by Jess Lourey
Even though we now lived in the same tiny town, we didn’t hang in the same circles. Actually, I didn’t really hang anywhere but home and the library, which worked nifty when there are lots of people you want to avoid. I stormed over to the door, unlocked it, and yanked it open. “What?”
“Hey, babe.” The brains had never been what had attracted me to him. In retrospect, I wasn’t sure what had. “How’s it hanging?”
“I’m really busy. Whaddya need?”
He shot his eyes over my shoulder. “Um, a book?”
“Gotta wait ’til we open.” I let the door swing shut, locked it, and returned to my computer station. I worked steadily for five minutes before I realized he was still outside the door, a hangdog look on his face. I stomped back. “What?”
He pointed at the etched numbers on the door. “This says the library opened twenty-five minutes ago.”
I hate trading in my anger for embarrassment, so I didn’t bother. “Whatever,” I said, leaning over to flip on the rest of the lights. “Knock yourself out.”
I cleaned up my computer station, shuffling my meager notes so they were in order before stuffing them into my cloth purse, and I went about the business of running a library. Over the next hour people came and went, but Brad stayed. I mostly ignored him until it became grossly apparent he needed help. Then I ignored him for another ten minutes before approaching.
He glanced quickly at his feet, and the edges of his face pinked. This from the man who when we were dating used the toilet with the bathroom door open so he could watch the TV in the other room. I had to admit I was intrigued. “You don’t need to be embarrassed,” I said. “Reading is nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I need to find a book that explains how to get rid of eyelash crabs.” He was talking so fast that it came out as one long word.
“Oh,” I said. “I stand corrected.”
“Don’t judge me, Mira.”
Judge him? That would have taken my focus away from laughing. Maybe all three Fates weren’t lined against me. I stepped back another five feet. “You should probably just go to the doctor.”
“I hate needles.”
I considered conjecturing about the size of the syringe the doctor would likely use to eradicate the bugs but thought better of it. Now was a good time as any to put some quarters toward the red ink of my karma. “The doctor won’t use needles.”
Either his eyes lit up or the crabs were sending me an SOS. “Really? You’ve had eyelash crabs before?”
“I don’t even know how you get … never mind. You just go to the doctor, they rinse off your eyelashes with a special liquid, and you’re all better. No worries.” I actually had no idea how a doctor would address this particular situation but I wanted Brad to go away.
“I don’t know how to thank you, Mir.” He leaned in to give me a hug and I lunged for one of the newspaper holders, pointing it toward him like a sword.
“No thanks necessary.”
“Okay, then. I better get to the doctor.”
“Okay then.”
He smiled again, and I recognized it as his flirtatious smile, the one that preceded him asking me if I wanted to ride the baloney pony. “You sure look good.”
Like a cockroach that can ambulate without its head, Brad could still flirt while carrying a load of face lice. “Leave.”
He didn’t have the brains to be hurt. He nodded as if I’d told him it looked like rain today and then started on a new conversational track. “Hey, Not With My Horse is playing in town tonight. You should come check us out. We’ve gotten four new gigs out of our blazing Octoberfest performance. Did you see us? We rocked that jam!”
“That’s awesome. Bye.”
“And we even had cute groupies this time. You shoulda been there! I got with a hot little number between sets. Somebody famous.”
Again, he lit my curiosity against its will. “Somebody famous from Battle Lake?”
“Just in town for a coupla nights,” he said coyly. “Wanna guess who?”
“Nope.”
“She’s connected to politics.”
Cripes. It was probably Kennie Rogers. It for sure wasn’t Sarah Glokkmann. Maybe Swinton? She seemed too high class for a pre-encore one-nighter with a polka-fusion singer, but I didn’t know any other politics-affiliated women in town. “Don’t care. And you should tell her you’ve got critters setting up shop on your face.”
He seemed to consider and then discard this. “Thanks again for your help. You know where to find me if you need me.”
“Not gonna happen.”
