Free A Killing Fair by Glenn Ickler Page A

bet’cher boots it don’t include no murder.”
    â€œAny murder,” I said in a reflex blurt.
    â€œWhat’d you say?”
    â€œNothing important. I’m glad to hear you wouldn’t commit murder, Oscar.”
    â€œYou better believe it, Mitch,” he said. “Now I better get back to the door. You enjoy your lunch then and don’t worry about the check.”
    I thanked Oscar for his time and for picking up the tab, and he walked away. I wanted to believe him, but the quick denial without an actual accusation left me unconvinced. But what the hell—the walleye and the coleslaw were delicious and the price was right.
    Â 
    * * *
    Â 
    â€œHow’d it go at the Northern Exposure?” Al asked as we sipped our late afternoon coffee in the Daily Dispatch cafeteria.
    I replayed my conversation with Oscar and explained my uncertainty about the truth of his denial. “He got defensive real quick,” I said. “A little too quick.”
    â€œSo you can’t write him off as a suspect.”
    â€œAfraid not. So how was your assignment?”
    â€œBoring. Shot a grab-and-grin at City Hall with the mayor handing a plaque to the big-shot developer building that new condo tower on the East Side. The day wasn’t a total loss, though.”
    â€œHow so?” I asked.
    â€œWhen I got back here, I had two e-mails from that woman I told you about. The one that hung around at the signing.”
    â€œWillow?”
    â€œYeah, Willow. Told me how much she loved the book and what a great photographer I am. Good for the old ego. I sent back a thank you note.”
    â€œAlways nice to be appreciated,” I said. “You can’t have too many friends.”
    â€œShe’s sexy, too,” Al said.
    â€œThat makes it even more fun.”

 
    Chapter 8: Stonewalls and Willows
    M y problem with alcohol began a dozen years ago when my wife and baby boy were killed in a collision with a jack-knifing eighteen-wheeler. I began pouring down the booze to blot out the pain but the drunken haze only increased the agony. I had sunk deep into an ever-darkening pit when Al and Carol persuaded me to go to rehab. Since then I’ve stayed dry with the help of an Alcoholics Anonymous group that meets within walking distance of my apartment every Monday night.
    My most reliable crutch at AA is Jayne Halvorson, the mother of two teenage daughters who fled to St. Paul from an abusive husband in North Dakota. Jayne and I chat over a glass of ginger ale at a neighborhood bar called Herbie’s after every Monday night meeting. More often than not, Jayne can look at a problem that has me stymied and come up with a workable solution. For example, without her assistance (and insistence) I never would have pushed myself into a jewelry store to buy an engagement ring for Martha. The last time I’d gone out on that limb, I’d found the intended ring recipient between the sheets with an old high school boyfriend.
    â€œYou didn’t sound sincere tonight when you told us that everything was going well in your life,” Jayne said after the usual Herbie’s small talk.
    â€œMost things are okay,” I said.
    â€œAnd what things are not?”
    â€œOnly one, really. The detective from the Falcon Heights PD. I can’t get anything out of her for a story about Vinnie Luciano’s murder. Not even a hint as to whether she’s looking at a suspect or a person of interest. Normally, investigators will let out little scraps of information as the case develops, but this one’s lips are clamped as tight as a pit bull’s jaws on a mailman’s leg.”
    â€œHave you tried schmoozing her with the old Mitch Mitchell charm?” Jayne said.
    â€œI’ve tried the ‘I’m your buddy’ smile, I’ve tried flattery, I’ve tried the old teamwork routine, I’ve tried asking her to lunch,” I said. “It’s like