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
“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
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