Free Too Dead To Dance by Diane Morlan Page B

when I found this file box on
wheels. I couldn’t deal with lugging heavy boxes across the Fest
Grounds one more time. I looked down at my shoes and although the
bleach had taken out the bloodstain, I could still see it. I
thought I might have to go shopping soon and get another new pair
of sneakers.
    To my surprise, without the
struggle of carrying forty pounds of coffee bags, I enjoyed the
hike across the Fest Grounds. Potted flowers were everywhere.
Bright red azaleas, purple hydrangeas, and salmon-colored impatiens
danced in flowerpots lining the walkway and clustered at the
entrances to tents and buildings.
    Workers were setting up
their food stands and the smell of flowers mixed with the odor of
hot grease. I turned the corner and had the Home Arts Building in
sight when I heard someone call my name.
    “Jennifer, wait up! I want
to ask you something.”
    I knew that voice. Damn.
“Hello, Natalie.” I said, catching myself from calling her Greta.
“I’m in a bit of a hurry. I seem to be late.”
    She skipped into step next
to me. Today she wore an azure tank top neatly tucked into her
spotless, crisp white Capri pants, and again sported patent leather
pumps. Once more I felt dowdy in faded blue jeans and a t-shirt
that read “Hard Polka Café, Hermann, Minnesota.”
    “No problem.” Natalie
chirped. “I’ll just walk with you. So, what’s up? Did Bernie whack
that musician or what?”
    “Bernie did no such thing,
Natalie. And don’t you go spreading rumors either.”
    “Why, I would never do
that, Jennifer. You know me, I‘m the soul of discretion. But I
heard she’d been arrested and taken off to jail. I knew something
was going on when she got into that fight and now the guy turns up
dead. At your booth, of all places.”
    “Natalie, you sure can
twist things around. The deputies wanted to ask Bernie some
questions. She hasn’t been arrested and is now at home.”
    “What about the dead guy?
He’s the one she had the fight with, isn’t he?”
    “ That little disagreement
had nothing to do with Wes being killed. And I have no idea why
whoever killed him decided to do it in the Home Arts
Building.”
    “Maybe it was someone who
has a booth there. I mean, besides you.”
    “Maybe whoever did it
wanted to meet with him in private. It certainly didn’t have
anything to do with my coffee booth or me. Excuse me.” I turned
into the building and ignored her until she went away in a
huff.
    I thought of that old
television show “The Honeymooners” where Jackie Gleason says to his
wife, “One of these days, Alice, pow, right in the kisser.”
Sometimes I would love to smack Natalie.
    I reluctantly stepped into
the Home Arts building. I wouldn’t have much time to set up before
the doors opened. But, I didn’t think we’d have much business today
anyway. My nose itched when the scent of pine cleaner wafted toward
me. Clicking bobbins announced Trudy roosting on a cushioned stool
in her booth. I greeted her and asked, “Who cleaned up the
mess?”
    “I think Frank Metzger and
some of the maintenance crew got the clean-up job. Guess being Fest
Meister includes some nasty duties.” She chuckled as she sat
flipping bobbins and making lace. “It’s about time he did something
useful.”
    “What do you mean?” I
asked. “He’s always hustling around here and he told me he owns a
meat market. That must keep him busy.”
    “Being the Fest Meister is
just for fun. Cleaning this place is probably the most work he’s
done all week. Polka Daze is his excuse to be away from the butcher
shop. He never spends much time there anyway. His younger brother
is half owner and Al does most of the work. Frank just stands
around, looking important and shootin’ the bull with folks, if he
decides to show up at all.”
    “Well, I think he’s nice.
He sure helped my yesterday,” I said, wondering about Trudy’s
attitude toward the Fest Meister.
    I didn’t think there would
be much business today. Who’d