October Fest: A Murder-by-Month Mystery

by Jess Lourey

  Before I knew it, it was time for questions from the audience. I raised my hand not because I had something to ask but because I needed to reassure myself I was awake. Thankfully I wasn’t called on. Instead, the blonde woman to my left got her chance. “Representative Glokkmann, there’s rumors that you’re considering throwing your hat into the governor ring. Is it true?”

  The Representative smiled brightly. “Lila, right now my priority is serving the state in the position they’ve elected me to. I have no other political ambitions at this time. If that changes, my family will be the first to know, and you’ll be the second.” The audience laughed politely, and Glokkmann winked in Lila’s direction.

  Someone behind me was called on next. He stood. “Mr. Swydecker, what are your feelings on the current war?”

  Swydecker appeared somber and thoughtful, which apparently was the debate equivalent of showing your throat in a dog fight. “Depends on what day you ask, doesn’t it Arnie?” Glokkmann interrupted, smiling as she sliced. “But I’m always on the side of the troops and America.”

  Handy, I thought, settling in for a twenty-minute playground fight with Glokkmann playing the role of lunch-stealer. I was about

  to pack it up when the reporter who’d tipped me on the tippler was finally called on. Grace seemed to have been deliberately avoiding acknowledging him because he’d had his hand up since before the official audience Q & A period and had been holding it impatiently aloft since.

  “Yes, Bob Webber, right?” Grace said icily. “What newspaper are you with again?”

  “I have a blog, actually, Ms. Swinton, but I believe you know that,” he said, standing. “It’s called The Body Politic. My question is for Representative Glokkmann.” He cleared his throat, and I noticed that the arms of his sport coat were a little short, the front shiny from wear. He looked vulnerable standing there, like a kid owning only hand-me-downs dressing his best for a big speech. “Ma’am, the only bill you have successfully sponsored in your three terms in the legislature is House Resolution 1294, which calls for the designation of the month of September as ‘National Moebius Syndrome Awareness Month.’ Of the twelve other bills you’ve co-sponsored, six are directly related to opening up national lands to gas and oil exploration, development, and production. Two are aimed at killing the health-care bill so insurance companies rather than doctors get to decide what health care we receive, while your husband coincidentally owns an insurance company. Do you have any ethical qualms about doing little else in Congress other than using your position to line the pockets of the oil industry and your family?”

  Glokkmann held her smile, though it cracked a little at each corner. “Bob, tell me what you know about Moebius Syndrome.” Both hands were definitely shaking now.

  “That’s not my question, ma’am.”

  “I’ll tell you what I know. I know it’s an unfair disease that affects thousands, and through awareness and support, we can make a difference in the lives of children who face this tremendous hurdle. You’re telling me that advocating for those who can’t advocate for themselves is ‘doing little’?”

  I always thought I had a gift for deflection, the pretty little sister of lying, but this lady was a pro. I craned my head fully so I could watch Webber’s reaction. His cheeks flushed, and he was shifting his weight from one foot to another. He knew he couldn’t pursue his line of questioning without looking coldhearted. Score one for the Lego-haired Lady. He sat down abruptly, and I turned back in time to see her smile triumphantly, her hands once again clasped in front of her.

  Grace stepped in to announce the debate successful, and at an end. The candidates moved to the edge of the stage and shook hands while worker ants sprang up to clear the stage and prepare it for the night’s festivities. I wove through the crowd to reach Bob the blogger and was nearly there when a commotion erupted at the rear of the tent. A group of six or seven people marched in, all of them carrying protest signs. The posters I could read proclaimed health care a right and not a privilege, and the sign holders were chanting angrily, demanding an audience with Glokkmann and Swydecker.

  I toggled to get a closer look, but so did all the other reporters and the camera crews, causing a bottleneck. Moving to the side instead of fighting forward, I was able to catch a glimpse of the dark-haired woman who’d assured me “Queen Glokkmann” would not miss a debate slide into the tent through the same opening as the protestors, a smirk on her face. She strode toward the stage and took a post where she could watch both the candidates and the sign holders. Swydecker was watching the sign holders with interest. Glokkmann, on the other hand, was high-tailing it toward an exit. The security guard materialized alongside the protestors.

