October Fest Part 10

Johnny held out his hand. "Pleased to meet you, sir."

Bernard shook it but didn't acknowledge me. I wondered if Mrs. Berns had told him I wanted to talk. Actually, studying them side by side, I realized they weren't a bad-looking couple. With their mouths closed, you might be tricked into believing they were your average retired pair setting off into the sunset in their RV. That is, if you could overlook the nasty bruises turning green on their faces and the cast on Mrs. Berns' leg. Bernard was considerably younger than his date, but no spring chicken. He wore a nice polo s.h.i.+rt over a pair of khakis. Mrs. Berns had slipped on elastic-waisted pants and a pink and lime green blouse accented by plastic old-lady jewelry. The only good thing about a wedding between her and Bernard is that afterward, she could go back to dressing with the pizzazz she was known for. But I wasn't going to let it get that far.

Johnny pulled out my chair and asked if I'd like something to drink.

"Water's fine," I said. The restaurant had a simple and welcoming cabin-and-fresh-flowers decor, and a faint jazz tune encouraged conversation without overwhelming it.

"As I was saying," Bernard said to Mrs. Berns, resuming their conversation, "for all intensive purposes, the sooner the wedding, the better."

"For all intents and purposes," I said.

"Exactly," he said.

It was too much. "You two are trying to get married sooner than Halloween? That's not even two weeks away." I gave Mrs. Berns warning eyes. Forget avoiding stressing her, or even me wanting to get her back in her sa.s.sy clothes. I'd rather have her dress like a granny into infinity than bind herself to this loser any sooner than necessary. I'd have to hurry my plan, but my hands were tied until I could get Bernard alone.

"You can hurry love," Bernard said. "I want to make her my woman for all modernity."

I considered asking him to r.e.t.a.r.diterate his point, but I couldn't stand to hear him butcher the language any more. I changed the subject. "How's your online cla.s.s going, Mrs. Berns?"

Not my smartest move. She filled us in with such hyper-specific detail that we were all too embarra.s.sed to look at each other by the time our food came. We ate with our heads down, shoveling the food in quickly to get the night over with. Mrs. Berns won the clean plate award, clearing her filet mignon and baked potato before it got cold.

"d.a.m.n that's better than hospital food." She pushed her plate away, a wide smile on her plate. "Bernard, I believe it's time for a kiss."

"But I'm not done with my steak yet," he groused.

She flicked him on the forehead like a bad dog and then pulled him in close. If you've ever watched old people kiss, you've noticed that they appear to have to pop through a small, invisible barrier to touch lips, like two opposite pole magnets shoved together. Mrs. Berns did not kiss like that. Her magnet was always turned the right way, and her public pa.s.sion made me even more uncomfortable than her tales of studying human s.e.xuality. Johnny tapped my leg, and I realized I'd been staring.

"I'm full. Want to move over to the bar so we can give these two some privacy?"

I looked longingly at my half-eaten brick oven margherita pizza. It was delicious.

"I'll have them box it up for you," Mrs. Berns said out of the corner of her mouth. I was unsurprised to learn that she had 360-degree vision while kissing. She was a modern miracle when it came to the art of love.

"Thanks," I said, but made no move to stand.

"And Bernard will talk to you before you leave."

That's what I needed to hear. "We'll be at the bar." I crammed my hands into my pockets so Johnny couldn't grab one of them again and followed him into the other room. It was packed, even on a Wednesday, but he found a quiet corner. We nursed our water, standing in uncomfortable silence.

"Mira?" He asked. "Do you like me?"

OhmyG.o.dyes. Liked him so much that I didn't want to jinx him, that I'd rather move to India than ruin his life with my bad luck, that I wanted to throw him to the ground right now and ride him like a merry-go-round. "Yeah."

"Then why does it always feel like you're running away?" He took my hand again. I squelched the urge to not yank it back.

"I'm a little damaged," I said, embarra.s.sed that I'd blushed when I said it. "I'm not ... your type."

He pulled me in close. I was about to make some crack about us taking notes from Mrs. Berns and Bernard when his warm lips brushed against mine, soft, and then harder, his tongue gently exploring the edges of my mouth. I sighed and fell against his hard body, loving the feel of his hand in my hair. He pulled back slightly and moved his mouth to my ear, landing soft b.u.t.terfly kisses on the edge. "That's for me to decide," he whispered huskily.

"Yes," I said, not sure what I was agreeing to.

"Will you go to Mrs. Berns' wedding with me?"

