Too Dead To Dance

Too Dead to Dance

Diane Morlan

Published by
Cozy Cat Press
at
Smashwords

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the hard work of this author.

Copyright 2010 Diane
Morlan.

Cover design and
illustration by Scott Saunders /
Design 7
Studio
,
www.design7studio.com

ISBN:978-1-4524-8293-4

LCCN:2010923092

Dedicated to the Memory of
my good friend

Marie Fournier
Julian

January 4, 1945 - November
30, 1985

She always believed in me
and encouraged me to pursue my dreams.

We miss you.

Acknowledgements

Writing this book has been
one of my greatest adventures. I could not have completed it
without the help of my family and friends.

Heartfelt thanks to my
daughter, Shirlee Morlan, who taught me about roasting coffee, my
grandson, Steven Morlan, my son, Jim Morlan and my daughter-in-law,
Eileen Morlan who gave me the confidence to undertake this endeavor
and always believed in me.

Thank you Maureen Kelley,
Ann-Marie Eggleston and all my co-workers at the Kishwaukee College
Library who supported and encouraged me, especially Deb MacManus,
Carol Wubbena and
DeeAnn Leuzinger
my
wonderful first readers.

Thanks to my friends
Jennifer Walker, for lending me her name, Sheila Weigel whose
initial suggestions helped me get started in the right direction,
and Patty Herzog, for taking me to my first German folk music
festival.

Thank you, Patricia
Rockwell, for finding me and taking me on this incredible journey.
It would not have happened without you.

Please visit my
website,
www.DianeMorlan.com
, for news and
information on Jennifer Penny mysteries. Become a Facebook fan of
Diane Morlan, Author.

1

Friday

The first time I met the
butcher he almost ran over me. He didn’t chase me down the road or
anything. In fact, the whole thing was mostly my fault.

I was hurrying from the
parking lot because I thought I was late. I hate being late but my
stupid garage door opener decided not to work today. I had to drag
open the door by hand and it had taken enough time to get me off
schedule. I carried a box filled with one-pound bags of coffee
beans that I had roasted just last night.

As I crossed the dirt road
that runs through the Maron County fairgrounds, I twisted my foot
in a notorious Minnesota gopher hole, did a pirouette and fell on
my fanny in the middle of the road. Down I plopped, while the box
flew out of my hands. Gold and black sacks rained down on
me.

Looking to my left I saw a
red cargo van bearing down on me. It was so close that the only
action I could take was to throw my arms over my head and lean
forward into my knees.

I heard the van screech to
a halt. I peeked out to my left and saw the bumper of the truck
about three feet from my head.

A tall, sandy-haired man
dressed all in white jumped out and helped me to my
feet.

“Are you okay?” He asked,
helping me to my feet.

“I think so.” My ankle was
beginning to throb.

“For God’s sake, Honey! I
almost ran over you.”

“Why were you speeding?
This is a fairground, not a race track!”

“Gee, I wasn’t going that
fast, Sweetie,” he said while helping me to my feet.

“Thanks,” I replied
automatically, brushing the back of my white slacks. They felt damp
from the morning dew. I leaned down and began picking up coffee
bags. “Let’s blame the stupid gopher who decided to make a home
next to a road.”

“Let me help you,” he said
picking up bags of coffee and stuffing them into the box. One bag
had split and coffee beans spilled onto the ground. I carefully
lifted it and set it in the box. I’d take it home for my personal
use. Two bags were crushed but the beans were safe. I’d use those
to brew coffee for tasting samples today. When the box was full,
the man lifted it and held it out to me. Our hands touched. His
hand was unusually cold on this hot summer morning.

“I can carry this for you.
Where are you headed?” he asked, circling his arm around me and
touching my waist.

Grabbing the box, I twisted
around so I was facing him. “No problem. Thanks for the help. I can
handle it from here.”

“You sure? I don’t mind. I
did almost run over you.”

Backing away, I smiled
which probably looked more like a grimace, flustered at the way he
was grinning at me. I turned and hurried away, calling over my
shoulder, “No problem. Thanks.”

I heard the truck door slam
shut and turned to make sure he was leaving. He waved at me through
the window over the sign painted on the door, Metzger’s Meat
Market, Hermann, MN, then gunned the engine and zoomed through the
gate I had just entered.

Peeking into my purse, I
was relieved that the small white bakery bag holding a single
chocolate covered donut still lay tucked inside. My nutritionally
poor but tasty breakfast. I’d have to make another trip to my car
in order to get all the coffee I had roasted to sell today at the
Polka Daze Festival. There must be a better way to haul my coffee
to the booths at these craft shows but a little red wagon wouldn’t
fit in my Civic. I put the problem on my mental “to do”
list.

I struggled up to the door
of the Home Arts Building and grabbed the door handle. I pulled the
handle toward me and nearly yanked my arm out of the socket.
Locked. Guess I wasn’t late after all. During the Maron County
Fair, needlework and home baked goods filled this long narrow
building to the rafters. Now at Polka Daze, various crafters and
small business owners rent space and set up booths to sell their
wares. I rattled the door hoping I could shake it open and jumped
when someone behind me said, “Let me open that for you.”

