SIX

After Chase left Quincy with Dr. Ramos, she strolled back to her booth, wanting to look at some of the other vendors’ wares. People were coming in and out of the butter sculpture structure, which was next to the main building, keeping the door closed as they entered and left.

The crime scene people must have worked all night. She’d noticed them taking the yellow tape from the door first thing in the morning. It was nice they had hurried with their work, cooperating with the fair people and making it easier for them to carry on. That also made it so she was free to see inside the place.

She pushed the door open. It was on a strong spring, so she had to give it a good shove. They were serious about keeping it cold inside, and it worked. The day was fair for October, but Chase wasn’t dressed warmly enough for this deep freeze with her light sweater.

A half-dozen sculptors were at work, with stations for several more. Spectators milled about, watching them practice their art. One artist was building a framework out of metal wire mesh, but the others were further along. If there was mesh in their sculptures, it was hidden beneath the thick layers of slathered butter.

Each sculptor had a station consisting of a wooden table for the creation, about five feet square, and another smaller table that held tools. A name tag stuck onto the corner of the larger table identified each artist.

Chase wondered why the floor was strewn with straw. Maybe to absorb dropped butter.

In spite of the chilly temperature, the heavy odor of butter was detectable. Working in the soft substance was a silent task, but the sculptors threw down and picked up their wooden and metal implements in the heat of their creativity, creating a light clatter against the background of the murmuring observers.

A watchful policeman stood inside the door, his eyes constantly scanning the room. Chase wondered if Larry Oake had been murdered by a militant, crazed vegan, protesting the existence of butter. Or by someone in this room.

Some images were recognizable, some were not yet. One man was nearly finished with a gopher statue. The brochure had said the contest was open to carvings of things that symbolized Minnesota. The most familiar moniker was “Land of 10,000 Lakes” (although Chase knew there were more like 12,000 of them). That would be difficult to depict in sculpture, though. Minnesota was also called the Gopher State, so that statue was apt.

Another sculptor, the lone woman in the group, was carving what looked to be a five-foot star. The state motto was actually “The Star of the North.” Another good idea.

One tall, hulking man was assisted by a teenage girl. Chase couldn’t tell what his carving was yet. The girl smiled at Chase. “Isn’t this fun to watch?”

“Fascinating,” Chase said. “I’ve never seen a butter sculpture being created before. I had no idea it was such an art form.” Every one of this group could properly be called an artist, as far as she was concerned. Even though the medium was temporary, they were taking great care and creating intricate and, in some cases, beautiful things.

The man turned to Chase, setting down the wooden dowel he was using to make random holes in his butter. “Very much an art form,” he said. “And Mara is one of the best designers I’ve ever run across. Wait until this is finished. You’ll see.”

“Oh, Daddy,” the young woman said, lowering her head. The man’s tag said he was Karl Minsky. Karl looked like he was built with larger bones than ordinary humans. He was huge. Next to him, his small, delicate daughter looked even more petite than she was.

“It’s true,” her father insisted. “Mara has been accepted to North Star Art School. They came to her even before she applied.”

“You know I’m not going there, Daddy.”

“You will if I can win this competition.”

“Is the prize that big?” asked Chase.

“Twenty-five thousand dollars.” Mara’s father stressed each word. “It’s the difference between her going to art school or junior college. And yes, Mara, you’re going there.”

“Good luck, then.” Chase started to move away. The man’s intensity bothered her. He was large and strong-looking, but she had to admit that he had a delicate touch with the butter.

“We have a chance now,” the man said, picking up his dowel and making more holes. Maybe his sculpture was a land with ten thousand lakes, after all, Chase thought. It looked abstract and was one of the few she didn’t completely admire.

As she walked away, she thought the man added, “With Oake out of the way.”

An empty station on the other side of the room must have been Larry Oake’s, though his name tag was missing. A few wooden and metal tools lay scattered in front of his sculpture, which was still there. His work looked like the bottom third of a bull. A hole gaped in the flank of the animal, as if someone had decided to make a shallow cave there.

The man next to him was obviously doing Babe the Blue Ox. Maybe Larry’s sculpture was going to be of the same creature. Babe was Paul Bunyan’s famous sidekick. Both Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox were favorite Minnesota folklore characters. Large statues of those two resided at a roadside attraction in Bemidji, near the headwaters of the Mississippi.

Minnesota children grew up on the tall tales about Paul Bunyan, the huge, legendary lumberjack, and his pet ox. In one of the tales, Paul dug Lake Michigan as a drinking hole for Babe. Another said that it took five storks to deliver Paul when he was born. As for Babe, it took a crow a whole day to fly from one horn to the other. Babe had also straightened out some of the logging roads when Paul hitched him up to them.

The ox carver, who had been smoothing a flank, set his sculpting tool, an instrument that resembled a small serrated spatula, on the table and wiped his hands. He turned away from his sculpture, obviously to take a break, so Chase thought it might not be intrusive to talk to him.

“Excuse me. Is that Babe the Blue Ox?”

The man smiled. “Sure is.” He stuck out his hand to shake. “Winn Cardiman, state champ of Iowa two years in a row.” He had a wrinkled, flat face, pale as milk. His ears stuck out of his wiry red hair the same way a chimp’s does. His smile took up nearly his whole freckled face.

“Congratulations,” Chase said, taking his rather soft hand. She looked over at the empty table. “Is that where Mr. Oake was carving?”

Cardiman’s face dropped. His scowl was more like a sad orangutan’s. “That’s it, yes.”

“His place doesn’t have straw on the floor.”

