmers in their thirties and forties, all of them leaning forward eagerly to watch as petite men and women walked among the little white puffs of sheep on the floor, deciding which one they’d ride. Everyone had a Care Bear pin on their shirt. “I’m in.”

“Thought so. Go save us a seat while I get Kennie’s clown makeup on.” Mrs. Berns and I exchanged an insider smile when Kennie wasn’t looking. Clown makeup was
all
Kennie ever wore.

I found a spot toward the front, too close to the action to be considered a choice location. The air was ripe with the smell of agitated livestock, and the air was dusty. The sheep all wore twelve-inch numbers on canvas squares tied to their backs and appeared completely oblivious to the infamy that was about to be visited on them. Probably for the best.