Джанет Кантрелл - Fat Cat Spreads Out

“Nice to see you again. Chase Oliver, right?” She alleviated Chase’s embarrassment at not remembering her right away. “I’m Mike’s aunt Betsy.” She set her purse on the desk and moved behind it.

Oh yes, she had been talking with Mike and Patrice. “So you’re working in Dr. Ramos’s office?”

Aunt Betsy smiled. “Dr. Ramos? I call him Mike, since I used to change his diapers, but yes, he asked me to help out this week.”

Mike came out of the examining room. “Glad you’re here, Aunt Betsy. People are already starting to bring pets in.”

“I’ll get to work, then.” She slipped her purse under the desk and seated herself, ready to assume her duties as the receptionist.

The striped cat stepped cautiously from the familiar crate, the place where he’d been for hours and hours, into the strange new cage. He tested the floor with one paw, then stepped inside. He raised his head and sniffed. Detecting no objectionable odors, he shifted his attention to the jingle bell, the ball, and the Kitty Patty that had been left inside the door just before it shut. As the latch was hooked, he paid close attention to how it worked.

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.”