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like us, not like a couple of ski bums. That won’t kill you, will it?”
     
     

Chapter Five
    Cooler than Cool
     
    The first event we were scheduled to attend was a children’s snow sculpture contest in Como Park, an expanse of rolling, frozen hills about a ten-minute drive from downtown. Al and I, properly-garbed in red and black, were crammed into the back of the fire truck along with six red-suited Vulcans. The vehicle was the size of an overgrown pickup and the box had been cleared of whatever equipment was attached when it had been an operating ladder truck. I had read on the Vulcan Website that this four-wheeled piece of automotive antiquity was called The Royal Chariot. Great sense of humor, these Vulcans.
    One red-suited member of the Krewe drove with one hand on the wheel, the other had the siren. The black-clad Vulcanus Rex rode shotgun, from where he occasionally aimed his pistol out the window toward the leaden sky and squeezed off a couple of rounds. Since no glass was shattered whenever we passed under one of the skyways that crossed most of St. Paul’s downtown streets at the second-story level, I assumed he was firing blanks.
    The shivering Krewe member braced against the edge of the truck box on my left introduced himself as the Duke of Klinker.
    “Glad to meet you, your dukeship. What’s your job?” I asked. I had read on the Website that the crew members all had fire-related names and specific tasks to perform.
    “I’m the Fire King’s aide de camp and herder of the flock,” said the duke. “That means I make sure everyone is on board when the truck is ready to roll.”
    “Speaking of that, I notice that the truck rattles like a coiled diamondback looking at a barefoot hiker. How old is it?”
    “It’s a 1932 Luverne. Made in Luverne, Minnesota.”
    “Did you say 1932?”
    Klinker laughed. “Don’t worry. They’ve replaced almost every part in this old clunker but the frame. It won’t conk out and leave us standing out in the cold.”
    “That’s very comforting,” I said. “It’s bad enough riding out in the cold.”
    “You get used to it after a while. Everything gets sort of numb.”
    “Isn’t everything getting numb the first stage of freezing to death?”
    He laughed again. “Afraid you’ll wind up like that Klondike Kate they found yesterday?”
    “I hope not. Did you know her very well?”
    Klinker straightened up and took a side step away, banging against a fellow Vulcan, and shook his head. “No,” he said emphatically. “Never met her.”
    Before I could ask another question, the vintage Luverne groaned to a stop in front of a row of small humans, who were bundled from head to toe like Inuits on an Arctic seal hunt. Each of them stood beside a creature molded from snow. The sculptures ranged from your standard backyard snowman to realistic replicas of Spongebob Squarepants and Batman with his cape spread for take-off.
    “Everybody out,” yelled the Herder of the Flock, and we all jumped off the back of the truck. When my boots hit the blacktop, I was grateful to discover that I could still feel pain in my feet.
    “Camera frozen solid yet?” I asked Al as he pulled his digital single lens reflex out of the bag slung over his shoulder.
    “I should have one of those pocket hand warmers in my bag,” he said. He aimed the camera at one of the snow sculptures and pressed the shutter release. He was rewarded with a comforting click and the appearance of an image on the viewing screen. “Pixels are still pixeling at twenty below.”
    “Cool,” I said.
    “Cooler than a frozen daiquiri at the North Pole. What are we supposed to be doing with these runny-nosed little sculptors?” There were, in fact, frosty drops of moisture on many noses and upper lips.
    “I think Vulcan and the boys are going to pick the winners and smear some black V’s on their faces.”
    “They better work fast while the grease is still smearable.”
    “You better shoot fast while the