October Fest: A Murder-by-Month Mystery (5 page)

“I’m so sorry,” I said, after I was as cleaned up as a person could be after involuntarily expelling olives through her nose. My throat felt like a sand truck had driven through it. I couldn’t look at him. “Is this your worst date ever?”

He smiled, his eyes twinkling. “No, my worst date ever was the first night at the State Fair when you ran away before I could kiss you.”

I thrust out my hand in horror.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not going to try and kiss you now. Just come over to the bed and lie down. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

“I want to go home,” I moaned, trying to stand. A wave of dizziness pushed me back onto the closed toilet seat. “Or, maybe I’ll just lie down for a little while.”

“Good idea,” he said, hoisting me into his arms and carrying me to the soft bed. “Tiger Pop and Luna can get out if they want to?”

I nodded, sinking into the mattress.

“OK. I have to leave for work at 5:00 a.m. I’ll head out early to check on them first, okay? Just sleep.” He felt my forehead and then covered me with a spare blanket before stretching out behind me, one arm draped loosely across my waist, reminding me I wasn’t alone.

And that’s all I remembered until I heard the scream.

My disorientation was total.
The room was black. It didn’t smell familiar, and the digital clock was in the wrong place telling me some crap about 5:34. Where was I, and why had I been dreaming of moving to West Bengal? That’s when it came back to me in smelly waves of shame. Argh. I was pretty sure Johnny had seen me hurl last night. The humiliation was smothering.

And then it pierced my ears again, a scream as chilling as morgue water, the noise that had woken me. I sprung out of bed and was shoved back by a Mack truck of a headache. I powered through and felt my way to the door, focusing on a sliver of grayish light glowing through the curtains. I found the doorknob and turned it, welcoming the fresh and chilly lake air. West Battle’s waves were choppy and dark, the sun an hour and a half from rising. The only brightness issued from a lonely light in the parking lot. People were beginning to stir about in their rooms, but as of yet only two doors were open, mine and the one immediately to my right. A cleaning cart was resting between our rooms. I skirted it and entered the adjacent room gingerly, certain the scream had emanated from there.

I was paralyzed by what I saw.

In the middle of the room lay a crumpled male figure. A cleaning woman knelt next to the man, searching for a pulse. It was then that I noticed the jellied outline of a clear plastic bag over his head and the preternatural stillness that only death can bring.

I raced to the bedside phone to dial 911.

“Already called,” the cleaning lady said. “Besides, there’s no hurry.”

Her calmness unsettled me. “Were you the one who just screamed?”

“Yeah,” she said, leaning back on her heels. “This room was supposed to be empty. I was startled, is all. But you clean hotel rooms for enough years, and nothing really scares you anymore.” She indicated the plastic bag. “Must have suffocated himself. It’s tight around his neck.”

I didn’t want to get too close, didn’t want to see whose face it was, but I found myself tiptoeing around the body at a safe distance, just the same. And that’s how I came to stare into the dead eyes of Bob Webber, the blogger who would never again care if the world spelled his name with one or two b’s.

“Shit. I owe Curtis
ten bucks.”

The familiar voice at the door yanked me sharply from the frozen horror on Mr. Webber’s chalk-white face. One edge of his forehead appeared darker than the rest and soft, like he’d hit the ground hard. He was still dressed in his sad, shabby coat. “Mrs. Berns?” I asked. She looked tiny in the doorway, tiny and crazy-sexy in thigh-high stockings and a black teddy under a translucent, feather-lined robe. “What are you doing here?”

She took in my bedhead and bloodshot eyes courtesy of an evening of power hurling. “We’ll have the talk when you get a little bit older, honey. We have a more important situation on our hands. You just cost me ten cucumbers.”

Bernard, the stuffy reporter who yesterday had been in her room at the Senior Sunset, materialized behind her, looking ridiculously bird-legged in boxer shorts and a white v-neck T-shirt.

“Wah?” I asked.

She crossed her arms and leaned into the door frame. “We have a Mira and Corpse pool at the Senior Sunset. Curtis Poling bet you couldn’t make it through Octoberfest weekend without finding a dead body. I figured if I steered you away from your usual haunts and kept a close eye on you, I’d win the bet. Turns out you can’t trick luck as bad as yours, sweetie pie.”

“Wait, is that why you talked Johnny into bringing me here? To win a ten-dollar bet?” Nothing like indignation to arrest your attention.

“Pah.” She strode over to the corpse and knelt down to stare at his face. “It’s that Leeson boy we should feel sorry for. How’d you humiliate yourself this time? And who’s the wormfood here?”

“Bob Webber,” Bernard said from behind us.

“One b or two?” I asked, staring at the face of the deceased and wondering why he looked so frightened. My experience with corpses is that most of them left the world with a disgusted looked on their faces, a final “Really? Is that all?” Bob Webber, on the other hand, looked like his last moments had been awfully scary.

“Two.”

“Well now, how do you know him?” Mrs. Berns asked, turning toward her date and sounding peeved.

Bernard cleared his throat. “He operated
The Body Politic
blog. Well-known in the business of political reporting, a reputation for mendacity.”

