The Weatherman (14 page)

“We’ll put a reporter on that right away. Thank you for calling.” Gayle slammed down the receiver.

Across the Sky High newsroom festooned with silver garlands and candy canes sat the masked producer, gunfire erupting from his desk.
CNN
was reporting on riots in the Holy Land. Rick Beanblossom turned down the sound. He popped two chocolates into his mouth and licked his fingers. He pushed aside his poinsettia and picked up his file on the parking ramp murders, already an inch thick. He was sitting on the story. There had been no more killings. He looked over at Andrea’s desk. Her day off. Well deserved, she was growing into a better journalist than he wanted to admit openly. On the upper level two Marine Corps Reserve officers in dress blues were stacking toys on the news set. Rick checked the overhead clocks: 4:58. Almost air time.

The lights came up on the two anchor chairs. The Marine Corps officers backed away. Ron Shea and Charleen Barington took their seats and fastened their microphones to their lapels. Christmas flowers decorated the set. Toys for Tots were stacked in front of the anchor desk.

The lights directly above the weather center remained dark. Dixon Bell stood in silhouette at the studio podium, revising his forecast. A holiday wreath hung below the big number 7.

The lights shining on Ron Shea and Charleen Barington were bright and hot. The aging beauty queen pulled a mirror from beneath the desk and quickly pushed her fading red hair into place. The clock struck five. The schlocky music kicked in.

Ron Shea gathered up his script as if he had just finished writing it and read from the TelePrompTer beneath the red light. “Good evening. Edina has long been considered one of the safest suburbs in the Twin Cities. But Sky High news has learned that Edina police are investigating a string of sexual assault cases … all involving single women living in first-floor apartments or town houses. Elana Martinez tells us more about these very unusual attacks.”

Dixon Bell lived in an Edina town house. He didn’t want to hear about sex and violence on Christmas Eve. He left the set while news rolled tape of a young woman, her face blacked out, telling through sobs of how she awoke in the middle of the night to find this big man sitting on the edge of her bed.

Two good snowfalls had ensured a white Christmas. But for days temperatures had been running above normal for December. Now Dixon Bell was calling for freezing rain. Back in Weather Center 7 he checked wind and thermometer readings one more time. This was a hard one to call; only a precious few degrees would turn that harmless rain into dangerous ice. He was trying to calculate how far the mercury would drop during the rainfall when he noticed the message light blinking on his computer. He punched the key. The following message appeared on the screen: I’m gonna ice you, Weatherman.

The Weatherman shook his head. He erased the message. He glanced up at the monitor. The new reporter ended her rape story with a really good stand-up, then signed off. “Elana Martinez, Sky High News, Edina.”

Back to a two-shot of the anchors, Ron Shea reading: “And Charleen, we want to welcome Elana Martinez to our news staff. She joins Sky High News after a long stint at our sister station in Tucson, Arizona. She won a couple of very prestigious awards down there.”

“Yes,” said Charleen, right on cue, “we were really lucky to get her.”

The Weatherman gathered up his script and straightened his tie.

They were ten minutes into the five o’clock newscast. Weather was coming up next. Dixon Bell was back at the studio podium readying his forecast when Charleen Barington introduced a new education feature that she’d had a hand in preparing. The Texas beauty gave the TelePrompTer a look of grave concern. “Are Minnesota students measuring up to the high standards set by America’s top universities? That’s the question we’ll be putting to you all this week in a feature we call ‘So You Want to Go to College.’ Every night this week on our five o’clock and ten o’clock news shows we’ll ask you, our viewers, questions that appear on some of the toughest college entrance exams in the nation.” She turned to Ron Shea. “Ron, we’ll try this one out on you.”

Ron Shea turned to the camera and chuckled. “Uh-oh, I’m in trouble now.”

Charleen put a finger in the air like a game show host. “Ron, what was the name of the plan to rebuild Europe after World War II?” The multiple-choice answers were spelled out on the screen, white on blue. Charleen read them off: “(A) The Geneva Convention … (B) The Marshall Plan … or © The Truman Doctrine?”

The answer was so obvious that Dixon Bell paid little attention.

The focus returned to Ron Shea as he studied the three choices on his monitor. “Oh, boy. I believe it was the Truman Doctrine.”