He nodded conspiratorially, as if my words were code for something else, and headed out to, I could only hope, get the biggest shot in the butt of his life. I took advantage of the lull in the library to call Kennie. Might as well group my unpleasant tasks.
“Hello, Bronze and Bond. How may we make all your dreams come true?”
“Hi, Kennie. It’s me. I have a couple questions.”
“Hmm. Well who needs whom now?”
Which is precisely why I’d dreaded this call. “Look, I’ll help you out tomorrow. I promise. In exchange, I need you to answer a few questions. Deal?”
I heard the sound of a nail file at work. “We’ll see. What’re the questions?”
“First one: you said that Glokkmann didn’t have an alibi for Saturday night, right?”
Kennie exhaled. “Not exactly. That little cookie has always been a squirmy one. She says she was at the motel, in her room, from ten o’clock that night on. Thing is, there’s no one to corroborate her story. She was sharing her room with one of her daughters, who was out partying with a band all night.”
The shortest distance between two points is a line. “How old’s her daughter?”
“I dunno. Twenties I suppose.”
Bingo. Bet I just discovered Brad’s political liaison. “Are Glokkmann and her daughter still in town?”
“They are, and so are her people. And Swydecker. Deputy Wohnt told them it would be in their best interest to remain in our fair city.” She sighed. “Doesn’t he look great? That man has put on weight in all the right places since he left.”
I ignored her. “So Glokkmann and her crew and Swydecker and his crew are in town indefinitely but everyone else in the motel was sent on their way?”
“Yes and no. Swydecker doesn’t have a crew. But otherwise, you got it.”
“So those two are the main suspects in Webber’s murder?” I circled their names in my notebook and drew unhappy faces next to them.
“Not sure. The Deputy and I don’t share all our information.”
“But you’re the Chief!”
She purred. “I certainly am, but a smart woman knows to let a man feel like he’s in charge.” She tried to switch subjects. “Have you seen all the national news reporters in town? Bronze and Bond is going to be a huge success.”
“What’s Swydecker’s alibi?”
“I’ll tell you after you help me spray-tan strangers.”
I groaned. “Can’t you tell me now?”
“And risk you not showing? No way. Free help is hard to come by.”
“You said I’d make $250 an hour!”
“No, I asked you if you wanted to make $250 an hour. Completely different than offering you $250 an hour. One is a commitment, and the other is small talk. See you tomorrow at 6:00!” And she hung up.
Agh. No use worrying about what I couldn’t change. I channeled my frustration into researching Bernard Mink, my last total unknown. I first located a series of Register articles he’d written. He didn’t seem to have a beat, covering sports, local news, and community events equally. More interesting than the articles he’d written were the ones he appeared in. They weren’t news stories so much as police logs, and I unearthed two of them, one from three years ago and one posted the previous month. The oldest blotter entry:
Police were called to a Lincoln Street residence on a report of domestic dispute. Officers arrived to find Fergus
Falls residents Bernard Mink, age fifty-three, and Andrea Lang, age forty-two, arguing over meatballs. Mr. Mink was charged with fifth-degree assault for threatening to choke Ms. Lang with a Crockpot power cord and fourth degree assault for resisting arrest. Ms. Lang left with the meatballs.
And the most recent:
Police were called to a Lincoln Street residence on a report of domestic dispute. When officers arrived, they discovered a belligerent Bernard Mink, Fergus Falls resident, age fifty-six, in a physical altercation with Pelican Rapids resident Claude Wayne, age thirty-two. Mr. Wayne claimed he was a neighbor who’d interceded in a physical fight between Mr. Mink and Roberta Kennedy, Fergus Falls resident, age sixty-three. Ms. Kennedy declined to press charges. Mr. Mink was charged with third-degree assault.
The police logs left my hands shaking. They painted a portrait of Bernard as an abusive creep. I had figured I would find something like this, but I didn’t want to be right. I had to tell Mrs. Berns, but how?
I strode into Mrs. Berns’ hospital room and was happy to find that her family wasn’t around. “Here.” I held out the pumpkin-and-spice colored mums I’d bought for her, trying not to wince at the sight of her harsh bruises. “How’re you doing?”