At that moment, I would have gone to the landfill to pick out furniture with him. "Uh-hunh." I pushed back against his mouth. His tongue was magic. I heard a soft chuckle, a vibration against my ear, before his mouth moved to the base of my neck. I swear the only reason I didn't mount him like a farm animal right there in the bar was that a siren blared past the front of Stella's, an ambulance followed by two police cars. My heart clutched. They were racing toward the north side of the town, and there were lots of people I cared about on the north side of town.

I stepped back, tamping down my libido with fear. "I have to see what's happening."

His eyes were stormy with pa.s.sion but cleared quickly. "I'll drive."

We raced outside and realized it would be quicker to walk than drive. Stella's was on a rise on Lake Street, and we could see that the emergency vehicles had screamed past us and pulled into the Big Chief Motor Lodge a half mile directly north. It was their second time there in under a week. We dashed north, covering the distance in less than five minutes, arriving out of breath and in time to witness the ambulance crew hurrying up to the lakeside second story with a stretcher between them.

It was such an odd juxtaposition of the scene after Webber was found that I felt unbalanced in the cool October air and reached out to Johnny. He grabbed my arm to steady me and we kept moving forward, on the scene in time to see the ambulance crew hurry down the stairs and toward us with an unconscious Arnold Swydecker on a gurney, skin gray, yellow foam bubbling out the corner of his mouth.

Grace Swinton followed closely behind, her eyes wide with shock. Gary Wohnt tried to detain her, but she pushed him away, yelling meaningless, angry words. He calmed her down, restraining her by holding her upper arms and speaking to her calmly. I was close enough to hear him tell her he'd drive her to the hospital, and her wailing in pain. She was acting a lot like a woman who was seeing a loved one carted away in an ambulance.

The realization set me on my heels. Swinton was in love with Swydecker. I tried to fit that epiphany into the puzzle of Webber's murder but didn't know where it belonged. Was she Swydecker's alibi, the woman he'd rather go to jail for than reveal as his lover? The only thing certain was that being involved with her boss' opponent must have caused her a great deal of stress. Enough stress to kill, though?

Bernard showed up on our heels, having left the gimpy Mrs. Berns on the street out front of Stella's. After some begging, I convinced Johnny that it was absolutely necessary to go back and drive Mrs. Berns home because she shouldn't be so active this soon after her accident. Bernard insisted on staying to dig around for a story, which struck me as incredibly tacky, but I wasn't sure I was any better.

The ambulance pulled out, as did Wohnt with Swinton in his car. I didn't recognize the police officer who had stayed behind to secure the scene, but he was determined that Bernard and I were not to interfere, were not even to have access to the second floor. Bernard listened before charging to the lobby to make a call on his cell phone, presumably to his editor. I did not listen, which is why when the officer strode to his car to retrieve his police tape, I was able to sprint to the second floor unnoticed.

Swydecker's door was open and I darted in. I knew I had only a few seconds. A quick visual scan showed me the exact same room I'd been in during the interview except for a messy pile of paper pooling on the floor and an old-fas.h.i.+oned women's handkerchief lying by the bed. I reached for it but heard footsteps coming up the stairs and only had time to make out two of the three letters monogrammed on the white cloth: a G and an S. Grace Swinton, the woman who hadn't slept in her bed the night of Webber's murder and who looked like her world had ended when Swydecker was whisked away by ambulance. I was now willing to bet my car that she was Swydecker's alibi the night of the murder and he hers, but that neither one of them could risk their careers by coming forth.

Knowing I was on borrowed time, I flew out of the room, my heart thumping in my ears, and rushed to the far end of the second floor walkway a split second before the police officer came into view. If he glared at me, I didn't see. I had my back to him, pretending to knock on Glokkmann's door. I heard a rustle of tape being unwound and glanced to my right, just enough to see that the officer had strung "Do Not Cross" tape across the entrance to his half of the second story and was doing the same to Swydecker's room.

Meanwhile, on the other side of Glokkmann's door, a howling fight was underway. I heard the crash of gla.s.s, a loud thud, and then the most violent sound of all: quiet.

Both voices were female, but I couldn't recognize either of them and couldn't make out what they had been yelling about. Was Glokkmann arguing with her daughter, her ostensible roommate whom I had yet to formally meet, and regardless, why hadn't they emerged at the sound of the ambulance and police sirens? I raised my hand to knock. The door opened preemptively, and I found myself face to face with Glokkmann.

"Everything okay?" I asked. She was pale, a slash of red highlighting one cheek.

"Fine." She kept the door tight to her body. "What's all the commotion out here?"

"Swydecker. He was taken away by ambulance." Was I mistaken, or did she not seem surprised?

"Heart attack?"

"Dunno. Grace went with him."

Her eyes narrowed. "I'll have to call her."