Charleen smiled, a big congratulatory smile. “That’s right, Ron.” The © answer flashed on the screen. “It was the Truman Doctrine, proposed by President Harry Truman.”

Ron Shea nodded his head. “Harry Truman was a smart man.”

Dixon Bell couldn’t believe his ears. Yes, Harry Truman was a smart man, but Ron Shea and Charleen Barington were a pair of matched idiots, and it was about time somebody told them. The Weatherman’s voice thundered out of the shadows. “The plan to rebuild Europe after World War II was called the Marshall Plan!” Camera three quickly swung to the weather center-not enough time to warm up his lights. Dixon Bell spoke in silhouette. “It was proposed by General George Marshall, who was the secretary of state during the Truman administration. At least that’s what they taught us poor white trash down South.” As he calmly went back to examining his forecast, the Weatherman mumbled just loud enough to be heard on the air. “Not exactly ‘Jeopardy,’ is it, folks?”

There hadn’t been that much silence on the news set since the crash of Skyhawk 7. In the newsroom, telephones could be heard ringing off the hook. Ron Shea smiled sheepishly at his co-anchor. “Well, Charleen, I guess it’s back to school for us.”

Charleen Barington forced a smile at the TelePrompTer and read what was written. “Coming up next, meteorologist Dixon Bell will be here to tell us if we’re going to have a wet Christmas.”

“Did he ask you out?”

Andrea Labore kept hearing those haunting words coming from behind that spooky mask. She heard them again as the tall black gates of the governor’s mansion swung open. A wreath on the front door warmly welcomed visitors. It was raining. She drove down a carpet of sloppy snow and parked in front of the carriage house. Andrea climbed out of her car, cringing at the nasty weather. The huge estate on Summit Avenue in St. Paul was being pelted. Naked branches on tall trees were bending with the weight of the icy rain. A passing wind spun the droplets in circles, threw the weather in her face. It sure didn’t seem a lot like Christmas.

After the death of the Republican nominee, a battle royal broke out in the Republican Party. Backers of Per Ellefson claimed that since he’d finished second in the September primary, his name should be placed on the ballot. But the party’s right wing claimed the executive committee was entitled to meet and nominate a new candidate, someone more to their liking. Minnesota’s secretary of state, a no-nonsense woman, rose above partisan politics and followed a strict interpretation of the state’s constitution, deciding Ellefson’s name would be placed on the ballot. With only two weeks to campaign, the handsome Norwegian was elected governor in a close race that saw the lowest voter turnout in state history. To the amusement of all, the new governor told his victory gathering, “It’s okay if you call me Governor Lazarus.”

After he was elected, Per Ellefson kept a promise he’d made to Andrea Labore. She was granted the first interview-an exclusive. Following that interview Andrea’s star rose a little higher in the Sky High newsroom.

Governor-elect Lazarus was waving to Andrea from the back terrace of the mansion, a Scandinavian sculpture in a warm wool shirt. He took her by the arm and helped her up the back steps so she wouldn’t slip and fall. “He said it was going to rain.”

“Who said?” Andrea asked.

“Your weatherman. He said three days ago we’d be getting rain out of this system.”

“Did you watch our news tonight?”

Ellefson took her coat. “No, I’m afraid I didn’t have a chance.” They walked down a stone hall to the front of the mansion.

‘That’s why I’m late. I got called in. This family in South Minneapolis lost everything they had when their house burned down. It was really sad. The fire started with their Christmas tree, and all of their presents were burned up.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Yes. They’ve set up a special fund for them.”

“It seems something like that happens every year.”

“Doesn’t it, though?”

“What else did I miss by not watching television?”

Andrea thought the question had a cynical ring to it.

“The Toys for Tots drive failed to reach its goal. That’s a first for us.”

They stopped in the hallway. It was drafty, the marble cold. “That’s the kind of thing we have to turn around,” Ellefson said. If there had been any cynicism in his voice, it was gone. He spoke with a sincerity rare for politicians. “I believe in Minnesota, Andrea. No single issue about the state is more important to Minnesotans than our firmly held belief that life in Minnesota is infinitely superior to life in any other state. I think perhaps only two other states in this country have as much pride and love for their land as we do … maybe Texas and Virginia. But ours is a quiet kind of love. A cool pride. A quality of life. Whatever you want to call it, I think we’re losing it. Being from Minnesota used to mean something. I want to bring that something back.”

