by Jess Lourey
I hope you feel better today! We’ll talk soon.
Not if I could help it. I didn’t need a psychic to tell me this relationship was cursed. Nope. It was back to all Chief Wenonga, all the time for this woman. The decision made my heart heavy, but it was for the best, for Johnny and me.
My hot shower felt heavenly, and I brushed my teeth for two full minutes, managing to wonder only briefly what had driven me to lift the guest list from the cleaner’s cart. I didn’t know Bob, and no one but Johnny, Mrs. Berns, and Bernard knew that I had spent the night at the motel. Nope, look forward instead of back. That was my new motto. I crumpled the list into a ball and tossed it into the nearest basket and reached for clean clothes.
I still had a light headache and my stomach was not interested in entertaining company, but I had a day of work to stumble through. The library didn’t open until noon on Sundays, but I had to snap photos of dancers at the a.m. Bavaria Boogie-thon for the paper, the last of my Octoberfest newspaper assignments, before heading to the library early to type up the Glokkmann/Swydecker debate article. Then, a short, five-hour shift and back to my blessed bed. I stepped into my room to look at it, warm sunlight falling on my fluffy duvet, and almost wept. “Soon,” I whispered. “I’ll be back soon.”
As consolation, I made time to tend to my indoor plants. To say I love to garden is like saying I don’t mind being sane. Having my fingers in dirt and smelling the peppery spice of fresh-crushed leaves grounds me and keeps me from walking naked through town wearing only a pair of mukluks, asking for purple space cookies and hugs, or any other various shades of crazy I’d adopt if it weren’t for my connection to the soil.
Living in Minnesota, creativity was a requirement if I was to stay on my rocker in the colder months, and this year I was prepared. I’d ordered two dwarf orange and lemon trees from a catalog along with a spice house, a miniature indoor greenhouse that hung from the ceiling by a plant hook in direct sunlight. The front of Sunny’s doublewide was a huge bay window facing the lake in which my succulents, ferns, ivies, and now tropical fruits and spices vied for golden rays. The orange and lemon trees had a rough start but were presently bursting with sweet-scented white blossoms. The orange tree even had a pea-sized, rebelliously lime-green fruit hard as a nugget nestled in a bundle of leaves. I gently patted the baby fruit each time I watered it.
The spices were at the gawky toddler stage, clumsy heads bending their slim stalks. They’d just started to distinguish themselves from one another, the parsley bursting ridges along the previously-smooth edges of its leaves to set itself apart from the basil still primly holding to its spade-shape. I also had cilantro, oregano, spiky thyme, and a dill I’d planted for comic relief. Every time I parted the plastic to water the seedlings, I was enveloped in the warm, brown and green scent of growing things, and it made my heart jump. I was in love with plants. Give me Chief Wenonga and a garden, and I’d call life good.
I stepped outside into the appropriately gray day and turned back to grab a scarf. It was cold. The change of seasons was upon us. My car windows even sported a light layer of rime, but not enough to require a scraper beyond the side of my hand. I drove in on the west side of town to avoid passing the motel. This route took me past the Trinity Lutheran Church, which was more packed than usual. As I cruised past, I counted at least a dozen camera crews outside. At the debate yesterday, both candidates had promised that they’d be attending church this morning, Glokkmann at the Catholic church and Swydecker at the Lutheran, but that didn’t seem particularly newsworthy. Shows what I know about politics.
Parking in the high school parking lot for the second time in as many days, I was struck at how trampled the grounds looked compared to yesterday. Glittering beer bottles littered the frost-crunched grass. I grabbed the digital camera and strode toward the main tent, the sour smell of a day-old party assaulting my nostrils and sliding down the back of my throat like thick oil. My stomach bucked, but I persevered. For all my laziness, I had a good work ethic, and snapping photos was a job I enjoyed. At least I used to enjoy it. Unfortunately, what was sashaying out of the main tent and toward me wearing clothes like a truck wore tires could squeeze the joy out of potato chips.