We stared at each other. It was still quiet behind her. "You sure everything is okay?"

"I'm sure. I broke a vase. That's all."

A vase? In a hotel room? "I heard another voice."

"The TV."

Short of calling her a liar and pus.h.i.+ng her out of the way to see for myself, I had no choice but to leave. Seeing Swydecker gray as ash had taken all the fight out of me. "There's police right down from your room if you decide you need help. Good night." I hurried downstairs, determined to hunt down Bernard and reroute some of my aggression his direction. He wasn't in the lobby, or down by the lake, and when I jogged back to the restaurant, I couldn't find him there, either. My questions for him would have to wait.

_____.

The next morning, Kennie filled me in via a phone call. Apparently, Swydecker had overdosed. He swore he'd accidentally taken too many of a sleeping pill prescription and hadn't been trying to kill himself. He also claimed that he and Swinton were mere acquaintances by dint of their jobs, and that he hadn't fully latched his door. It must have swung open, which is how Swinton was able to happen across him sprawled on his bathroom floor and called 911. I wondered if he knew about the bridge Mrs. Berns had for sale.

The police had no options other than to treat his story as factual on the face of things, though I knew Wohnt wouldn't let it slide that easily. The good news, for my curiosity anyhow, was that today I'd be interviewing Glokkmann at the library so I could get her angle on the Swydecker situation as well as see if she cared to share anything more about last night's "broken vase."

At home, I was down to condiments, one egg, and slimy lettuce that I'd bought with good intentions. I scratched out a grocery list, wondering why I continued to organize it according to what popped into my head first rather than by meal or what section of the store the ingredients were available in. Micro-evolution eluded me. List made, I herded the animals toward the lake, grabbing a stocking cap and light gloves. The outside thermometer warned me it was only thirty-one degrees, and I wanted to be prepared. The gra.s.s crunched underfoot as I stepped onto the lawn, but the sun was already coaxing a melt.

"Want me to bring the frisbee?" Luna's eyes said yes, and we took off toward the lake.

The portion of Sunny's property that ab.u.t.ted Whiskey Lake was not as appealing to me as the thick woods, but I did love the metallic flash of a warming October sun on the surface of open water. Luna followed me down the road that connected my driveway to the driveway of Shangri-La, a woodsy resort located on the peninsula that marked the end of the road. Between my place and Shangri-La was a sandy beach that was all mine. It was a wide spot on the side of the road and anyone going to or from Shangri-La pa.s.sed right by it, but in the fall, it was quiet.

A rustling in the woods alongside the road alerted me that Tiger Pop was joining us but would not deign to consider herself part of the group. I smiled. The sun felt toasty on my naked cheeks and it wasn't yet 9:00 a.m. That was unusual for mid-October. The last few years, the state had been covered in snow by this time of year. My breath still came out in visible puffs, but the air was redolent with the earthy smell of decomposing leaves rather than the bite of snow approaching from the west.

Most of the leaves still clung to their branches and under the bright eye of the sun, the woods looked like they were ablaze with the reds, oranges, and golds of maple trees against the rich brown of oak leaves and deep green of pine needles. The air smelled like antic.i.p.ation, like opening a book you were excited to read. Out on the lake far off to my left, a lone fisherman was casting off his boat, a soft breeze waving the lake and gently rolling lapping water onto the sh.o.r.e. I tugged my coat tighter when we reached the edge of the water-it was colder here-and whipped the Frisbee down the road for Luna.

While Luna and I were deep into a game of fetch, Tiger Pop trotted out to sun herself on the dock. I'd need to get some help pulling it in this year. Sunny had written me a letter the previous week informing me that she usually hired a guy named Johnny Leeson to do it, but that anyone in town would be more than willing to help. Yeah, I'll bet she and every other woman in the county wanted to hire a guy named Johnny Leeson. Even the sight of his name made my heart skip, but where we were at now, I didn't know.

I trained my mind back on the moment, the rhythmic game of toss and return with Luna, the soft whisper of the lake, the rustle of wind through dying leaves. It was peaceful, and I absorbed it through my pores. I'd missed this more than anything in the city, the solace of nature. Unfortunately, it was soon time to get to work. I sucked in one last refres.h.i.+ng breath, enough to carry me through the day, and followed the animals back to the house.

I wasn't looking forward to the Glokkmann interview. In fact, all of a sudden, I wanted to wash my hands of the whole ordeal and focus on tending to my fruits and spices, baking, and reading, maybe invite some friends over for a quiet dinner party. Maybe even jump into a relations.h.i.+p with Johnny with my heart fully open to being accepted or being crushed, but open nonetheless. The breeze picked up and blew hair into my face, and I wondered if I could smell a hint of snow after all. I herded Tiger Pop and Luna into the house, reminded them they had a pet door and should keep an eye on each other, and drove to town, vowing that once this murder was solved, I'd embrace all the simple and good things my life offered me.