She shushed me and pointed at the TV. The evenings news was on, and if my eyes weren’t deceiving me, this national news station’s cameras were panning downtown Battle Lake. “And it’s here that the campaigns of Representative Sarah Glokkmann and her challenger, Arnold Swydecker, took a precarious turn.” The camera found the face of the commentator and widened slightly to include an appropriately somber-looking Glokkmann.
“Representative Glokkmann, can you comment on the death of Bob Webber, the man behind The Body Politic?”
“It’s terribly sad, Craig. This whole town is shook up about it. My staff tells me it appears to be suicide. He must have been a desperate man.”
The commentator nodded sagely. “There’s been some talk that this was a murder.”
Glokkmann looked shocked. “Well, I’ll leave the investigative work to the police force.”
The reporter tightened his lips. “Will this unfortunate tragedy affect your campaign?”
“I’m always saddened by an early death, but I didn’t know Mr. Webber personally. My condolences go out to his friends and family. In the meanwhile, I have a job as a representative of Minnesota, and I have a duty to fulfill. I will fulfill it.”
“Thank you. I’m Craig Clutch, live from Battle Lake, Minnesota.”
I stared at the image of Glokkmann appearing properly sad but not weak. She was a polished act, and I became aware that I needed to speak with her, and soon. Swydecker, too. They wouldn’t be in town for much longer, and I had a strong hunch that one of them knew exactly who’d killed Bob Webber.
“That woman is as slick as pirate snot, isn’t she?” Mrs. Berns flipped off the TV.
“I didn’t know you watched that channel.”
“Gotta get my laughs somewhere.”
I smiled. “You never answered me from before. How’re you feeling?”
“That’s a stupid question. My face is purple, my leg is broken, and my ribs are cracked. I’m feeling like a half-eaten lobster. They tell me I get out Wednesday, though, so you better come pick me up.”
“Really? That soon?”
“Insurance doesn’t want to pay to keep an old lady around. They say the rehab facilities at the Sunset will be enough. You bring me any wine with those flowers?”
“Sorry. Doctor’s orders. You must have much better stuff here anyhow.”
She shook her head sadly. “Used to, but I don’t any longer. Got my morphine privileges revoked yesterday. Seems the hospital staff has a different definition of ‘as needed’ than I do. So tell me what you know about who killed the bobber.”
“Blogger. And first you gotta tell me why Elizabeth was in town, remember?”
“Blogger to you too.” She sighed dramatically and flattened her bedspread. “Fine. You know that it’s Conrad’s fault I was checked into a nursing home a few years back, right?”
I nodded.
“Well, that same bug has bit him again. Somebody told somebody about our wild antics at the State Fair, and it got back to him. He’s putting his foot down.”
“Our wild antics?”
“I’m an old lady. You’re going to put all this on my shoulders?”
I rolled my eyes and got back on topic. “But that doesn’t make any sense. You’re already in a nursing home. What more can he do?”
She handed me a brochure from her nightstand. “Shady Acres Retirement Home” was emblazoned across the top. I flipped it open. It looked like a bucolic place. “I haven’t heard of this one. Where’s it at?”
“South of the Cities. And it’s a maximum security place for elderly patients with dementia. He wants me declared mentally incompetent and shipped off for my own safety. His words.”
“Noooo!”
She furrowed her brow. “He needs at least two family signatures on the commitment form, which is why Elizabeth flew up. She wanted to see firsthand if I was as loony as Conrad was saying.”
I thought back. “That’s why you were wearing granny clothes last time I saw you at the Sunset?”
“Among other things, like going to church regularly and getting a marriage license I didn’t intend to use to prove I’m stable. Told my kids I’d been dating Bernard for a year. We were going to get the license and be engaged long enough for Conrad to lose interest in me and find some other life to ruin. The plan had been working right up until the car accident. Now Elizabeth is back on the fence. She says she believes in personal freedom but doesn’t know if I’m capable of making the best decisions for myself anymore.”