  I wished I had a chance to see how it all turned out, but I had to open up the library. I scribbled Bob the blogger’s name in my notebook, wondering if his last name was spelled with one or two b’s, and set off to start my shift. Of course, if I was a dog, I’d have bolted straight out of town, my hackles razor-sharp. The murder had never been closer, butcher and victim sharing the same tent air.

  The Battle Lake Public Library had served as my refuge since I’d arrived in town, an oasis of comforting words, leafy plants in the windows, a place for everything and everything in its place. I let myself in and grabbed the stack from the Book Return bin on my way to fire up the front desk computer. I loved having a peephole into what Battle Lake read. Today’s load featured Artificial Intelligence for Dummies with several pages dog-eared, a handful of romance novels, two books on training boxers (the dog, not the fighter), four hardcover bestsellers, all of which I had a waiting list for, and a Thai cookbook with a gorgeous cover photo of slivered pork in cilantro broth alongside fresh spring rolls and a tiny pot of peanut sauce. I was so busy slavering over the culinary possibilities that I didn’t notice the shadow on the other side of the door. I almost jumped over my hair when the greeting bells jingled.

  “Oh! We don’t open for another thirty minutes.” I said, turning. I was all set to explain the library’s limited weekend hours to whomever was entering when my glance connected with beautiful eyes so profoundly blue that I swear clouds floated in his eyelashes. “Johnny!” My exclamation was half joy, half fear, a mix that comes easily to both cult members and women too stupid to fall in love with the right guy.

  “Hey, Mir. Were you covering the debate this morning?” He smiled tentatively, and the sight of his full lips moving slowly over straight white teeth gave me a shiver in my happy place. Johnny and I had been dancing an awkward salsa the past few months, with him dating someone and then single, moving closer until I pushed him away, him acceding until I pulled him closer. This embarrassing hustle was made worse by the fact that his lean, muscled beauty dorkified me immediately, garbling my words and propelling me to say stupid, sarcastic stuff to cover my unease. Johnny had persisted, however, and we’d both been rewarded with a magnificent, earth-shaking, kiss-on-a-stick at the State Fair a few weeks back. Not wanting to mess up my dream image of him with reality, or give him a chance to not like me by getting to know me, I’d studiously avoided him since the spectacular, love-and-rockets joining of our lips. Until this moment.

  “Johnny!” That was it. That was my conversational tour de force.

  He smiled wider and shoved his hands into his jean pockets, which were slung low on his hips. During the summer, he worked at Swedberg Nursery, and he still had a residual tan from a season spent outdoors. His shaggy blonde hair hung in his face, thick as a book and curling around his neck. He was dressed in the male version of my outfit—fleece-lined brown corduroy jacket, white T-shirt, and rough blue jeans. “Hope I’m not bothering you. You haven’t returned my calls. Everything okay?”

  “Yeah. Sure. You know how it is.” Why was I blushing?

  He stepped in quickly and held me before I could protest. He smelled like cinnamon toothpaste and fresh air. “I’ve missed you.”

  He caught me off guard, overriding my defense mechanisms and the speech ce
nter in my brain. I could feel his lean hips pressing against my stomach, his sculpted chest against mine. Dang, he felt good. “Hard as a board,” I whispered.

  “What?” He asked, pulling away.

  “Good lord! I mean … power cord. I need a new power cord for the library. Just, you know, going over my shopping list. Didn’t know I’d said it out loud.” I forced a grin, my face bright enough to read by.

  His smile was puzzled. “I’m sure the hardware store has some on hand. I’ll check for you. I need to stop by there today, anyhow. What’s the power cord for?”

  My blood was still too far south to do my brain any good. “Power,” I said.

  He nodded and changed the subject, stepping back another hair. “I just came from the Senior Sunset. Mrs. Berns says ‘hi.’”