I didn’t like the guy’s arrogance, and I didn’t trust his aim with big words. “Mendacity or tenacity?”

“My dear girl, he didn’t give up when he had a story. He was efficacious.” He talked slowly to give me the opportunity to dig out my thinking cap.

I pointed at the plastic bag sealed tightly around the corpse’s neck. “Was he going through tough times?”

“I didn’t know him personably,” Bernard answered.

I stared from Bernard to Mrs. Berns and back again. “Where did you two meet?”

“Gas station.” Mrs. Berns stood and grabbed Bernard’s hand. “Time to go, honey.” She shot her most threatening look to the cleaning lady, which was difficult to pull off in her Victoria’s Oldest Secret regalia. “We were never here.”

The maid rolled her eyes and reached into her apron for a squirt of Purel, leaving me to decide if I also should never have been here. Lots of questions get asked when you’re standing near a dead body, suicide or no. Besides, my eyes and throat were scratchy and my stomach was still unsettled. I backed out of the room, pausing long enough outside to lift the room list from the maid’s cart and slide it into my jeans pocket before returning to room 20 to retrieve my car keys and purse.

My plan was to scurry down the walkway and never look back, but once past the cart I was slowed by an agitated-looking Grace, barreling toward me. I stepped aside to let her enter room 18, her hands shaking as she slid in the electronic key card. She didn’t make eye contact with me, acted, in fact, as if she dearly hoped she were invisible. When the door glided closed behind her, I had enough time to note that both the beds were made. I returned to room 19 for a moment, peeping my head in. The maid was dragging on an Eve’s Slim in the entirely smoke-free motel, studying the body in the center as if she were considering whether to get one for her den.

“Did you clean room 18 yet?”

She shook her head in the negative. “This is my first room of the day. It was supposed to be empty,” she repeated.

I thanked her and made my way to my car just as a wailing ambulance pulled into the lot, followed by a navy blue Battle Lake police cruiser with its cherries on. What I spied in the police car froze me until a basic instinct kicked in. I zipped to my left and launched between two four-door sedans. I skinned my knees in the process but it would be completely worth it if I was right and that was Gary Wohnt, former chief of the Battle Lake Police Department, persona non grata since August, behind the wheel of the cop car.

“You okay?”

I looked into the clear brown eyes of a man in his late fifties. He was sitting cross-legged in the space between the two cars I was now occupying. His clothes were worn but serviceable, and if not for the smell of BO and his odd location, he looked like Everyman. “Why’re you sitting between two cars in a parking lot?”

“Why’re you?”

He had a point. I shot a glance over my shoulder to see if the cop car was parking nearby. “I tripped.”

“Pretty spectacular trip,” he said, rubbing his chin. “Not that you asked, but when I need to hide from the police, I find it most effective to
not
draw attention to myself. For example, I don’t start my hair on fire, yell ‘help,’ or leap into the air and land between two cars like a handicapped gazelle.”

“Point taken.” I looked away from the emergency vehicles to study him for a moment. “Hey, were you one of the protestors at the debate yesterday?”

“I am.” He held out his hand. “Randy Martineau. Pleased to meet you.”

I shook it. “You get a chance to talk to Swydecker and Glokkmann at the debate?”

“Swydecker, yes. Glokkmann, no. She executed her usual escape.”

“You at the motel to corner her?”

“Something like that.” He nodded toward the far end of the parking lot. The Battle Lake police car and ambulance pulled around to the other side, out of sight. “I think you’re in the clear.”

I relaxed marginally and tried to push my hair out of my eyes, but it moved as a mass, more post-hurling-restless-sleep-dreadlock than tress. “Thank you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to shower, brush my teeth with a sander, and get to work.”

He nodded, seeming to give my list serious consideration. “If you duck behind that yellow VW and then scurry toward the Hummer, there’s a line of bushes that should get you all the way to the back of the parking lot.”

“Thanks,” I said. It wasn’t until I was safely behind the wheel of my car and out of town that I wondered how he knew where I’d parked. That concern sparked a realization: the vaguely familiar man I had passed on the stairwell last night on my way to the Night of Humiliation with Johnny had been Bob Webber. He hadn’t been carrying any bags, and if I replayed the brief encounter in my head, I remembered him appearing agitated, though I’d been too deep in my own problems to make more than passing note of it.

I pulled the room list I had pinched from my pocket and scanned it while driving. It consisted of three columns: the first with room numbers, the second with last names, and the third with duration of stay. Glokkmann and Swydecker snagged my attention first. They were both staying on the same level as I had and were checking out today. I found Webber, but his room had been on the other side of the hotel, right next to the lobby door: room 4. And he was supposed to have checked out yesterday morning. What room had I seen him come from last night? And more pressing, what in the hell was Gary Wohnt doing back in town?

True to his word,
Johnny had stopped by the doublewide to fetch Luna and Tiger Pop fresh food and water. Tiger Pop looked particularly haughty, and so I guessed Johnny must have given her some good ear-scratching, too. The African violet that had been the centerpiece at our table last night was on the counter top, blooming purpily next to a brief note:

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.”