October Fest

by Jess Lourey

  “Did you hear anything the night of the murder?”

  He sipped the coffee like it was bitter. “Damn, what I wouldn’t give for a good cup of joe. No, I was at the Octoberfest celebration until about 9 o’clock, and then I came back to my room.”

  “Alone?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t bring any of my staffers to town with me. We’re a lean bunch, anyhow. I don’t accept corporate donations, which means I don’t have extra cash lying around. I have wonderful volunteers, but they deserved a day off. The debate was to be short and sweet. So yes, I came here alone and I went straight to bed. Didn’t hear anything until the police sirens the next morning.” His voice sounded defensive. He’d probably had to recite these words countless times the last two days.

  “Why’d you get into politics?” The question wasn’t on my list, but he seemed so normal and nice that I had to ask.

  He chuckled ruefully. “Doesn’t seem like my best idea right about now, does it? But I raised my kids to believe that they have to be the change they want to see in the world.” He shrugged. “It was about time I lived up to that.”

  I bobbed my head toward his empty ring finger. “You’re married?”

  He moved his right hand to cover his left. “I am. How is this related to the murder?”

  “Sorry,” I said. “Did you know Bob Webber, the man who was murdered?”

  “Just through the campaign trail. He was a stand-up man, the last of a dying breed of investigative reporters. He left a lucrative newspaper job because he was tired of reporting superficial stories, and he started his blog. I don’t know that he’d ever get rich off of it, but he was making enough to get by through advertising. At least that’s what he told me the one time I sat down with him for an interview a week or two ago. We were in my hometown, Detroit Lakes.”

  “He ever write any other articles on you, besides that one interview?”

  “Several. I’m happy to report they were all positive. His work was a huge help to my campaign.”

  “Less of a help to Representative Glokkmann’s campaign?”

  “Is there anything more? I have some work to be getting to.”

  Why wouldn’t he say anything bad about Glokkmann? Didn’t he realize this was politics? “No, thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”

  I stood, and he followed suit, walking me to the door. “I hope for your friend’s sake that they find the killer soon,” he said.

  “And I hope the same, for your sake.”

  He smiled sadly. “I think I’m already done in.”

  “I hope not.” I meant it. He just about had the door closed when a thought struck me. “Mr. Swydecker!”

  He reopened the door. “Yes?”

  “I gotta know. When you were in public education? Were you a band teacher?”

  He smiled, the first one I’d seen that reached his eyes. They made the corners wrinkle, and for the first time, I noticed his eyes were as blue and honest as Johnny’s. “No. History.”

  I left his room feeling tremendously glum, and I wasn’t sure why. Swydecker had filled in the blanks I’d had, and if that man was a murderer, I was a monkey’s uncle. Something felt a little off with him, but I didn’t sense it was about Webber’s murder, other than a natural human sadness at violent death. I shrugged it off and continued down the second-floor walkway to Glokkmann’s room. The response was much quicker. In fact, I met Grace Swinton coming out before I even knocked, her arms overflowing with papers, wearing dark sunglasses.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Didn’t see you.” She moved to the side and was about to continue down the stairs.

  “Hangover?” I asked.

  She tilted her chin so she could look at me over the top of her sunglasses. “Thought you looked familiar. You’re that woman from the bar last night, the one who used to date the bass player.”

  “Guilty,” I said. “But in my defense, I was a lot younger when we dated.” In dog years.

  She smiled. “You don’t owe me an explanation. Are you here to interview the representative?”

  “Sure,” I said, making it up on the spot. “My editor would like to run a whole issue on modern politics with a special feature on the representative and her opponent.” I couldn’t get sued for lying, could I?

  “That would be wonderful!”

  “I’ll just need her schedule while she’s in town, so I can, you know, cover her events.”

  Grace paused for a moment, and I could tell she was trying to gauge me on her bullshit-meter. I must have passed because she said, “Follow me. I have to get these to the Representative right away. We can walk and talk.”