  The mention of Mrs. Berns’ name should have set my danger danger radar off, but it, too, was enthralled by the magnificence that was Johnny. I’d met Mrs. Berns shortly after arriving in Battle Lake. She’d marched up to me and informed me that she was my new assistant librarian. After witnessing my second corpse in sixty days, I wasn’t in a state of mind to argue the finer points of experience or pay, or the fact that I didn’t need an assistant. She’d shouldered her way into the Battle Lake Library just like she’d shouldered her way into my life, infuriating me, saving my life, and making me look forward to my eighties. Oh yeah. Mrs. Berns turned eighty-seven last week. “Really? How’s she doing?”

  He ran his hands through his hair. “The usual, mostly. She said she’s hardly seen you since the State Fair, either.”

  I grimaced at the emphasis on “either.” Johnny I’d been avoiding on purpose, but Mrs. Berns was my best friend. I had been self-involved the past couple weeks, fall-cleaning my garden, prepping the house for winter by installing clear plastic over the windows and caulking drafty cracks, and catching up on my reading. Since Mrs. Berns, whose library schedule was whimsical during the best of times, hadn’t seen fit to show up for work since the summer crowds had fled town, our paths hadn’t crossed. “I’ll have to stop by.”

  “You should.” He rocked a little on his feet. “She’s taking a class at Alex Tech. Oh, and she mentioned something about her son being in town.”

  “The one who put her in the home?” I became aware that Johnny was feeling awkward, his body not fitting him quite right. Usually I was the artless one in this pairing. Was it something I’d said? I quickly ran through our five-minute interaction. Nah. I was good.

  “I think so. She didn’t want to talk about it much.”

  “Sounds like her. Now I really need to stop by. Maybe over my lunch hour.” His fidgeting escalated. “Is everything okay?”

  He nodded, suddenly tongue-tied, looking embarrassed for no reason I could fathom. I wondered if he was wrestling with some internal body function. I knew how that could take its conversational toll. Clueless as to how to handle being the suaver of the two of us, I angled away and pretended to organize the pile of returned books I’d gathered from the return bin. I felt like a dumb monkey shuffling and then reshuffling eleven books, but I wanted to give Johnny a chance to compose himself without me looking at him.

  I stuck with it, waiting for Johnny to retake the reins, but next thing I knew, the front door chimed and he was gone, no more words spoken. I was alone in the library with the books, my accumulated baggage, and a crisp ivory envelope Johnny had left on the counter top, “Mira James” scrawled on the front in a masculine stroke.

  My first sleepover with a guy didn’t transpire until I was living on my own in the Cities at the sagacious age of eighteen. I was toxic property in my hometown of Paynesville, given my dad’s shameful death. I saw no reason to complain—everyone has their knot to unravel in this life—but I’d spent my first sixteen years on this earth with an alcoholic father and an enabling mom. He put an end to half of that equation when he slithered behind the wheel with most of a liter of vodka gurgling in his belly. He took the occupants of another vehicle down with him, head on.

  You can probably guess what being the daughter of a manslaughterer does to an already awkward teenaged girl, especially in Smalltown, Minnesota. I beat cheeks to Minneapolis as soon as I graduated and spent the next ten or so years sitting in on enough English classes to earn a bachelor’s degree and drinking too many vodka and diet Cokes. It was a fear of ending up like my father that had driven me to housesit for Sunny, which was ironic because it turned out that in this west-central Minnesota oasis, alcohol was as necessary to a night out as shoes.

  But before that, in high school I felt lucky to have a few girlfriends, forget dating a boy. By the time I escaped the constricting environment of Paynesville and made it into the Big World, my virginity had grown heavy, a white purse that you loved until you found out everyone else thought it was dumb. Probably I should have hung onto my purse—fashion is cyclical—rather than open it for Ben, my first official boyfriend.

  He was a regular at Perfume River, the Vietnamese restaurant where I waited tables, a black-haired loner who asked me out via a note on the back of his bill for imperial beef with fried rice. Turned out he was in a band, which in Minneapolis at that time was like saying he had two hands. We hung out together in various bars for a few weeks, me with a fake ID and him monologuing about the raw originality of his music, until The Night. I hope I’m not breaking the virgin’s covenant by revealing that the pleasure of the first time fell somewhere between a swimsuit wedgie and an off-trail bike ride, lasting approximately as long as the former.

