“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 all 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.