  I did follow her and even helped her to schlep some of the papers the five blocks to the main part of town. I spotted a commotion ahead. “What’s going on?”

  “As I told you last night, Sarah intends to make the most of her time in Battle Lake. She’ll be speaking at the Kute Klips this morning and then will be meeting with voters at the Fortune Café for lunch.”

  My stomach rumbled at the mention of the Fortune. It was a wonderful coffee shop, bakery, used bookstore, and public computer space owned by two good friends of mine. They served an olive cream cheese that would make a dead man weep. I took my current fixation on food as a good sign. “Kute Klips is pretty small, isn’t it? Where will she stand?”

  We rounded the corner, and there hovered my answer. Kute Klips was a popular salon on the second story of a building zoned for business. It rested on top of Bill’s Nonprofit Massage, and out front, it had an ornate balcony that I’d always assumed was decorative. That is, until I saw Sarah Glokkmann perched on it, beaming to reporters like Evita on the terrace of the Casa Rosada.

  “There she is.” Glokkmann spoke imperiously, pointing down at Grace. “She’ll distribute the talking points.”

  I helped Grace dispense the handouts to the gathered press, maybe a dozen people from national and local news, four with cameras. There had been many more here yesterday, so some other story must currently be capturing the public’s interest. A black-and-blue Bernard Mink was one of the reporters. He pretended not to know me when I handed him a sheet, and I scowled at him. I still didn’t have a concrete plan for dealing with him, but deal with him I would.

  When everyone present had a handout, Grace indicated for me to follow her up the stairs that clung to the outside of the building and into the beauty parlor. The smell on the second floor reminded me of the chemical pungency of the home permanents I’d begged my mom to give me in junior high. Salon perm? No, Ogilvie.

  All four chairs in the beauty parlor were occupied by women sporting curlers or enough foil to pull in Channel 4 out of the Cities. They were twisting their necks to keep abreast of all the commotion outside, and their stylists were scolding them good-naturedly.

  Glokkmann was still exchanging pleasantries with the press below. Grace stepped alongside her to briefly announce the official beginning of the press conference, and then she moved back into the main salon, her remaining papers by her side. I pulled up a chair right behind Glokkmann so I could hear her but no one below could see me. I pretended to take notes as Glokkmann trotted out her tired non-stances, while Grace hovered in a state of agitation. Glokkmann seemed to expect her mind to be read, continuing to talk while regularly reaching an angry hand back and through the partially ajar French doors for water, or a specific document. I wanted to step forward and sneak a hairbrush in there but Grace was vigilant.

  At one point, Grace apparently handed Glokkmann the incorrect document, causing the representative to stumble over her facts. It became immediately clear that Glokkmann had no knowledge on the free trade agreement she’d purported to be a huge proponent of. When she couldn’t even form a complete sentence on the issue without notes, she began to cough uncontrollably and held out a hand to momentarily excuse herself from the press’ view.

  She turned on Grace like a striking snake. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Or was this my fault? Did I get
my calendar messed up? Was today bring a moron to work day and I forgot?”

  I recoiled, and I felt the other occupants of the salon do the same behind me. Grace shrunk into herself and mumbled something.

  “What’s that?” Glokkmann hissed. “You want to know why I put up with your incompetence? You want to know how I’m going to pull myself out of this mess?”

  Grace raised her voice but not her eyes. “I said I’m sorry.”

  Glokkmann tugged Grace’s hair sharply, and Grace shot a surprised glance at her employer. “Yes you are, Grace Swinton, yes you are. Now hand me the correct notes so I can do everyone’s favorite circus trick and pull my head out of my own ass.”

  Trembling, Grace handed Glokkmann a sheet of paper. “I’m really sorry, Sarah.”

  Glokkmann didn’t acknowledge her. She took a deep breath and slapped on an eerily high-energy smile before returning to the balcony. There, she eloquently stated all the reasons she supported free trade. From down below, you wouldn’t even be able to see she was reading it word for word.

