Hot Dish (32 page)

“If we get another storm this evening, you can kiss that seven thousand number good-bye. We’ll be lucky to have a thousand,” Ken said, shaking his head. “There were these guys from the cities thinking of coming up and taking a look at my plant while they were fishing. But I doubt they’ll come now. Damn. I sure could use their—” He shot a glance at Paul, realizing what he’d almost admitted because Paul was pretty sure Ken had been about to say “money.”

Ken cleared his throat. “I been thinking I could use partners. Getting to the age where I’d like to ease back some, you know?”

“Yup.” Paul did, too. Rumor—again with his wife as conduit—had surfaced that last week Ken had filled out a loan application at the bank and the bank, in looking into it, had discovered the ninety thousand dollar underfunding of his company’s pension account and were going to refuse the loan. The stress of being exposed as less rich, less powerful, and less honest than he presented himself to be was beginning to show on Ken’s round red face; even his comb-over looked frayed. Paul knew Ken had pledged the cost of a new kitchen to Good Shepherd. He’d never live down the ignominy if he had to renege.

“I could just close the plant, I suppose.”

Ken’s expression darkened further as a knot of answering panic balled in Paul’s belly. If Ken’s business folded, it would be the beginning of the end of Fawn Creek. And Ken knew it. He might be a pompous small-town potentate, but at least it was a role he loved. He’d hate going from being a something to a nothing somewhere else. But he’d hate being publicly discredited as a crook in front of “his town” even more.

“I gotta get out of this bind, Paul,” he muttered thickly. Which was as close to an admission that he was in trouble that Ken Holmberg was ever likely to make. “This sesquicentennial was going to be my shot at showing these guys from the cities what we got here. Or maybe find some other investors.”

“Early days, Ken,” Paul said, trying to sound confident. “And we got these AMS people here who’re going to bring Fawn Creek national exposure.”

Ken squared his shoulders as Paul pulled into the town hall parking lot and eased the truck into his reserved slot. “That’s right,” he said. Then, just to show that he wasn’t worried, he reverted to his earlier harangue. “We gotta make sure those guys of yours don’t plow the road they got out on the Lake any closer to the spring than they already have or we’ll be fishing SUVs off the bottom all winter.”

Their sortie the other night had confirmed Paul’s suspicion that the ice right next to the road Ned Soderberg had plowed out to the dark houses on the Lake was punky where a spring fed into it.

“I’ll be sure and tell ‘em,” Paul said, silently thinking he wouldn’t tell Ned why because, hard as it was to admit, Paul just didn’t think much of Ned Soderberg’s character. He wouldn’t put it past Ned to purposely steer out-of-towners onto thin ice just so he could charge them a pile of money to tow them out when they broke through. Truth was, he wouldn’t have hired Ned at all if he didn’t think so highly of his grandmother—particularly her
kransekake
.

“And tell ‘em to keep the parking lots clear, too,” Ken added, getting out of the truck and slamming the door shut. “Just in case.”

“You bet.”

Ken practically trotted across the lot and into the town hall, Paul hard on his heels. He nodded to the receptionist, Dorie, on his way through the tiny lobby. Paul was pretty excited himself. As bad as the snow was for travel, it was good for pictures. Fawn Creek had never looked better. Heck, if AMS used shots of Fawn Creek all covered in this virgin blanket of snow, and of folks fishing, and snowmobilers partying, it could help revive their near comatose tourist industry.

Paul and the town council had done everything they could to make Fawn Creek look like an inviting, vital little community. All the local shopowners—even those whose businesses were no longer open—had promised to keep their neon signs lit and the display lights on twenty-four/seven so that the town looked thriving. Both the Kiwanis and the Rotary Club guys had made up schedules for all their members to drive and walk around town every few hours so the town center appeared lively, and Wendy Larson had agreed to harness up his old draft horses and drag a log across the north end of the Lake the moment the camera crew from AMS started shooting footage.

That
oughta catch their eyes.

Paul and Ken hit the double doors to the council chamber at the same time, Paul pushing open the left and Ken the right, both of them wearing their Minnesota Nicest smiles on, full wattage. The five people waiting around inside, drinking coffee and perusing the aerial map of the county on the wall, exchanged looks. Minnesota Nice often caught people off guard like that.

A good-looking young blond guy in a black cashmere turtleneck and a slate blue corduroy jacket sitting on the corner of Paul’s desk lifted his head from the Blackberry he’d been studying and hopped to his feet. He came forward and took Paul’s hand.