“Honey, is that the new Goth look you’re sporting? It doesn’t sit so well on you. With those high cheekbones and deep-set eyes, you look like Skeletor.” She walked up to air kiss me, enveloping me in a cloud of oily perfume. “Never mind that. I was hoping to run into you today. Have I got a business proposition for you!”
I coughed, idly wondering if I had been Pol Pot in a past lifetime. This much bad luck did not spring forth organically. I disregarded her proposition and studied her. Usually, with Kennie Rogers, current mayor and self-appointed police chief of the Battle Lake Police Department, it’s the clothes that attract your eyes. This time, it was the color of her skin. “Why are you orange?”
She pushed her lips together. “I am not orange. I’m Bahama Brown.”
I shrugged. One woman’s Bahama Brown is another woman’s Tangerine Terror. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.”
Kennie and I had an odd relationship. Actually, Kennie had an odd relationship with the world. She’d spent her whole life in Battle Lake, carving out a niche for herself on the local political scene, all bluster and bossiness. Last May, I’d uncovered a tragic chapter in her beauty queen past. She’d overcome that and still clung to her youthful beauty with claws and a mascara wand, dressed like a teenage girl with a time machine, occasionally adopted a Southern accent, and was cannier than Chef Boyardee. She was only ten years older than me and had earned my grudging respect, though I’d sooner switch wardrobes with her than let her know. Ultimately, I avoided her when I could because she was always more trouble than she was worth.
“Yes you do! You’re my test dummy.”
She was probably half right. “I’m not your test dummy.”
She grabbed my hand and shook it. “Okay, then you’re the new Vice President of the Kennie Rogers Corporation, LLC.”
“Pass.”
“You don’t want to make $250 in one hour?”
Kennie was notorious for her business schemes, the most recent ones involving nudity, coffins, and sheep. “I really don’t.”
She talked over me, and not for the first time. In an effort to distract myself from her words, I forced myself to truly acknowledge her outfit. It was a catsuit sewn of some shiny red and blue fabric, and this cat had caught more than her share of mice. Odd puffs of flesh bulged over and under the gold belt ringing her waist, and across her chest was a huge yellow “S.” She looked chilly enough to cut diamonds with her chest. I shouldn’t have been surprised that she was wearing shiny-white running shoes. In the tent behind us, the wheeze-oompah-whomp-whomp of accordion music was starting right on time.
“Sure. That’s nice,” I said, when she paused. I hadn’t heard a word.
“Wonderful. Tuesday night. Bronze and Bond Speed Dating begins!”
“Hunh?”
“It’ll be fantabulous. I’ve reserved the party room at Stub’s. We’ll have privacy booths set up, and you’re in charge of spray tanning anyone with a coupon. Come a little early so you can help me decorate the dating tables. After we’ve tanned our clients into a sexy version of themselves, everyone goes to their assigned dating seat. Each person gets three minutes before moving to the next table in search of the love of their life. Maybe we should come up with conversation cards? Fun!”
Fun like cramps. “I’m not going to spray strangers with orange body paint.”
She hummed. “Already said you would …”
I felt like I was falling, and leapt for practicality. “Everyone in this town already knows each other. Why would they sign up for speed dating?”
“Haven’t you been listening? There’s been another murder! That always brings fresh blood to town.”
“Back it up. What?”
“This morning. A dead man found at the new motel.”
I didn’t want to give away my recent proximity to the corpse so played it cool. “That’s horrible! But how do you know it wasn’t suicide?”
She eyed me suspiciously for a second, but was distracted when the tent flap opened and a strapping farmboy in tights and shortpants, a feathered cap perched on his head, stepped out to calm his pre-polka nerves with a cigarette. “Unlikely,” she said, reapplying her lip gloss. “The body was found in a second-floor room, bag over his head to make it look like suicide, but he wasn’t blue. The coroner said the lips of a person who dies of suffocation are always blue. And probably their fingernails. But this guy was as white as a sheet. His best guess is that someone killed the man by smashing his head in and then bagged it like a cantaloupe.”