“I’m sure the police took it away. You know, to analyze it or something. Look for the killer’s DNA, maybe.”

“It looks like he was working on something similar,” she said. “Was Mr. Oake carving Babe, too?”

Now Winn Cardiman’s wizened face reddened and scrunched up. “He stole my idea.” He spoke through clenched teeth, anger sparking from his large brown eyes. “I started first and he copied me.”

Cardiman looked angry enough to kill Oake. Chase wondered if he had.

The orange cat prowled the large cage. He had eaten the treats and even played with the toys for a few minutes. The man in the white lab coat looked in on him occasionally and talked baby talk to him. But he was bored. He studied the latch. It was a simple one. It was, in fact, easy to open from the outside. The cat tried to reach the lever from inside but couldn’t quite manage it.

“This is looking more and more like it was a good idea,” Anna said, beginning to pack up. “What I mean is that I’m glad we decided to come to the fair this week. When Julie mentioned it—”

“Mentioned it?” Chase said, slipping on her jacket in the evening coolness. “She twisted our arms.”

“You’re right. When she twisted our arms, I resisted. I’m glad I’m here, but I am dressing more warmly tomorrow.” She gestured at the mostly empty table. “Look how many we sold.”

“I didn’t think we’d do this well in one day,” agreed Chase. There were very few unsold dessert bars to pack up. “I hope we have enough in the freezer to last the week.”

“I can always bake more in the evening.”

“Night, you mean. The fair is open until after dark.” The fair closed at nine and the sun had already set at about seven.

“Semantics.” Anna grinned. “Whatever. I can bake more. Why don’t you go collect Quincy while I finish here? It’ll only take a few more minutes.”

A woman was leading a pet pig in a harness out of Dr. Ramos’s office when Chase got there. Maybe there’s some sort of pig contest, she surmised. There seemed to be animal competitions every day. Betsy was gone already.

“Is her pig sick?” she asked Mike, after the door closed.

“You know I’m not supposed to talk about my patients, but no, the pig is fine. You here to get Quincy?” He stood close and she could smell his clean shirt.

“Time to take him home.” She tilted her head up at him, looking deep into those chocolate eyes. She wasn’t seeing nearly enough of him.

“How are you and Anna doing?” Mike reached out and touched her arm.

He was so sweet to check on them. “We’re selling up a storm. But how are you doing?”

“With the police, you mean?” Chase nodded. “I had to answer the same questions again today for Detective Olson.” Chase hadn’t seen the homicide detective at the fair today, but there was no reason for him to drop in at her booth. “I think I’m still the number one suspect.” She saw his jaw working as he clenched his teeth.

“That’s not fair. I’ve just talked to two people who at least have motives.” This time she put her hand on his arm. “You were only retrieving Quincy, weren’t you?”

He hesitated for two or three seconds. “Yes, I was getting Quincy.”

“It was smart of you to look for him with the butter. I do wonder how he got in there, though.” When she’d pushed that door open, the spring was awfully stiff. A cat could never open it, even a heavyset one.

“He had to have slipped in when someone opened the door, don’t you think?” Mike asked. He got Quincy from his cage and crated him for Chase.

“I guess. I wish he hadn’t gone inside there at all.”

Driving home with her pet in his crate on the floor beside her, she wondered exactly why Mike had looked where he had. What made him think to check that place? It was true, she knew, that Quincy could not have gotten in by himself. Even though there was the temptation of pounds and pounds of butter, she would not have thought of looking inside that building. Was Mike holding back his reason for being there?

Later that night, Chase was just getting around to drawing a bath and getting ready for bed when her doorbell rang. Glad that she was still dressed, she ran downstairs and peeked through the chain latch to see who was there.

When she saw it was Inger Uhlgren, she unhooked the chain and threw the door open wide. The young woman looked awful. Her gray eyes usually looked huge in her small face, but tonight all Chase noticed were the black circles beneath those pretty eyes.

“Come upstairs, dear. Can I get you something?”

Inger lugged a heavy-looking cloth bag, which Chase took from her as they went up to the apartment. When they got there, Inger asked for a cup of herb tea. While the water heated, Chase fussed over her, settling her on the leather couch with an afghan. Quincy seemed to sense Inger’s distress and curled up beside her protectively.

After they both had mugs of peppermint tea, Inger drank a few sips and set hers down. “My parents won’t let me stay,” she said.

“They threw you out?”

Inger nodded.

“Why?”

“I went to the clinic, like you said. They told me I’m . . . I’m pregnant.” She bowed her head. “My parents say I’ve shamed them.”

Chase bit back a retort about parents who should support and love their children, for better or worse. This girl needed support and love now more than she probably ever had in her life. Inger was twenty-two, but seemed so much younger sometimes.

“I’m so sorry,” Chase said, feeling her words were inadequate. “Do you have a place to stay?”

Inger shook her head, which was still bowed. Chase moved to the couch and put an arm around her. Inger burst into tears and Chase held her while she sobbed for a good ten minutes. Chase couldn’t help but shed a few tears with her.

When Inger seemed to be done, Chase got tissues for both of them.

“Now,” Chase said. “What are we going to do?”

When Inger shrugged, Chase continued, casting about in her own mind for what to do next. “Have you talked to the baby’s father? Is he going to be any help?”

“Zack was in the army.” Her face crumpled and she sobbed once more. “We were going to get married. We weren’t careful enough.” She patted her stomach, though it hadn’t started to bulge yet. “He didn’t think he would get sent overseas again, but he did. And he didn’t . . . he didn’t come back.”

Poor Inger was truly alone.

After another brief crying jag, Chase called Anna.

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