Where’s Eddie?
She thinks her husband ran away with some bimbo?” Al asked when I recounted my conversation with Connie St. Claire.
“She does,” I said. “But I think it’s more likely he ran away after knocking off the bimbo. Think about it. He’s married, has two kids and a good job and is getting some on the side from a very pretty blonde. She tells him she’s pregnant, he tells her to get an abortion and she refuses. He panics, dresses up in his old Vulcan suit, strangles her in the ladies room during the hubbub at O’Halloran’s and for some reason dumps the body in a conspicuous driveway. Then, when he hears that the cops are doing DNA tests to find the baby’s father, he panics again and skedaddles for parts unknown.”
“Makes sense to me. Have you tried it on Brownie?”
“Not my job. Let him find Connie and talk to her, and then I’ll trade theories with him. Meanwhile, I have a sobber to write.”
I had phoned several other participants in the previous year’s Winter Carnival, including King Boreas, the Queen of Snows, a couple of snow princesses, and Vulcanus Rex. From their statements, I was cobbling together a sad story about what a great person Lee-Ann was and how bad they felt about her untimely demise.
When I finished, I sent it to Don, who said it would be a one-Kleenex tear-jerker for the touchy-feely segment of our readership. “It’s sentimental crap but we need to throw them a bone every now and then,” said my sensitive city editor.
Filled with pride from such high praise, I went back to my desk, where I reorganized my notes on the Klondike Kate killing, shut down my computer, and put on my coat, hat and gloves.
Martha was already home when I arrived. She greeted me with the usual hug and kisses and said, “Ready for Number 61?”
“Can we eat first?” I asked.
“That’s part of the plan. You’ll probably need the additional fuel.”
“How do you know that? Have you been reading ahead?”
“You know what they say: Forewarned is forearmed.”
“I hope I won’t need four arms,” I said.
“You’re going to be very busy with the two you have,” Martha said. “Maybe you should warm them up with some pushups while you wait for supper.”
Thursday morning found Al and me at the O’Dell & Son Funeral Home, trying to be inconspicuous while friends of the dead woman and her family filed in. Al stood with his arms folded and I stood with my arms hanging at my sides because the triceps were sore from excessive stress in the performance of Number 61.
Lee-Ann’s parents and sister, and a woman of about eighty, stood by the casket for forty-five minutes to accept words of condolence and hugs of sympathy. Five-year-old Sarajane was not in the receiving line, nor did she join the family for the service.
The sister, Lori-Luann, kept glancing at Al and me between hugs until we decided to step up and introduce ourselves. The parents gave us stiff hellos and brief handshakes. The sister thanked us curtly for our expressions of sympathy and kept her hands at her sides. The octogenarian offered a surprisingly firm hand, smiled graciously and said she was Lee-Ann’s grandmother.
“Are you the one that wrote the story in this morning’s paper about how Winter Carnival people loved Lee-Ann?” she asked.
“I’m the one,” I said. “Al took the pictures that went with it.”
“It was wonderful,” she said. “I’ll treasure it the rest of my days.” I could hardly wait to pass that word to Don. Sentimental crap, indeed!
We thanked grandma for her compliment and retreated to the back of the room. Once seated in the last row of chairs, I took out a pocket-size notebook and began to jot down the names of the people I recognized, including some of the past Klondike Kates, most of the former Vulcans that we’d interviewed and some of the current Winter Carnival royalty I recognized.
The family had retreated to a side room, all the mourners were seated and the organist was playing the prelude when eight men in dark suits walked in, followed by Ted Carlson.
“That’s the Vulcans we rode with,” Al said. “They clean up pretty good.”
“And they’re all here,” I said. “As are most of last year’s Krewe, with the notable exception of one Ed St. Claire.”
“Oh, and look who else just came in.”
“Morning, gentlemen,” said Detective Curtis Brown as he plopped onto the chair beside me. He placed the tip of his right index finger on my shoulder and said, “You I want to talk to as soon as this is over.”
The minister proclaimed the occasion as “a celebration of Lee-Ann Nordquist’s life.” We soon learned that this meant that a lot of people would get up and talk about what great times they’d had with the guest of honor while she was among the quick. Lori-Luann went on at length about their childhood together. Grandma told about teaching little Lee-Ann to bake cookies at Christmas. A dozen or so friends, including the three former Kates I’d interviewed, gave anecdotes that were either funny or poignant or both.