A chill crept out from my stomach and trickled down to my fingers and toes. Studying the death scene in my mind’s eye, I knew she was right. Bob Webber, whiter than cream, the skin on the side of his forehead soft-looking, like a rug draped over a hole. I tried to play back other details to see if I’d missed anything, but I’d been too blurry-eyed from a lousy night’s sleep and too certain it was a suicide to scope out the room. “Suspects?” I asked.
“Too early to know for sure, but everyone who was in the motel is being questioned.”
Her words induced an ice bath that made my skin dimple. Had Johnny put my name on the room? “Probably a lot of out-of-towners staying there for the festival.”
“Probably. Swydecker and Glokkmann were there for sure.” She said Glokkmann’s name with a perverse sneer, and I wondered if the two of them had a past. They must be close in age, I judged, and had grown up in the same neck of the woods. “But so far we know that Glokkmann and at least one of her people don’t have an alibi for last night.”
I let out a deep breath. Better Glokkmann than me. “Shouldn’t you be there right now, being as you’re the Chief of Police?”
She clapped her hands and her face lit up. “I left as soon as I realized what a tremendous business opportunity this would be. The tanning/speed dating idea initially started percolating when I got my first spray tan last night in Elbie Johanssen’s basement. I thought, why couldn’t I do this? Then, when I heard the murder announced over the police scanner this morning, I thought, new people in town! And who doesn’t want to be romanced when they’re feeling all tan and sexy? The plan came together like peanut butter and jelly. I pulled on this outfit and headed directly to the motel.”
That meant she hadn’t bought the speedy catsuit specifically for her business. It had already been hanging in her closet. I found myself wondering what the heck she had on deck. “And you managed to get your picture taken in your speedsuit by many swarming reporters?”
“If we’re lucky.”
“Aren’t you concerned about finding the killer?”
She returned her full attentions to me, her eyes glittering, mouth in a sharp smile. “I’ll leave that up to our new police deputy, a Mr. Gary Wohnt.”
With the mention of his name, my skinned knees began smarting. “Wohnt is back.” It didn’t come out as a question.
Gary had been Kennie’s biggest fan and rumored lover when I’d first met him, following her everywhere like a solemn puppy dog. That all changed when he met another woman in August and skipped town with the deeply religious hussy. I was willing to bet there was a story there, and I didn’t want to hear it. I just wanted to stay as far from Wohnt as possible. He’d been the lead man on more than one of the murder investigations I’d had the ill fortune to get tangled up in. To say he and I weren’t friends would be like saying that oil didn’t mind vinegar so much. And he really was back in town, although apparently demoted.
My head was full.
“You don’t look so good. Worse than usual, I mean. You need an aspirin or something?”
I hung my head in my hands. “I need to take some pictures, get through my library shift, and then marry my bed.”
Kennie clucked. “Whatever. Say, a little Bahama Brown would brighten you right up. I’ve got the sprayer in my car. Sure you don’t want a couple spritzes?”
“I’m sure.”
“Don’t say I didn’t offer. I’ll see you Tuesday night. Ta ta!”
She swirled off, leaving me to contemplate the big picture. Here were the facts: short of simultaneously walking into a wall and pooping my pants, there was not much left in my Johnny Leeson humiliation repository. I had stumbled across a murdered body this morning, but only three people knew that, and of that three, the only two who knew my name were equally as invested in not being identified with the crime scene. Although it was certainly tragic the blogger had been murdered, it was none of my business. Gary Wohnt was back, and he excelled at making me miserable, which was another whole reason for remaining uninvested in the murder investigation. I added up the facts again and came to the same blessed conclusion: avoid Johnny and Gary, and life was golden.
Life in order, I held my nose and stepped into the tent to snap photos of knock-kneed men twirling women in tulle. The music under the big top was so loud it knocked out any other thoughts, leaving only a low-level repulsion as the odors of sauerkraut and sweat mingled on the dance floor.
