The Weatherman Page 12

The Weatherman gathered up his script and straightened his tie. They were ten minutes into the five o’clock newscast. Weather was coming up next. Dixon Bell was back at the studio podium readying his forecast when Charleen Barington introduced a new educational feature that she’d had a hand in preparing.

  The Texas beauty gave the TelePrompTer a look of grave concern. “Are Minnesota students measuring up to the high standards set by America’s top universities? That’s the question we’ll be putting to you all this week in a feature we call ‘So You Want to Go to College.’ Every night this week on our five o’clock and ten o’clock news shows, we’ll ask you, our viewers, questions that appear on some of the toughest college entrance exams in the nation.” She turned to Ron Shea. “Ron, we’ll try this one out on you.”

  Ron Shea turned to the camera and chuckled. “Uh-oh, I’m in trouble now.”

  Charleen put a finger in the air like a game show host. “Ron, what was the name of the plan to rebuild Europe after World War II?”

  The multiple-choice answers were spelled out on the screen, white on blue. Charleen read them off: “(A) The Geneva Convention, (B) The Marshall Plan, or (C) The Truman Doctrine?”

  The answer was so obvious Dixon Bell paid little attention. The focus returned to Ron Shea as he studied the three choices on his monitor. “Oh, boy. I believe it was the Truman Doctrine.”

  Charleen smiled, a big congratulatory smile. “That’s right, Ron.” The (C) answer flashed on the screen. “It was the Truman Doctrine, proposed by President

  Harry Truman.”

  Ron Shea nodded his head. “Harry Truman was a smart man.” Dixon Bell couldn’t believe his ears. Yes, Harry Truman was a smart man, but Ron Shea and Charleen Barington were pair of matched idiots, and it was about time somebody told them. The Weatherman’s voice thundered out of the shadows. “The plan

  to rebuild Europe after World War II was called the Marshall Plan!” Camera three quickly swung to the weather center—not enough time to warm up his lights.

  Dixon Bell spoke in silhouette. “It was proposed by General George Marshall, who was the secretary of state during the Truman administration. At least that’s what they taught us poor white trash down South.”

  As he calmly went back to examining his forecast, the Weatherman mumbled just loud enough to be heard on the air.

  “Not exactly Jeopardy, is it, folks?” There hadn’t been that much silence on the news set since the crash of Skyhawk 7. In the newsroom, telephones could be heard ringing off the hook. Ron Shea smiled sheepishly at his co-anchor.

  “Well, Charleen, I guess it’s back to school for us.”

  Charleen Barington forced a smile at the TelePrompTer and read what was written. “Coming up next, meteorologist Dixon Bell will be here to tell us if we’re going to have a wet Christmas.”

  ***

  "Did he ask you out?"

  Andrea Labore kept hearing those haunting words coming from behind that spooky mask. She heard them again as the tall black gates of the governor’s mansion swung open. A wreath on the front door warmly welcomed visitors. It was raining. She drove down a carpet of sloppy snow and parked in front of the carriage house. Andrea climbed out of her car, cringing at the nasty weather. The huge estate on Summit Avenue in St. Paul was being pelted. Naked branches on tall trees were bending with the weight of the icy rain. A passing wind spun the droplets in circles, threw the weather in her face. It sure didn’t seem a lot like Christmas.

  After the death of the Republican nominee, a battle royal broke out in the Republican Party. Backers of Per Ellefson claimed that since he’d finished second in the September primary, his name should be placed on the ballot. But the party’s right wing claimed the executive committee was entitled to meet and nominate a new candidate, someone more to their liking. Minnesota’s secretary of state, a no-nonsense woman, rose above partisan politics and followed a strict interpretation of the state’s constitution, deciding Ellefson’s name would be placed on the ballot. With only two weeks to campaign, the handsome Norwegian was elected governor in a close race that saw the lowest voter turnout in state history. To the amusement of all, the new governor told his victory gathering, “It’s okay if you call me Governor Lazarus.”