“Mayor?” he asked.

“You bet!”

“Great! At last we meet. I’m Bob Reynolds.”

He threw a hand in the direction of a bored-looking older guy with a thin gray ponytail. “That’s our director, Dieter Halnagel, and this is the rest of our crew: John, on camera”—a plump young fellow standing next to the map smiled at them—“Nick, lights”—a middle-aged Asian guy bobbed his head—“Benjamin is makeup”—a kid with lanky hair dyed black tipped two fingers over his eyes in a mock salute—“and Mandie is our gofer.” The mousy-looking girl next to the Goth guy mumbled, “Hi.”

Paul nodded to each in turn, then said, “This is Ken Holmberg, who’s been instrumental in organizing our little celebration here. Ken owns Minnesota Hockey Stix.”

“Is that a team? Never heard of ‘em,” the lighting guy said.

“No, no.” Ken smiled and rocked back on his heels. “I make the sticks the hockey players use. We supply about eighty percent of the—”

“Cool.” Bob angled his way around Ken and hooked his arm through Paul’s, leading him to the window overlooking the parking lot. Ken, left behind, flushed, unused to being ignored. No doubt about it, if Ken did leave Fawn Creek, he’d find life in any other pond as a small fish real unpleasant.

Bob pointed out the window at the sky overhead. It was the color of sapphires with huge mounds of white clouds like whipped cream floating in it. The sun sparkled on the newly laid snow.

“How much are you going to charge me for all the special effects, Mayor?” Bob asked. “Just kidding. This is sensational, Paul. Better than I could have dared hope for. Isn’t it, kids?” He looked over his shoulder.

“Lighting is going to be a bitch,” the Asian guy said. “Too much white. It will bounce into everything. Show every little line in Lind’s face.”

“You let me worry about that, Gilly Flower.” The kid, who on closer inspection might not have been that much of a kid after all, spoke confidently. “I’ll make Jenn Lind look like she’s still waiting for her first period.”

Behind Paul, Ken choked.

“Where is our star?” Bob asked. “Or should I say stars? I heard Steve Jaax got here, too. And then there’s the silent star of the show—Mr. Jaax’s butter sculpture. I have to admit, I’m dying to see it.”

“Me, too.” The director spoke from where he slouched with his feet up on the council table. “I’m hoping there’s something we can do with it, somehow integrate it into the credits. I suppose Jaax will have to sign off on our using its likeness for commercial purposes.”

Paul wondered how to proceed, unhappy at having to disappoint the AMS people but not too worried about any repercussions. The butter head had never been anything more than a curiosity, a sideshow attraction to be gawked at and forget. The
real
attractions were Jenny and Jaax.

“I have some fabulous ideas of how we can juxtapose Jenn Lind’s face over the butter sculpture image so that it will look like she’s actually evolving from it,” Dieter was saying. “It’ll be VH1 all the way. Only without the music.”

Then again, Paul thought, recognizing that Dieter had fallen in love with his own idea, maybe a guy didn’t have to mention anything at all right now. Chances were still pretty good the dang thing would turn up, especially with that nut-case in the body cast over t’the hospital offering twenty-five hundred dollars for its return.

“Well, now, Mr. Reynolds, both Jenny and Steve”—Paul noted with satisfaction the slight widening of the director’s eyes at his familiar use of Jaax’s Christian name—”are up t’Jenny’s folks’ place. They have a little B and B north of town where they’re staying.”

“Can we stay there, too?” Bob asked at once.

“Nope.” Ken found his voice. “Full up. But we reserved rooms for you and your staff.” He put a subtle little sneer into the last word. Ken didn’t like being looked down on. Especially by staff.

“Do they have cable?” the mousy gofer asked.

“I don’t know,” Ken answered tightly.

“Probably not,” the pudgy cameraman sighed.

“Thank you, Ken.” Bob shot his crew a warning glance:
Play nice or else
. “Mayor, I understand from the itinerary your office sent us that Ms. Lind is slated to start off the festivities this Sunday with an ice-fishing contest.”

“That’s right.”

“Well, we were thinking we might shoot a cooking segment sometime during the contest right out on the lake.”

“Great!” Paul enthused, making a mental note to call Wendy and have him oil up his harnesses.

“Brilliant! And we’d really like to have the butter sculpture there as part of it.”

Paul’s smile ratcheted down a notch. “Well, we’ll sure see what we can do.”

