A Carnival of Killing Read Online Free Page A

anything that might be related to this morning’s not-so-gala event.”
    “You’re thinking the murder is connected to the carnival?” I asked.
    “Everything points that way. Number one, the victim was last year’s Klondike Kate. Number two, we’ve been told that the victim attended a party for the Queen of the Snows candidates last night and was later seen leaving a downtown bar with a man wearing a Vulcan costume.”
    “A Vulcan costume? Are you shittin’ me?” I asked.
    “Have I ever?”
    “Not that I’ve ever caught you.”
    “Good enough. All I’m asking is that you pay close attention when the Vulcans are around. We’re going to be talking to all of them individually, but we can always use another set of ears. And remember, you can’t print that yet.”
    “Why not?” I asked. “It might get a response from somebody who saw them after they left the bar.”
    “It might also totally destroy the Winter Carnival,” Brown said. “Can you imagine the reaction people would have when they saw the Vulcans coming if they thought one of them killed that woman?”
    “Good point. I’ll keep my mouth shut and watch the Vulcans like the proverbial hawk.”
    The latter wouldn’t be difficult. Al and I had a feature story assignment to ride with Vulcanus Rex and his Krewe from morning until night the next day.
     
     

Chapter Four
    Uneasy Rider
     
    Let me explain the St. Paul Winter Carnival, which many people find inexplicable. The Carnival begins the last weekend of January and runs into the beginning of February. The scenario, in a nutshell (and you have to be a nut to come out of your shell and run around outside in Minnesota at that time of year) is this:
    King Boreas, who represents the forces of snow and ice, rules the Carnival along with the Queen of Snows, who represents sugar and spice and everything nice. Vulcanus Rex and his red-clad seven-man Krewe ride around the city in an over-the-hill fire truck bringing chaos and confusion to many Carnival events. On the final night of the Carnival, the Vulcans summon warmer weather by driving away the winter king and queen, along with their retinue of princes, princesses and royal guards.
    As silly as all this sounds, the Carnival attracts approximately 350,000 visitors each year and generates an estimated $3.5 to $5.0 million in economic activity, according to the press release delivered to my desk by the St. Paul Festival & Heritage Foundation.
    Carnival events include toboggan runs, ice fishing contests, parades, ice sculpture exhibitions, dog team rides and, of course, the Klondike Kate Cabaret. Not bad for a celebration that began in 1886 to showcase the fast-growing city and disprove the insult written by a New York newspaper reporter who had described St. Paul as “another Siberia, unfit for human habitation in the winter.”
    The Vulcans have been rebuilding their image ever since a woman filed a complaint against one of the Krewe, claiming that he reached too high up her thigh while putting an honorary garter in place. Nobody would be installing any garters on the morrow. Also verboten was the traditional kiss, during which Vulcans marked the face of every available female with a greasy black smudge transferred from their cheeks and beards. The mark of the reformed, politically-correct Vulcan is a black V, made with a stick of greasepaint and applied only after asking for the fair damsel’s consent.
    I decided that the one exception to my no-tell promise would be Alan Jeffrey. I figured he had the right to know that he might be sharing the back end of a fire truck with a murderer. I called him at home and told him what I’d learned from Brownie.
    “A Vulcan costume?” Al said. “Are you shittin’ me?”
    “Have I ever?” I asked.
    “Lots of times.”
    “Well, this time I’m not. Brownie thinks one of the Vulcan Krewe might have killed Lee-Ann Nordquist. And we’ll be with the Vulcans all day tomorrow.”
    “Why are we wasting a day with