  After he was elected Per Ellefson kept a promise he’d made to Andrea Labore. She was granted the first interview—an exclusive. Following that interview, Andrea’s star rose a little higher in the Sky High newsroom.

  Governor-elect Lazarus was waving to Andrea from the back terrace of the mansion, a Scandinavian sculpture in warm wool shirt. He took her by the arm and helped her up the back steps so she wouldn’t slip and fall. “He said it was going to rain.”

  “Who said?” Andrea asked.

  “Your weatherman. He said three days ago we’d be getting rain out of this system.”

  “Did you watch our news tonight?”

  Ellefson took her coat. “No, I’m afraid I didn’t have a chance.” They walked down a stone hall to the front of the mansion. “That’s why I’m late. I got called in. This family in South Minneapolis lost everything they had when their house burned down. It was really sad. The fire started with their Christmas tree, and all of their presents were burned up.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  “Yes. They’ve set up a special fund for them.”

  “It seems something like that happens every year.”

  “Doesn’t it, though?”

  “What else did I miss by not watching television?”

  Andrea thought the question had a cynical ring to it. “The Toys for Tots drive failed to reach its goal. That’s a first for us.”

  They stopped in the hallway. It was drafty, the marble cold. “That’s the kind of thing we have to turn around,” Ellefson said. If there had been any cynicism in his voice, it was gone. He spoke with a sincerity rare for politicians. “I believe in Minne sota, Andrea. No single issue about the state is more important to Minnesotans than our firmly held belief that life in Minnesota is infinitely superior to life in any other state. I think perhaps only two other states in this country have as much pride and love for their land as we do . . . maybe Texas and Virginia. But our is a quiet kind of love. A cool pride. A quality of life. Whatever you want to call it, I think we’re losing it. Being from Minnesota used to mean something. I want to bring that something back.”

  Andrea agreed. “I can see it watching the news day in and day out. There is this sinking feeling that this isn’t the state I grew up in. Something went wrong.”

  Andrea fought with herself. No question, she had been taken from the start with Per Ellefson. The first time she’d seen him in person was towards the end of the summer, at a speech he delivered at the old soldiers’ home in Minnehaha Park. He reminded her of a Viking warrior, what Leif Ericson might have looked like in a coat and tie.

  Strong-minded, intelligent women have a thing about seducing powerful men, as if access to power might translate into power. Andrea had always used sex more than she enjoyed it. Boyfriends inevitably disappointed her. She’d always been attracted to men of substance—the college professor with the literary awards and the sage advice, or the police chief with his heart in social justice and his hands in politics. This charismatic governor-elect was another one. Andrea Labore was tempted by the thought. She had it and she knew how to use it.

  “We don’t move in for two weeks,” Ellefson told her. “The governor and his family moved out early so we could be in by Inauguration Day. It was very thoughtful of him. I thought you might like to see the place before my wife and kids turn it into a zoo.”

  They walked to the front foyer. “This place is huge,” Andrea exclaimed. The halls were decked with a lot more than boughs of holly. Two thousand dollars’ worth of poinsettias bought the season cheer. The first floor had been completely refurbished in the Tudor-revival style of the 1920s. A stately grand piano and a magnificent chandelier broke the coldness of the place and created an atmosphere of elegance. The art was French im
pressionist. Oriental rugs lay on the floor. A priceless grandfather clock reminded visitors of their own place in time.

  The clock chimed the quarter-hour. Per Ellefson jumped in front of it and spread his powerful arms. “Three floors and a basement,” he told Andrea, “thirty-six rooms, two cooks, a housekeeper, one manager, one assistant manager, a full-time secretary, two libraries, three offices, a solarium, a sauna, a wine cellar, a dining room that seats eighteen, and God only knows how many bathrooms.”

  Andrea spun slowly around, taken back in time. “It’s just like the Victorian Summit Avenue F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote about in those short stories.”