Glokkmann was waiting for me at the library door, last night's slap mark disappeared from her cheek. She wasn't alone. Standing next to her were Tanya Ingebretson and the dark-haired woman I'd first approached at the debate, the woman who referred to the Representative as "Queen Glokkmann," the woman who I'd been harboring a hunch was Kenya Glokkmann.

"I'm sorry, Sarah. Have you been waiting long?"

She made a show of studying her watch. "I thought you'd be here early now that the library will be opening at ten."

"It's not quite 10:00."

"Aren't there procedures you have to go through first?" Tanya asked. I realized she reminded me of a chipmunk, a tiny, lethal chipmunk, all puffy chest and squat legs, a swirl of brown hair accenting her round, wide-eyed face. She did work hard for Battle Lake, no doubt about it, but she did it to mold us all into her vision rather than out of the goodness of her heart. She'd been a burr under my saddle since I'd arrived, but it wasn't until I'd heard her ridiculous proclamations on gay people that I had a solid reason to dislike her. I wondered if I could start a counter-campaign to deny civil liberties to people who fell in love with wealthy, humorless men named Bud, which happened to describe her husband exactly.

"The library opens at noon. I'm here two hours early as a courtesy to the Representative. I'm sure that will be sufficient time to run through my procedures."

Tanya humphed but didn't press her luck. Glokkmann had already pa.s.sed me to case the place as soon as I'd opened the door. "This is so charming! One big room. What a wonderful example of how we can do more with less. Do you have sufficient chairs for the reporters?"

I'd driven the long way through town and knew that the parking lots of the motels were again full, the news of Swydecker's suicide attempt bringing in a new rush of bloodthirsty reporters. I was fairly confident Glokkmann had invited any she could track down to today's Q & A.

"Where's Grace?" I asked, disregarding her question.

The dark-haired woman made her first noise, a snort.

Glokkmann spun on her heel. "Mira, please meet Kenya, my daughter. My husband and I adopted her from Korea. We took her in when she was two, so she struggles with attachment disorder."

The cruelty in her words was breathtaking. They had clearly rattled Kenya. Judging by the crafty look on Glokkmann's face, that had been her intention.

"You don't have to tell everyone that, mother. We get it. You're a real humanitarian and I'm a mess." She possessed a striking face, beautiful for its angles and contrasts. She also had a strong body, lean like a dancer, and she carried herself confidently, though I'd already noticed she was more comfortable on the sidelines than the front row. She was dressed professionally in a fitted burgundy cardigan set over pressed black corduroys.

Glokkmann acted as if she didn't hear her. "You know what we could do? We could have the Q & A here in the children's alcove, and the reporters could sit around on the floor like it's story time. That'll show them who's got the upper hand."

Tanya laughed along with her new BFF and pulled out the clipboard that Grace had carried on Tuesday so she could jot down notes. Centering the Q & A in one of the four corners of the library seemed a straightforward proposition to me, but I suppose it made Tanya feel important to have something to write on a clipboard. She and Glokkmann must have made up.

I cleared my throat. "You didn't mention where Grace was."

"My mother fired her after she found out she was boning the compet.i.tion," Kenya said, playing with the half pencils at the front counter. Her voice was devoid of emotion.

Her proclamation confirmed beyond a doubt that Grace was the woman who'd been with Swydecker the night of the murder. He must have chosen to protect her rather than clear his name, or I was all wrong about him and he was a cad who didn't want anyone to know he was fooling around on his wife. Regardless, the devastation on Grace's face when she thought she was going to lose Swydecker was evidence of a deep attachment, and that's all I knew for sure.

"That's enough, Kenya! You have to learn when to shut your mouth."

The biting words had an odd effect on Kenya. Her confident posture changed in subtle ways, her shoulders hunching forward and neck swiveling to stare at her mother. Her clear expression went sullen, but she didn't respond. Glokkmann had so far ill.u.s.trated herself to be more of a chicken-wire momma than an affectionate one, and that must have taken its toll, but there was something darker reflected in her daughter. I wondered how often she'd turned her abusive tongue on her children.

The front doorminder donged, and the reporters began to file in. Tanya directed them to form a half circle around the low-to-the-ground cube chairs that ringed the children's table in the sunny south corner of the library, proud of her authoritative role in front of a potentially national audience. I started to get nervous. I hadn't planned for a crowd when interviewing Glokkmann, and nearly thirty people had streamed in, at least five of them with cameras on their shoulders. They all settled uncomfortably on the floor in a semicircle.