A distinguished looking man
with silver grey hair wearing baggy jeans and a plaid shirt hurried
up to the door and stuck a key in the lock. “Mornin’. Saw you
talking to my brother, Al. You okay?”

“I’m fine,” I said, looking
at my watch. It read 7:55. “I was afraid I’d be late.”

“Nope. You’re the first one
here.” He reached inside the door and flipped the light switches.
The lights made the building less ominous, but without people it
still echoed with each step I took.

“I’ll come back later for a
cup of coffee,” the man called out to me.

When I looked back, he gave
me a short, two-finger salute, then turned and walked away. Only
then did I realize that he was the Fest Meister. I had met him last
night when he presided over the nightly keg tapping. I hadn’t
recognized him without his lederhosen.

Thinking about the man’s
silver grey hair as I entered the cool, dimly lit Home Arts
building, I wondered if my hair would look that good if I quit
coloring it. I hadn’t seen my real hair color since my fortieth
birthday, six years ago. I had decided I didn’t want to be a little
old grey haired lady, so I found a great beautician. Now I wear my
light brown hair in a short sassy bob.

I hurried toward my booth,
anxious to set down the heavy box of coffee. I dropped the
cumbersome box onto the front table of my booth and I pulled the
bakery bag out of my purse.

My first chore was to make
coffee for the fest-goers to sample as well as a cup to go along
with my yummy donut. The black table cover hung unevenly across the
table situated along the side of my booth that held my DeLonghi
coffee maker. I try to position the tables in my booth so I don’t
have my back to my customers while I pour them a sample cup of
coffee.

I tugged the tablecloth
back in place and then centered the coffee pot. My part-time
helpers must have been in a hurry to leave last night. Besides the
cockeyed cloth, the table itself was askew, one side pushed up
against the table in the next booth.

Still holding onto the
donut bag, I reached under the table for the gallon jug of spring
water I use to fill the coffee pot. My foot slipped. Looking down I
saw a puddle at my feet. My eyes traveled to the edge of the gooey
mess under my right foot. I screamed. A body lay on the floor
partly under the side table of my stand. I threw up my arms and the
donut bag went flying across the booth.

Long legs encased in
lederhosen, the man lay in a pool of reddish-black substance, which
I figured was blood. His face was turned toward the wall. I spun
around and slowly walked toward the exit. I wanted to run but could
barely move. Digging in my purse, I pulled out my cell phone and
with shaky fingers called 9-1-1.

I told the police
dispatcher someone lay dead in the Home Arts Building at the Fest
Grounds. I must have been blubbering because she made me repeat
myself several times.

“Can you describe what you
see, please?”

I stopped walking, turned
to look back at my booth and said between clenched teeth, “Lady, I
see a dead man in a puddle of bloody goo. I stepped in it. What
more do you need to know?”

“Are you sure he’s dead and
not just passed out?”

I stomped my foot. “He’s
sort of grey, his mouth is open and his eyes are, too. He sure
looks dead to me.”

“Did you say Fest Grounds?
That’s outside the city limits. I’ll contact the Sheriff’s
Department. Leave the building immediately and wait outside for the
sheriff. And don’t touch anything else,” she ordered.

I barked at her, “I watch
CSI. I know that. Besides, I sure don’t want to be in here any
longer.”

I looked around, suddenly
realizing that I was alone in this place with a corpse. I fled
through the exit door, almost knocking down the guy who had
unlocked the door for me.

“What’s wrong? Why were you
yelling? Are you okay? You look like you saw a ghost.”

“I think I did. There’s a
dead man in there.” Without warning, my eyes began to tear up and I
found myself crying. Although I was sure I didn’t know who the dead
person was, I was filled with dismay. The only dead bodies I had
ever seen were at funerals. Those people lay on white silk not on a
cold cement floor surrounded in blood.

I felt a hand on my elbow
guiding me to a park bench just outside of the door. I tried to
smile at the Fest Meister and thank him. While we sat on a bench
outside the building’s door waiting for the deputies to arrive, the
man introduced himself to me.

“I’m Frank Metzger. When
I’m not the Fest Meister, I’m at Metzger’s Meat Market over on the
highway. My brother, Al and I own the place. This is how I spend my
vacation every year. Are you going to be all right?”

““
I’ll be okay. My name is
Jennifer Penny. I’m just shook up. It was quite
chilling.”

An ambulance with lights
whirling and siren screaming pulled up in front of the building.
Two young men got out and asked us where to find the sick
person.

“The man isn’t sick, he’s
dead.”

“We’ll make that decision,
Miss. Show me where he is, please,” said the tallest Emergency
Medical Technician.

Shaking my head and
pointing I said, “He’s in there. The dispatcher told me to stay out
and I plan to do exactly what she said.”

The EMT’s entered the
building and I listened to hear what was going on in there. It was
very quiet.

After the Emergency Medical
Technicians had been inside for a few minutes, the shorter EMT came
through the door, cell phone to his ear. “No, Sir, we didn’t touch
anything. Just checked his pulse, and then got out of there. Yes,
Sir, I understand.”