Andrea agreed. “I can see it watching the news day in and day out. There is this sinking feeling that this isn’t the state I grew up in. Something went wrong.” Andrea fought with herself. No question, she had been taken from the start with Per Ellefson. The first time she’d seen him in person was towards the end of the summer, at a speech he delivered at the old soldier’s home in Minnehaha Park. He reminded her of a Viking warrior, what Leif Ericsson might have looked like in a coat and tie.

Strong-minded, intelligent women have a thing about seducing powerful men, as if access to power might translate into power. Andrea had always used sex more than she enjoyed it. Boyfriends inevitably disappointed her. She’d always been attracted to men of substance-the college professor with the literary awards and the sage advice, or the police chief with his heart in social justice and his hands in politics. This charismatic governor-elect was another one. Andrea Labore was tempted by the thought. She had it and she knew how to use it.

“We don’t move in for two weeks,” Ellefson told her. “The governor and his family moved out early so we could be in by Inauguration Day. It was very thoughtful of him. I thought you might like to see the place before my wife and kids turn it into a zoo.”

They walked to the front foyer. “This place is huge,” Andrea exclaimed. The halls were decked with a lot more than boughs of holly. Two thousand dollars’ worth of poinsettias bought the season cheer. The first floor had been completely refurbished in the Tudor-revival style of the 1920s. A stately grand piano and a magnificent chandelier broke the coldness of the place and created an atmosphere of elegance. The art was French impressionist. Oriental rugs lay on the floor. A priceless grandfather clock reminded visitors of their own place in time.

The clock chimed the quarter-hour. Per Ellefson jumped in front of it and spread his powerful arms. “Three floors and a basement,” he told Andrea, “thirty-six rooms, two cooks, a housekeeper, one manager, one assistant manager, a full-time secretary, two libraries, three offices, a solarium, a sauna, a wine cellar, a dining room that seats eighteen, and God only knows how many bathrooms.”

Andrea spun slowly around, taken back in time. “It’s just like the Victorian Summit Avenue F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote about in those short stories.”

The governor-elect smiled. “Yes, I love reading Fitzgerald, too.” Then he continued the tour. “The family quarters are on the second floor. On the average, one thousand guests pass through here every month.” He pointed to a long open balcony. “To get from room to room in the family residence you have to come out into that hallway up there. Even to go to the bathroom. I’d hate to come running out of the shower in only my towel to find a tour passing through.”

Andrea laughed. “It’s so … so …” She was lost for words.

“It appears stately from the outside, but once you get in here and start looking around it gets pretty shabby. Some of the carpeting is thirty years old. Second and third floors are the worst. Come along, I’ll show you what I mean.”

He took her hand and they started up the open stairway. Andrea gazed into his snowy blue eyes. “This house must be filled with wonderful stories.”

“They say the first governor to live here, Karl Rolvaag, buried his dog in the basement. There’s a paw print in the concrete to mark the spot. On windy nights you can hear him howling.”

“You’re kidding?”

“No,” he laughed. “The staff calls him the Hound of the Rolvaags.”

On the second floor the elegance of the mansion disappeared. The family residence was cold, drab, and impersonal. Stuck in the fifties. The rooms were cramped and worn. The only touch of class upstairs was the white wine Ellefson poured. And the red rose he gave Andrea and the kiss on the cheek.

“Did he ask you out?”

The end of the tour took them up the stairs to the third floor of the mansion, once a ballroom. Now it was only an empty attic. The walls were peeling paint, falling plaster. Pieces of furniture were covered with black plastic.

They walked into a corner bedroom as sparse as a monk’s cell. Between two windows was a daybed covered with an army surplus blanket. The roof leaked. A section of green garden hose dangled from the cracked ceiling and dripped into a silver pail. Beneath a window a rope ladder lay at the ready. Incense lingered in the air. Ellefson closed the door. “According to the fire marshal it’s illegal to use this floor-no fire escape. I guess the governor’s teenage son lived up here. I’m going to turn it into my hideaway.”