  The governor-elect smiled. “Yes, I love reading Fitzgerald, too.” Then he continued the tour. “The family quarters are on the second floor. On the average, one thousand guests pass through here every month.” He pointed to a long open balcony. “To get from room to room in the family residence you have to come out into that hallway up there. Even to go to the bathroom. I’d hate to come running out of the shower in only my towel to find a tour passing through.”

  Andrea laughed. “It’s so . . . so . . .” She was lost for words.

  “It appears stately from the outside, but once you get in here and start looking around it gets pretty shabby. Some of the carpeting is thirty years old. Second and third floors are the worst. Come along, I’ll show you what I mean.”

  He took her hand, and they started up the open stairway. Andrea gazed into his snowy blue eyes. “This house must be filled with wonderful stories.”

  “The first governor to live here, Karl Rolvaag, buried his dog in the basement. There’s a paw print in the concrete to mark the spot. On windy nights you can hear it howling.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “No,” he laughed. “The staff calls him the Hound of the Rolvaags.”

  On the second floor, the elegance of the mansion disappeared. The family residence was cold, drab, and impersonal. Stuck in the fifties. The rooms were cramped and worn. The only touch of class upstairs was the white wine Ellefson poured. And the red rose he gave Andrea and the kiss on the cheek.

  “Did he ask you out?”

  The end of the tour took them up the stairs to the third floor of the mansion, once a ballroom. Now it was only an empty attic. The walls were peeling paint, falling plaster. Pieces of furniture were covered with black plastic.

  They walked into a corner bedroom as sparse as a monk’s cell. Between two windows was a daybed covered with an army surplus blanket. The roof leaked. A section of green garden hose dangled from the cracked ceiling and dripped into a silver pail. Be - neath a window a rope ladder lay at the ready. Incense lingered in the air. Ellefson closed the door. “According to the fire marshal it’s illegal to use this floor—no fire es cape. I guess the governor’s teenage son lived up here. I’m going to turn it into my hideaway.”

  Andrea walked to the window. Icy raindrops splattered the glass. She twirled the rose he’d given her under her nose. All was quiet but for the drip of the hose into the pail.

  Even in the blurring rain the grandest avenue in Minnesota appeared frozen in time. Old-fashioned street lamps punctuated the beauty of it all. A horse and sleigh down the center of the street would have been appropriate. Tall evergreens on the front lawn twinkled with white lights. The same white lights were festooned on the iron fence above the snowy sidewalk. Across the way, hiding behind a row of Norwegian pines, another imposing stone residence was decorated in lights of rainbow colors. The Queen Anne house next door to the pines displayed a nativity scene below its front portico. Christmas had come to Summit Avenue.

  Andrea stood mesmerized by the avenue’s grace and charm. The governorelect came up to her and put his graceful arms around her waist from behind. He leaned his chin on her shoulder. He pressed his body tight against hers. His breath was warm and sweet. His cologne smelled of the north woods. “Winter is what I love about Minnesota,” he whispered. “It keeps the riffraff out.”

  She turned immediately and kissed him, a deep, warm kiss. Andrea Labore had never felt so good about feeling so guilty. “Merry Christmas, Governor.” “Merry Christmas to you, Andrea.”

  She tuned out his wife and children. All journalistic principles came off with her blouse. Her own rules about avoiding cops and politicians fell to the floor.

  On the daybed he slid off her slacks and admired her legs. Andrea worked hard to keep the weight off. Was she too skinny? She worried about this as the governor-to-be removed her bra and nibbled on her small breasts. Her nipples began to harden. He licked his way back to her face. It was her face men wanted.

  Andrea’s aversion to cops literally came in her face. When she was on the police force she dated a homicide detective for weeks before she decided to go to bed with him. It was a power struggle from the moment they hit the sheets. He wanted on top. He called her a bitch and pinned her hands above her head. He ejaculated in her face, then used the head of his dick to rub it in. It was her first experience with an angry cop and angry sex.