  Ben would never know what a gift he’d received. We broke up the next morning without ever really talking about it and proceeded in true Midwest fashion: we forgot we knew each other. I felt a little bad that he had to find a new restaurant to hang out in, but such is the price of a doomed relationship. I’d been with a handful of men since then, and though I was far from pro, I thought I’d seen enough to know when a guy asking me on a date really wanted to get to know me versus wanted to stick a toy surprise in my cereal box. That’s why I was so puzzled by Johnny’s letter.

  Inside the envelope was a handwritten invitation requesting my presence at the Big Chief Motor Lodge this evening at nine p.m. in room 20. The Big Chief was the newest business in the growing town, opening its doors to the community last week. It sat on a key location one hundred feet from the shore of West Battle Lake, within eyeshot of Chief Wenonga, the glorious fiberglass statue that graced the perimeter of the town as well as my dreams. The statue was the gold standard of political incorrectness, but whenever I looked at it, I got all swoony and my heart skipped a beat. The statue was fashioned after the actual Chief Wenonga, an Ojibwe warrior. A hundred and some years ago he’d led the charge against the Dakota, another proud tribe who’d put down roots in this area.

  History remembered Chief Wenonga as a gifted leader and fighter. Battle Lake, however, erected him as a stereotypical Old West Indian with full feather headdress snaking down his back, inky eyes and proud nose on a face slashed with war paint, adorned with leather pants and moccasins, an erect tomahawk in the left hand suggesting glorious things. My mind may never have gone there if the Chief statue wasn’t also shirtless, the star Chippendale Dancer of the fiberglass world. Plus, he was emotionally distant, which up until Johnny, had been the kind of guy I was attracted to.

  Ah, Johnny. Open and kind, he liked to garden, had a degree in biology from the University of Minnesota, and he was taking care of his sick mother during the day and rocking out as the lead singer of a popular band at night. He was perfect, and therefore all wrong for me. So why was he making this low-class move of asking me to meet in a hotel, and why put it on a written invitation suggesting I “dress casually?” That sounded completely unlike him. But, I had a pretty good idea who it did sound like.

  _____

  The Senior Sunset is maple-lined walks with commemorative benches on the outside, institutional rooms with locked doors and paintings of pastel pastiche on the inside. From what I gathered, before Mrs. B
erns had arrived, most of the clients at the Sunset spent their time watching TV or moaning for someone to brush their hair. Now, they giggled in corners as they passed black market copies of GQ and Mademoiselle, played cards for money, and hatched plans for afterhours slumber parties. Instead of following the gray road to their deaths, they pressed against the confinement of the home to squeeze bootlegged joy, the best kind, out of their final years. And it was all because of Mrs. Berns, who had followed society’s rules for eighty years before deciding it was finally time to live by her own. And society always hates a deviant when it isn’t invited to the party.

  According to local gossip, she’d arrived in the area in the 1920s filling the typical Minnesota farmwife role, raising seven kids during the Depression, taking in extra sewing to make ends meet, hardworking and responsible every minute of the day. She hadn’t slowed down even after the kids moved out and her husband’s dairy farm started turning a profit, working dawn ’til sundown canning, mending, cleaning, and helping with chores. Her husband had been a solid man, no great romantic but a stable Swedish farmer who paid the bills and didn’t yell at his wife. Mrs. Berns had completely fulfilled her hausfrau duties right up until her husband’s death by heart attack a decade ago.

  Legend had it, that’s when Mrs. Berns underwent The Change. Her husband’s body was barely cold when she put the farm on the market and moved to town. With a population under eight hundred in the winter and more bars than churches, you’d think Battle Lake would have welcomed its newest resident, but her sudden penchant for going braless combined with her willingness to say whatever was on her mind didn’t go over well with the more conservative members of the community. When Conrad, her oldest son, got word of his sweet mother’s out-of-character behavior, and specifically her newspaper-documented fistfight at the Rusty Nail over a man of questionable reputation (“Granny Goes Gonzo”), he promptly checked her into the Senior Sunset on threat of getting her declared mentally incompetent if she didn’t comply.