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.”