  Ellefson kept rubbing his hands tenderly over her face, whispering in her ear. “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. I knew from the start we’d be together someday.”Then he stood to take off his clothes. She turned away from him and watched the freezing rain falling over the tree branches. When he crawled back onto the bed, she closed her eyes and waited for his caress.

  But he only brushed a hand across her face. “Look at me.”

  Andrea opened her eyes. He was on his knees over her. His erection was long and thick. She took the Republican cannon in her hand and began stroking his ego. When he didn’t move, she knew what he was waiting for.The obligatory kiss. He clasped the back of her head as she sucked him. Satisfied, he went down on her slow and easy, and Andrea began to more enjoy the experience and appreciate the man. Again she took him by the hand, this time putting it where she wanted it, helping him inside of her.

  After the sex Andrea Labore buried her beautiful but guilty face into the wide, hairy chest of governor-elect Per Ellefson. Where could this possibly go? What did she have to gain? Was she really falling for this guy? But then the new governor wasn’t the only man confusing her these days.

  ***

  "Did he ask you out?"

  When they first began working together on the stranglings that autumn, Andrea was as antagonistic towards Rick Beanblossom as was he towards her. She hated his attitude. She was sure he hated her face. But her work ethic and her iron will were winning him over, though the son of a bitch would be loath to admit it. Her attitude seemed to change with the seasons. Winter brought cold respect and admiration for the masked man. They were more alike than she wanted to admit. She learned he read Timemagazine and U.S. News &World Reportfrom cover to cover every week. He read the New York Timesevery morning, as well as the Minneapolis Star Tribuneand the St. Paul Pioneer Press.She watched him work a computer like an electronic historian, pulling related facts and articles out of obscure periodicals. He would excuse himself, walk to a phone, and return minutes later with information reporters have no right to. In media circles it was well known that the masked newsman was “plugged in.” His Pulitzer Prize-winning story on organized crime and its insidious infiltration of Minnesota’s multi-billion dollar gambling industry could only have been written with the help of the state’s top cops. The outgoing governor ordered an investigation into the leaks that tarnished his image and made him unelectable, but Beanblossom’s source was never found out.

  Andrea tried to cultivate her own sources, but most cops never trusted her after she quit the force. Some cops thought her a traitor. She doubled her own news reading, finding Timeand Newsweekeasier and easier to digest. What began as a chore soon became fascinating reading. Not only was she retaining the news she read, she was becoming absorbed by it.

  She did best the things the masked producer couldn’t do, or wouldn’t do, like talking off-camera with friends and families of those who had been murdered. She had a war
m, caring manner. In newsrooms, murders run together like Monday through Friday. As time goes by, it becomes difficult to remember one grisly crime from the other. But they were women with lives before they were murder victims, and Andrea made them human again. She was convinced they had all died at the hands of a man. The same man.

  Debra Ann Miller, a single woman working in health insurance. Her area of expertise; working women and their health care needs. Strangled atop a parking ramp in broad daylight on her way to her car.

  Lorelei Hayne—everybody called her Sis. Seventeen years old and about to begin her senior year at Harding High School. She sold hot dogs at Twins games to earn money for college. She already had her application in at St. Catherine. Strangled atop a dark parking ramp in the pouring rain on her way to her daddy’s car.

  Caroline Fawn. A Chippewa Indian. Majoring in music and theatre at the University of Wisconsin. Engaged to be married in the spring. Strangled atop a river bluff as the sun rose on a gorgeous Indian summer day.

  Andrea knew Rick Beanblossom didn’t always like this humanizing effect. He fixated on things, not people. One day in the fall, as they drove back to the newsroom after an interview, he made her stop the car at a park, where he got out and admired a cluster of trees ablaze in their autumn colors. Another time it was a rose garden off Lake Harriet during the first snow. The time after that it was a 1963 redand-white Corvette. He never said anything, just stopped and looked, and she was left to wonder what was going on inside that mask.