He was saved from making further promises by a knock on the council chamber door. “Come in!”

Dorie’s peroxided head popped through the door. Behind her, Paul saw Jimmy Turvold hovering, his hunter’s cap literally in hand. Good. He and Jimmy needed to have a little talk.

“Mayor? There’s a guy here who says he’s from
Ripley’s Believe It or Not
.”

More news coverage! He’d heard rumors that
Ripley’s
might be sending someone. Now they only needed to find that damn butter head. “Tell him we’ll be out in a few minutes, Dorie.”

“No need to have him cool his heels in the hall, Mayor,” Bob said and then smiled. “AMS would love to hear what
Ripley’s
is doing up here.”

“Sure,” Ken said before Paul could answer. “Show the guy in.”

“And, ah”—Dorie glanced to her side—”Jim Turvold’s here, too.”

“I can see that. Hey, Jimmy. Can you just wait in the hall there a little bit and I’ll be with you as soon as I can?”

Jimmy nodded and Dorie closed the door.

A minute later the door swung open again and Dorie ushered in a skinny, innocuous-looking man in a hooded sweatshirt emblazoned with the words
boston college
. He looked around the room at the eight pairs of eyes leveled at him.

“Hi. I’m Lou Wallbank from
Ripley’s Believe It or Not
?” He seemed to be one of those people who issued any sentence as a question. “I’m here to tell you guys that that butter head you purportedly have? If authenticated? It’s now been determined that it would in fact be the oldest intact butter sculpture in existence.”

A record-breaking butter sculpture! Paul’s thoughts spun out into the future. There was a guy down in the midsection of the state who’d built a special barn for the world’s largest ball of twine. Paul wondered if he could get the city council to build a special revolving, see-through freezer for the butter head.

“It’s a Jaax, too,” Ken put in importantly.

“That’s cool, I’m sure? But we’re more interested in its age than its creator,” Wallbank said apologetically.

“Thanks for coming all this way just to tell us that, Mr. Wallbank,” Paul said. Ken, who was looking disgruntled, having once again been dismissed, clearly didn’t understand the commercial potential here.

“Ah, thank you?” Wallbank said. “But, ah, I didn’t come here just to tell you it was old.”

“Oh?” Ken said.

“What are you here for then?” Bob abruptly asked, New Yorkers being impatient.

“I’m here to buy it? For the Ripley’s Believe It or Not Museum?” Wallbank said.

“How much?” Paul asked, Canadians being practical.

“Ten thousand dollars.”

Just outside the mayor’s office, Turv, who’d been killing time by pressing his ear against the wall and eavesdropping, slid to the floor.

1:15 p.m.

Same place

Jenn pulled the Subaru into the town hall parking lot and turned off the engine, having dropped off yet more money at Sleeping Beauty’s castle as per instructions given her by a jovial Dunkovich. When she’d asked where she was supposed to find the butter head—not bothering to mention that she’d already been this route once before in the last twenty-four hours—he’d told her the butter head was his problem and hung up. He hadn’t bothered to ask how she’d come up with the cash, which was fine with her because she didn’t intend to tell him. Or anyone else, ever.

In a way, it was too bad, because her run of luck at the blackjack table had been the stuff of gambling mythology: unprecedented, unanticipated, and unbelievable. Not that she’d been able to enjoy it. She’d been too furious at the fact of having been blackmailed, at the fact that the blackmail material had been handed to her tormentor by one of her Fawn Creek neighbors, and finally, at the fact that she’d had to dress up like a cheap whore in order to keep any of the reporters in town covering the sesquicentennial from looking too closely at her face and thus discovering who she was. A story about Jenn Lind, the Wholesome Honey of the Heartland, gambling would be a whole lot more interesting than how much lye it takes to process a pound of lutefisk.

Though she hadn’t seen any familiar faces from the local news yet, she knew there were bound to be at least a few around, just like she knew where they’d be hanging out while they waited for the sesquicentennial to get under way, and it wasn’t at Portia’s Tavern. It would be the casino.

She slouched way down in the front seat of her Subaru and, after a quick look around to make sure the lot was empty, wiggled the cheap prom dress she’d found on Pamida’s sales rack over her head. Just as quickly she slipped on her sweatshirt and jeans and exited her car, heading to Paul’s office to see what he wanted. Probably to torture her with more
sesquicentennial duties. As if going ice fishing tomorrow wasn’t torture enough.