  I was terribly embarrassed for Grace and furious at Glokkmann. I couldn’t believe she’d treat an employee like that anywhere, let alone in public. She’d been so angry it was like she didn’t even know the rest of us had been here. I was rising to comfort Grace when I heard a loud splat come from the direction of the balcony and wondered if a bird had hit the window. My skin flashed cold. Birds were my nemeses. Have you ever heard the saying that it’s good luck to get pooped on by a bird? Me neither. It’s also not fun to have them swoop at your head or gawk at you with their beady black eyes. They had the upper hand in this world, no doubt about it, and so I tried exuding fearlessness and a love of all things feathered when I was outdoors. But they knew better.

  I began to ease my chair away from the balcony, thinking that if the birds had finally united against me, away from windows would be my best bet. And that’s when there was another splat. And then a third. Horrified, I saw that whatever had hit the partially-open French doors leading to the balcony was now oozing a red liquid. The foiled woman in the chair nearest the doors screamed, and Grace yanked the doors open all the way to wrest Sarah Glokkmann to safety. And that’s why Glokkmann was in my direct line of sight when one of the bloody blobs met her face and revealed itself to be a soft tomato.

  “Woot woot!” I said. Grace shot me a glare before pulling Glokkmann to a chair out of harm’s way. Glokkmann snarled that she was fine, and I shot down the stairs three at a time to see who the tomato pitcher was. And when I did, you could have knocked me over with a fly swatter.

  I ran near to where he was standing, holding a bag of tomatoes. Those in the crowd armed with cameras were pointing them at him, snapping or rolling.

  “How are you?” He asked when I was within speaking distance. His tone suggested we were old friends meeting for a planned coffee date.

  “The pavement get uncomfortable?” I asked Randy Martineau, my parking lot guru. He was wearing the same gray and frayed clothes I’d seen him in the morning after the murder, and his BO hadn’t changed either.

  He idly studied his bag of tomatoes. “I never stay too long in one place.”

  “You might want to leave this one,” I said. Around me, reporters were clicking away on their handhelds. “I don’t know if it’s illegal to throw tomatoes at public figures, but it’s for sure frowned upon.”

  “Oh, it’s illegal,” he said. “Especially if you hit someone. That’s why I didn’t bring the rest of my crew with me. No one else needs to go to jail. But I never do a crime if I’m unwilling to do the time.”

  A heavyset reporter for the St. Paul Pioneer Press used that opening to jockey in and ask Randy why he’d done the crime.

  He methodically brushed his free hand on his pants, leaving a wet trail of tomato residue. “Civil disobedience.”

  “To what end?” Another reporter asked.

  “To get heard. Representative Glokkmann does not represent me. Her opposition to health care is a danger to our democracy, and she’s sown so much ill will in the House with her polarizing ignorance that she can no longer meet the obligations of the position to which she was elected.”

  His accusations echoed Webber’s. “How do you know all this?” I asked.

  He looked me straight in the eye. “If you look for it, you can find it.”

  The truth is out there, right? This guy radiated kookiness, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of truth in his words, or the sense that he knew something important. “Did you know Bob Webber?”

  “Did I know Bob Webber.” It didn’t come across as a question or a statement. In the background, a police siren blared. We didn’t have much time.

  “What were you doing in the motel parking lot on Sunday morning?”

  “The truth never sleeps. We must be ever-vigilant in our pursuit of it.”

  “Come on,” I said. “Give me something. Who killed Bob Webber?”

  But my voice was drowned out by the multitude of questions from the other reporters, who had latched on to the possibility that this man might be connected to the murder they had originally come to town to cover. The crazy drifter espoused his political views and love for anarchy right up until he was handcuffed and shoved into the backseat of a police car. Fortunately, Deputy Wohnt wasn’t the arresting officer.

  When the police car pulled away, Glokkmann appeared, a smile on her face and her hair more perfect than ever before. She looked like she’d been hit with a beauty brush rather than a tomato. She spoke loud and clear to get everyone’s attention. “I’ve already had my salad. Who wants to join me at the Fortune Café for a main course?”

