A Carnival of Killing by Glenn Ickler Page A

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