“Wow.” I dropped heavily into the bedside chair. “You did a crap job raising those kids.”
“You’re telling me.”
“So what’re we going to do?”
“I’m going to get married.”
“What?” The printouts of Bernard’s criminal past were burning through my purse. “Bernard is a dunce.”
“Exactly.” She fiddled with a gaudy glass ring on her finger. “Dumb enough to marry me and do everything I say. He’d be my legal guardian, even if my traitor children managed to declare me incompetent. Of course, if Bernard murdered the bobber, it’s all over for me. He’ll go to jail and my kids’ll ship me off to old lady prison. You’ll never see me again.”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” I said, unwilling to admit how hard my heart had constricted at her words. “I’m sure there’s another way. I’ll talk to Elizabeth.”
“Do what you want as long as you do what you promised: find out who killed the man in the motel. What have you uncovered so far?”
I wrinkled my forehead. “I don’t know any more about that than I did last time I saw you.”
“Have you asked that Glokkmann if she did it? She looks like a bad sort.”
“I’ll talk to her this week.” I was stalling. I knew I should tell Mrs. Berns about Bernard, but I didn’t want to increase her stress right now. I’d have to find a different way to keep her out of the maximum security home so she wouldn’t have to marry him. How’s Freda?”
Mrs. Berns grew serious. “She’s out of ICU, but she’ll be in the hospital a little longer. You should visit her before you go. She doesn’t get many visitors. Her sister and most of her friends are too old to drive.”
“Will do,” I said. I was about to tell her I’d had flowers delivered to Freda’s room on my way up when my attention was arrested by one of the top five most annoying sounds in the world: someone saying “knock knock” rather than actually knocking.
“Anybody home?” And in peeked Tanya Ingebretson, whom I hadn’t seen since the debate, where she’d been the only local besides me. She disliked Mrs. Berns for the same reasons she hated me, so seeing her in the hospital room was puzzling.
Mrs. Berns tilted her bed so she was sitting upright. “Tanya! Thank you so much fo
r coming. I wasn’t sure you would.”
I switched my surprise from Tanya to Mrs. Berns. I’d never heard her so polite in her life. I surreptitiously checked to make sure she wasn’t hiding a morphine drip after all.
She glared at me, but out of sight of Tanya. “Mira, you must know Tanya Ingebretson. She does so much good for Battle Lake.”
“Surely I must,” I said sarcastically, reaching my hand out to Tanya. She slipped a business card into it: “Tanya Ingebretson, Life Coach,” written in swirly girl letters.
“I’m board certified.”
“What board?” I asked. A heady dose of expensive perfume wafted up from the card.
“The Global Life Accreditation Bureau. If you ever want to take charge of your life, give me a call.” She turned her attention to Mrs. Berns. “I have to say I was surprised to receive your message. You of all people! But I suppose it makes sense because who needs more help than those who have fallen the farthest from The Light?”
I could hear the capital letters. And see them on the card I was still holding: Let Her Walk with You to The Light. “Where does one go to school to learn to be a life coach?”
She gave me a brittle smile. She was used to naysayers. “I went to the school of life, honey.”
“Hmm. Maybe I should be a life coach.”
“You can.” She didn’t sound convinced. “You have to practice for two years to be certified, not have any ethical violations, and pass a ten-point life coach multiple-choice test with a score of 70 percent or higher to be board certified.”
She said it like it wasn’t the stupidest thing I’d ever heard. “Mrs. Berns, what’d you call Tanya about?”
Mrs. Berns hid the grin that had been fed by my light bickering with Tanya. “To get my life in order, of course. I’ve made many mistakes”—here Tanya nodded in profound agreement—“and it’s time for changes. I want to live in The Light.”
I rolled my eyes. I was sure that Tanya was in the picture for the same reason as Bernard Mink and the granny pants, but that didn’t make fake Mrs. Berns any easier to swallow. On an up note, however, I was glad she hadn’t put all her buns in the Bernard Mink basket. “I think I’ll visit Freda and leave you two to your business. Call me if you need anything.”