  The reporters laughed at her quick recovery, and I gave her silent points for it. If only she used her powers for good, I thought, tagging along with the throng. She was one twisted sister. As we walked, I wondered if the tomato thrower would be granted visiting privileges in jail. I couldn’t tell if he was a crazy agitator or if he genuinely knew something, but I had a stake in finding out. It would be one more thing to ask Kennie tonight.

  I wrote myself a note, which was a good thing because as soon as I reached the Fortune Café, all negative thoughts flew from my head like so many dirty bats. My Paul Bunyan breakfast was at least three hours behind me, and I had room for a garlic bagel with a healthy heaping of Greek olive cream cheese and a side of green tea with steamed soy milk added. It was all I could do not to elbow my way to the front of the line. When I got there, Nancy’s beautiful smile greeted me. In it was total acceptance, happiness to see me, and a sparkle signaling me she had something funny to share.

  “What is it?”

  “Don’t you mean, ‘how have you been?’ Haven’t seen you in a week! Sid, come on out. Mira’s here.”

  Sid came out from the back, wiping her hands on her flour-dusted apron that proclaimed, “GLBT Is Not a Sandwich.” She was something of a baked goods mad scientist and spent a lot of time in the kitchen crafting bagels, scones, and pastries that made you cry they tasted so good, while Nancy ran the front counter and kept everyone happy. It was a perfect arrangement as Sid wasn’t what you’d call a people person.

  “So I see,” she said in my direction. “Did the eggs come in yet?”

  Nancy tossed her a loving wink. “I told you I’d bring you the eggs when the shipment arrived.”

  “But I need the eggs now,” Sid said.

  I interjected. “I can go on an egg run.”

  Nancy shook her head. “The truck is due at 1:00. We’ve got enough eggs until then.”

  “You sure? I’d be happy to run to the grocery store before I open the library.”

  Sid softened. “Nancy’s probably right. I can make do until 1:00. Nice to see you Mira.” She turned to go into the kitchen, but Nancy snuck in a playful pinch on her bottom first. Sid swatted her hand away but I caught her smile.

  Nancy returned her attention to me. “You want the usual?”

  “Yes. And I also want to know why you had that cat-go
t-the-mouse grin when I came up to your counter.”

  “Someone told me that Representative Glokkmann already met her vegetable requirement for the day. It gave me the giggles. Mean-spirited ones, I’ll grant you that, but giggles nonetheless.”

  I glanced over to where Glokkmann was holding court in the packed main room of the Café, a book-lined open space with eclectic tables ringing the edge and lots of natural sunlight and robust green plants. At some point, Tanya Ingebretson had joined the entourage, along with a healthy sprinkling of other locals. It made sense that Glokkmann would want to rub elbows with the most influential people in town. Maybe they even knew each other from their school days. I was pretty sure Tanya was a native of the area.

  “It’s true,” I said. “A protestor caught her square in the face with a tomato. You heard about the dead guy at the motel also?”

  Nancy nodded sympathetically. “Murder, people are saying.”

  “Looks that way.”

  “You’re not involved, right?” Her voice was concerned.

  I coughed. I had only yesterday admitted my sleuthing addiction to myself. I wasn’t ready to go public with it. “Not directly. Need help making that tea?”

  “Don’t rush me. I can do two things at once. Speaking of,” and her eyes started to twinkle again, “what’s this I hear about a tanning and speed dating event at Stub’s tonight?”

  “I was hoping no one would know about it, and I’d get done early.”

  “So you are helping! I thought Kennie was joking.”

  “I was tricked.”

  Nancy reached into the glass display case to grab the biggest, freshest-looking bagel this side of New York City. “You might find love there.”

  I wagged my head vigorously. “I’m into self-love now.”

  “That’ll make you go blind.”

  “Ha ha. No, I’m strictly working at this event. Don’t suppose you and Sid want to come lend a gal a hand?”