Free A Killing Fair by Glenn Ickler Page B

banging my head against a steel door.”
    â€œIs she that way with all reporters?”
    â€œApparently. I haven’t seen any comments from her on TV or in any other paper.”
    â€œSo it’s not personal?”
    â€œNo, I think it’s psychological. Maybe she’s been burned by a reporter, or maybe she’s just paranoid.”
    Jayne took a long swig of ginger ale. “Maybe it’s time to go over her head.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” I said.
    â€œTalk to the chief. Describe to him how other departments—St. Paul PD, for example—deal with the press and tell him you would appreciate the same courtesy from the Falcon Heights PD.”
    â€œThe chief is a her, not a him, and I suspect she might be as tough to deal with as KGB.”
    â€œKGB?”
    â€œThose are the investigator’s initials, and they fit her per­son­ality. She goes by K.G. Barnes. I don’t know what the K and the G are for.”
    Jayne drained her glass. “Maybe the chief will surprise you if you approach her diplomatically.”
    â€œMaybe,” I said. “It’s worth a try.”
    â€œRemember, the key word is ‘diplomatically.’”
    â€œYou know me.”
    â€œThat’s why I’m reminding you.” She put enough money on the table to cover her half of the tab and stood up, signaling it was time to go home.
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    Martha greeted me with the usual hugs and kisses, and Sherlock Holmes welcomed me by winding himself around my ankles until I pushed him away with my foot. After Martha and I swapped stories about our days’ work—her day had been much more productive than mine—we sat down to watch the ten o’clock news.
    The TV was flashing the usual montage of car crashes, fires, and violent crimes, so I was half dozing when Martha said, “Oh, look, there’s Al.”
    There was his back anyway, at the presentation of a plaque to a developer in the mayor’s office. The voice describing the event was that of Trish Valentine, who was shown a moment later wearing a blouse with three open buttons at the top. It must have been really hot in the mayor’s office.
    â€œAl has all the fun,” I said. “He gets to stare down Trish’s cleavage and he gets e-mails from a woman who thinks he’s the greatest photographer since Ansel Adams.”
    â€œAl is getting e-mails from a woman?” Martha said.
    I told her about Willow hanging out at Al’s book signing and her two follow-up e-mails praising his work.
    â€œDoes Carol know about this woman?” Martha asked.
    â€œDon’t know. Anyway, it’s no big deal.”
    â€œIt might be bigger than you think.”
    â€œAl is not going to run away with Willow just because she likes his work.”
    â€œI’m more concerned about Willow running away with Al,” Martha said.
    I decided that this was not the time to mention Al’s des­cription of Willow as “sexy.”
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    * * *
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    Tuesday was my day off and I had two options. One, I could hunt for an apartment; two, I could go to the State Fair. This was a no-brainer—no landlord would have a Pronto Pup stand in his yard, and we still had a whole month to find a new place and move. I figured I could justify my choice to Martha by talking to Lorrie Gardner about the aftermath of Vinnie Luciano’s dramatic death on the fairgrounds.
    In deference to Lorrie’s concern about parking on the grass, I left my car way up behind the grandstand in the Fox Lot and hiked about three blocks in eighty-degree heat to her office in the Admin Building. On the way, I snagged my first Pronto Pup of the day, and I had just nipped the last bite off the stick when I greeted Lorrie at her desk. She was wearing white shorts and a skimpy blue tank top that left almost as little to the imagination as a bikini. Obviously the air conditioning hadn’t been fixed.
    â€œWhat