Last to speak was Kitty Catalano, who looked stunning in a form-fitting black dress and four-inch black heels as she announced that the Royal Order of Klondike Kates would be organizing a scholarship fund in Lee-Ann’s name. This brought smiles and a murmur of appreciation from the crowd.
Through it all, Lee-Ann’s parents sat still as stones in the front row, with their arms folded and their heads hanging down.
At the end, as the organist played “Amazing Grace,” Lori-Luann helped her mother rise, and supported her with an arm and a shoulder as they followed the pallbearers up the aisle and out of the church. The father walked behind them, his eyes still cast downward, acknowledging no one as he passed.
“You’re not going to the cemetery are you?” Brownie asked. Al slid past us and hurried out to get a shot of the crowd on the funeral home steps as the pallbearers slid the casket into the hearse.
“No, we don’t need to report on that,” I said. “Besides, it’s ten below again this morning.”
“Yeah, I wish the damn Winter Carnival would end so the weather would warm up,” Brownie said.
“Me, too. But you’re not here to talk about the weather.”
“How very perceptive you are. I came because you can sometimes learn a lot by checking out who attends a murder victim’s funeral. Finding you here is a bonus.”
“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Treasure it,” Brownie said. “It might be the only nice thing I ever say. What I want to know is what Connie St. Claire said to you.”
I recapped my conversation with Connie as we walked together to the front hall of the funeral home. “Does that square with what she told you?” I asked, assuming that he had questioned the woman.
“When we got to the house late yesterday afternoon it was empty. Neighbor lady said Connie came home just after the kids got home from school, and they all got in the car and drove off. We put a watch on the house and they still haven’t come home.”
“Why do you suppose she did that?” I asked.
“Maybe she did know who her hubby was banging,” Brownie said. “And my guess is that she doesn’t want to talk to us about what happened to the bangee last week.”
“So, where does that leave me for tomorrow morning’s story?” I asked. “Can I say you’re looking for a person or persons of interest?”
“You can. Just don’t say who. And don’t mention the Vulcan connection until after the big battle Saturday night.”
“Do I get an exclusive on that in return for being a good boy all this time?”
“I’ll let your competition read all about it in the Daily Dispatch before I talk about it officially. Have a good day, Mitch.” Having made my day substantially better, he turned and made a quick exit.
Back at the office, I wrote a story that described the size and makeup of the funeral crowd, quoted a couple of the more poignant anecdotes and mentioned the proposed Klondike Kate scholarship. Don played it on the local front, along with Al’s photo of Lee-Ann’s family huddled on the front steps of the funeral home, a package no reader with a heart could possibly pass by.
I was starting to write a sidebar about the missing anonymous person of interest when Kitty Catalano appeared at my side. Her coat was unbuttoned, revealing the same form-fitting black dress she’d worn at the funeral, but I noticed that she had replaced the four-inch heels with the more comfortable red boots. She carried a large manila envelope in her right hand.
“I saw you at the funeral taking notes,” Kitty said. “I thought I’d bring you the outline of the scholarship fund that the Kates are setting up.” She offered the envelope, and I stood up, took the offering and laid it on my desk.
“That’s a very nice gesture,” I said. “Who can apply for this scholarship?”
“It’s for young people who want to go into the performing arts. Music, acting, TV news, whatever.”
“Very appropriate. Thanks for bringing this in.”
“My pleasure,” Kitty said. She took half a step closer so that our noses were only inches apart and her green eyes were looking directly into mine, and in a softer voice added, “If you have any questions about the scholarship, or want to talk about anything else at all, give me a call.” She was so close that I detected the light odor of a dusky perfume, and I wanted to explore her body to locate the source.
“I might think of something I need to talk to you about,” I said, with admirable self-control.
“I hope you do,” she said. She winked, offered her hand for shaking and said, “Until later,” as she turned away. Again, every male eye in the newsroom tracked her departure all the way to the elevator.
I took a deep breath and sat down. I sniffed my hand, which bore the scent of Kitty’s perfume. There was something familiar about the smell, and I tried to recall whether someone I’d dated in the past had worn this scent. No one came to mind, and I turned to my computer and the task at hand.
In the sidebar, I wrote that St. Paul police were looking for an unnamed person of interest, who had disappeared on the day of the autopsy report. I saw this as a prelude to the next chapter in the story of Klondike Kate, in which I hoped to tell the readers whether the killer (1) had attended the funeral, (2) was the missing person of interest or (3) was someone not involved in any way with the Winter Carnival. I didn’t put much stock in the third option.