I needn't have worried. All my questions were drowned out by the real reporters who wanted to know about Swydecker and the effect of his attempted suicide on her race to maintain her representative seat, now that she was the shoo-in candidate. Glokkmann rebuffed the questions graciously, answering only when it was to her advantage and even then, sticking to her sound bites. She was a consummate salesperson, and it was hypnotizing. I wouldn't have been able to tear my eyes away if not for the feeling that I was being watched. I ignored the itch until Glokkmann reached for a bottle of water, and then I looked up briefly to see Kenya staring at me, a ghost smile on her lips. I s.h.i.+vered.

"No, I will not be trick-or-treating this Halloween," Glokkmann said to laughter, answering a reporter's question as she set down her water. "Trick-or-treating is a perfect example of how socialism thwarts hard work and innovation. It discourages what would otherwise be a productive and fruitful society."

Off to her left and at the rear of the crowd, I gave her my best what-the-h.e.l.l face. Was she really equating the blessed tradition of dressing up like monsters and politicians and finagling free candy to socialism? Well, if it was wrong, I didn't want to be right. Unfortunately, Tanya's vigorously agreeing face cancelled out my doubting face, and Glokkmann moved on to the next question. Twenty minutes later, the reporters grew restless, their adult legs not equipped for long stretches of sitting cross-legged on the floor. Glokkmann, ever the reader of her audience, announced the Q & A period at an end and encouraged everyone to look around "this functional example of their tax dollars at work."

Most of them headed straight to the door and so were not present when Gary Wohnt strode through five minutes later in his civilian clothes, sans sungla.s.ses. He could have been any townsperson off the street in to browse the periodicals except for the h.e.l.l-bent-for-leather expression on his face. It made my chest flutter because I knew from experience that when he looked like that, he usually got what he wanted. Inside the door, he quickly scanned the room, his eyes brus.h.i.+ng over me with an almost physical intensity before landing on Sarah Glokkmann, who was trading small talk with one of the few remaining reporters. I grabbed the counter for support, grateful that I wasn't the object of his attention.

He stepped to the side to wait until Glokkmann was finished with her conversation, but he didn't remove his eyes from her person. I took advantage of the rare chance to study him in profile from a safe distance. He had been sort of doughy and repellent before leaving with his born-again tart, but had returned hard and taut, a compact boxer's body under jeans and a b.u.t.ton-down white s.h.i.+rt that set off his skin tone beautifully. He reminded me of someone, and I couldn't quite place it. Was it someone I had met in the Cities? Certainly not anyone I'd gone to high school with. Was it some actor?

"Oh my G.o.d!"

The scattering of people in the library halted their conversations to rubberneck me. I ripped my eyes away from Wohnt, but not before they snapped toward mine with a dangerous glint that spoke of irritation and something muskier.

"I can't believe I forgot my lunch! I was so looking forward to that salad." It was lame but I had to say something because everyone was staring at me and I couldn't say what I was really thinking, which was that Deputy Gary Wohnt, from the side, looked. Exactly. Like. My. Hot s.e.xy. Un.o.btainable. Erotic-dream-driving. Chief Wenonga statue.

My e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n changed the mood of the room, which I guess is their nature. The reporters still lingering gave me a wide berth, leaving only Glokkmann and Tanya to side-by-side stare disapprovingly at me. Kenya, I a.s.sumed, was off in the stacks along with several regulars who'd been thrilled to find the library open early. Gary took advantage of the break in conversation to stride over to Glokkmann and Tanya. He uttered a few quiet words to Tanya, who blanched before exiting with her purse clutched so tightly I wondered if she had her spare heart in it.

I doubted Glokkmann would pale in the presence of the Grim Reaper himself, but whatever Gary was telling her was making her body stiff. I grabbed the closest object to me, which happened to be a stapler, and strolled over to the table directly behind them and knelt underneath it, pretending to be busy. I presumed that the hair and shoe print in Webber's room had been positively identified, and that Glokkmann was soon going to be kicked off her throne. I wanted to hear it firsthand, though. Unfortunately, Gary was speaking quietly and the only words I caught were "evidence," "reason to believe," and "a scene."

"What're you doing?"

I jumped, and the sudden movement caused me to b.u.mp my head on the bottom of the table. "Cleaning."

Kenya crawled next to me and wrinkled her forehead. "With a stapler?"

"I found it under here."

"No you didn't. I saw you carry it over."

"Then I'm stapling the carpet."

"Why?"