The goal of the Bavarian Boogie-thon was to be the last dancer standing, no breaks given. However, not wanting to cut into tonight’s continuation of drinking and dancing for all, the sponsors of the dance-off had wisely added spoilers. The first was a release of piglets onto the stage, which couldn’t have sounded good even on paper. When that didn’t stop anyone from boogying, a quick break was called to strap ankle-weights to the contestants. That picked off the outliers, leaving six core couples who appeared prepared to polka their way through the Apocalypse. I cut out just as another intermission was announced to tie one leg of each couple together, followed by a mandatory round of Jägermeister shots. I left confident that today’s event would be the briefest dance-off in history.
I slid into my car and drove to the mercifully empty library lot, cruising inside to e-mail Ron the photos and peck out a story:
Battle Lake Hosts Political Debate
On Saturday, October 17, Battle Lake played host to the major party representative candidates for Congressional District 7. Current Representative Sarah Glokkmann, a native of Henning, and Arnold Swydecker, former Superintendent of the Detroit Lakes school district, met to discuss their goals for our district’s political future.
“I support our country and our troops,” Representative Glokkmann emphasized, while Mr. Swydecker believed that, “we have to make some hard choices now to prepare for the future.”
Both candidates spoke briefly before responding to questions e-mailed to the City of Battle Lake by Minnesota voters. They ended by answering questions from those in attendance. Representative Glokkmann refused to commit to a future run for Minnesota’s Governor seat.
Glokkmann and Swydecker helped to kick off Battle Lake’s 27th annual Octoberfest. This was their final debate of the campaign season. Both will be stumping individually between now and the November 2nd election.
While I was online, I briefly researched both candidates. The first hits were their websites, which were cluttered and boring. The next page or two of links connected to newspaper articles, the majority of them better written than mine but still not interesting. Next I checked out The Body Politic, which was easy to locate. I hated to admit it, but the exposés were fascinating. Webber had been a genuine investigative reporter, and the stories I skimmed showed someone dedicated to deep research.
He also had a pit bull’s focus on Sarah Glokkmann. At least 30 percent of the headline articles delved into her political misdealing. If she really intended to run for governor in two years, she had some messes to clean up, if Bob was right. I wondered why none of the muck he had uncovered—vote-buying bribes from the oil industry, using state funds to take her kids on shopping trips to New York City, missing key votes in the House due to a drinking problem—was in the mainstream newspaper articles. Maybe he’d made it al
l up. Maybe it didn’t matter to me.
Working at the computer was reigniting my headache and I shut it down at 11:30. Still not hungry, I decided to open the front door early, stepping outside to suck in some fresh air before the official work began. On my way back in, I grabbed the six paperbacks out of the Returned Books bin. Three mysteries, two sci fi, and a nonfiction book about the power of positive thinking. I set that one on the edge of the trash can to see if it could get itself out of a jam.
I limped to the back room to see what I had for headache relief and found a bottle of generic ibuprofen that had only expired three years ago. I chewed a handful, downed it with mud-flavored tap water, and returned to the main room of the library, where I sank gratefully into a bean bag chair in the children’s section. If I could only stay here forever, I thought as I petted Nut Goodie, the stuffed ferret I’d been trying to give away for two months. I rested Nut on my belly and closed my eyes for a moment, imagining a magic world full of bean bags, rainbows, and not one single corpse.
_____
It wasn’t a sound so much as an itchy feeling that woke me, a silly grin still on my face. I’d been dreaming of butterflies and popcorn and it must have induced a smile just big enough to let escape a sizeable pool of drool. That was the second sensation I experienced after the itchy danger one—wetness. I lifted my head to spy what had awakened me and ran the back of my hand across my moist cheek. I must have been out cold because my eyes didn’t open at the same time, one a few beats sleepier than the other.
And so it was that my left eye had the good sense to be scared before my right eye even heard there was a party.
