October Fest

by Jess Lourey

  He smiled and grabbed my hand. I wanted to pull away, but didn’t. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Some of it came out my nose.”

  The corner of his mouth quirked up. He didn’t disagree.

  “I’ve decided we’re a doomed relationship and sworn off men forever. Well, at least non-fiberglass ones.”

  He squeezed my hand and scanned the restaurant for Mrs. Berns. “Give me a chance.”

  “I did.”

  “Give me another one.”

  I was saved from a response by the sound of Mrs. Berns’ yell. “Over here, lovebirds!”

  The whole restaurant turned. I tried to slide my hand out of Johnny’s, but he wouldn’t let me. He walked confidently to the table, dragging me behind like toilet paper on his shoe.

  “How’re you feeling, Mrs. Berns?”

  “Not as fine as you look, Johnny Leeson.” She was right. The man wore blue jeans like a spoon wore honey, and I could see the cut of his sculpted shoulders through his shirt. “Have you met my fiancé, Mr. Bernard Mink?”

  Johnny held out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”

  Bernard shook it but didn’t acknowledge me. I wondered if Mrs. Berns had told him I wanted to talk. Actually, studying them side by side, I realized they weren’t a bad-looking couple. With their mouths closed, you might be tricked into believing they were your average retired pair setting off into the sunset in their RV. That is, if you could overlook the nasty bruises turning green on their faces and the cast on Mrs. Berns’ leg. Bernard was considerably younger than his date, but no spring chicken. He wore a nice polo shirt over a pair of khakis. Mrs. Berns had slipped on elastic-waisted pants and a pink and lime green blouse accented by plastic old-lady jewelry. The only good thing about a wedding between her and Bernard is that afterward, she could go back to dressing with the pizzazz she was known for. But I wasn’t going to let it get that far.

  Johnny pulled out my chair and asked if I’d like something to drink.

  “Water’s fine,” I said. The restaurant had a simple and welcoming cabin-and-fresh-flowers décor, and a faint jazz tune encouraged conversation without overwhelming it.

  “As I was saying,” Bernard said to Mrs. Berns, resuming their conversation, “for all intensive purposes, the sooner the wedding, the better.”

  “For all intents and purposes,” I said.

  “Exactly,” he said.

  It was too much. “You two are trying to get married sooner than Halloween? That’s not even two weeks away.” I gave Mrs. Berns warning eyes. Forget avoiding stressing her, or even me wanting to get her back in her sassy clothes. I’d rather have her dress like a granny into infinity than bind herself to this loser any sooner than necessary. I’d have to hurry my plan, but my hands were tied until I could get Bernard alone.

  “You can hurry love,” Bernard said. “I want to make her my woman for all modernity.”

  I considered asking him to retarditerate his point, but I couldn’t stand to hear him butcher the language any more. I changed the subject. “How’s your online class going, Mrs. Berns?”

  Not my smartest move. She filled us in with such hyper-specific detail that we were all too embarrassed to look at each other by the time our food came. We ate with our heads down, shoveling the food in quickly to get the night over with. Mrs. Berns won the clean plate award, clearing her filet mignon and baked potato before it got cold.

  “Damn that’s better than hospital food.” She pushed her plate away, a wide smile on her plate. “Bernard, I believe it’s time for a kiss.”

  “But I’m not done with my steak yet,” he groused.

  She flicked him on the forehead like a bad dog and then pulled him in close. If you’ve ever watched old people kiss, you’ve noticed that they appear to have to pop through a small, invisible barrier to touch lips, like two opposite pole magnets shoved together. Mrs. Berns did not kiss like that. Her magnet was always turned the right way, and her public passion made me even more uncomfortable than her tales of studying human sexuality. Johnny tapped my leg, and I realized I’d been staring.

  “I’m full. Want to move over to the bar so we can give these two some privacy?”

  I looked longingly at my half-eaten brick oven margherita pizza. It was delicious.

  “I’ll have them box it up for you,” Mrs. Berns said out of the corner of her mouth. I was unsurprised to learn that she had 360-degree vision while kissing. She was a modern miracle when it came to the art of love.

  “Thanks,” I said, but made no move to stand.

  “And Bernard will talk to you before you leave.”

  That’s what I needed to hear. “We’ll be at the bar.” I crammed my hands into my pockets so Johnny couldn’t grab one of them again and followed him into the other room. It was packed, even on a Wednesday, but he found a quiet corner. We nursed our water, standing in uncomfortable silence.

  “Mira?” He asked. “Do you like me?”

  Ohmygodyes. Liked him so much that I didn’t want to jinx him, that I’d rather move to India than ruin his life with my bad luck, that I wanted to throw him to the ground right now and ride him like a merry-go-round. “Yeah.”

  “Then why does it always feel like you’re running away?” He took my hand again. I squelched the urge to not yank it back.

  “I’m a little damaged,” I said, embarrassed that I’d blushed when I said it. “I’m not … your type.”

  He pulled me in close. I was about to make some crack about us taking notes from Mrs. Berns and Bernard when his warm lips brushed against mine, soft, and then harder, his tongue gently exploring the edges of my mouth. I sighed and fell against his hard body, loving the feel of his hand in my hair. He pulled back slightly and moved his mouth to my ear, landing soft butterfly kisses on the edge. “That’s for me to decide,” he whispered huskily.

  “Yes,” I said, not sure what I was agreeing to.

  “Will you go to Mrs. Berns’ wedding with me?”

  At that moment, I would have gone to the landfill to pick out furniture with him. “Uh-hunh.” I pushed back against his mouth. His tongue was magic. I heard a soft chuckle, a vibration against my ear, before his mouth moved to the base of my neck. I swear the only reason I didn’t mount him like a farm animal right there in the bar was that a siren blared past the front of Stella’s, an ambulance followed by two police cars. My heart clutched. They were racing toward the north side of the town, and there were lots of people I cared about on the north side of town.

  I stepped back, tamping down my libido with fear. “I have to see what’s happening.”

  His eyes were stormy with passion but cleared quickly. “I’ll drive.”

  We raced outside and realized it would be quicker to walk than drive. Stella’s was on a rise on Lake Street, and we could see that the emergency vehicles had screamed past us and pulled into the Big Chief Motor Lodge a half mile directly north. It was their second time there in under a week. We dashed north, covering the distance in less than five minutes, arriving out of breath and in time to witness the ambulance crew hurrying up to the lakeside second story with a stretcher between them.

  It was such an odd juxtaposition of the scene after Webber was found that I felt unbalanced in the cool October air and reached out to Johnny. He grabbed my arm to steady me and we kept moving forward, on the scene in time to see the ambulance crew hurry down the stairs and toward us with an unconscious Arnold Swydecker on a gurney, skin gray, yellow foam bubbling out the corner of his mouth.

  Grace Swinton followed closely behind, her eyes wide with shock. Gary Wohnt tried to detain her, but she pushed him away, yelling meaningless, angry words. He calmed her down, restraining her by holding her upper arms and speaking to her calmly. I was close enough to hear him tell her he’d drive her to the hospital, and her wailing in pain. She was acting a lot like a woman who was seeing a loved one carted away in an ambulance.

  The realization set me on my heels. Swinton was in love with Swydecker.
I tried to fit that epiphany into the puzzle of Webber’s murder but didn’t know where it belonged. Was she Swydecker’s alibi, the woman he’d rather go to jail for than reveal as his lover? The only thing certain was that being involved with her boss’ opponent must have caused her a great deal of stress. Enough stress to kill, though?

  Bernard showed up on our heels, having left the gimpy Mrs. Berns on the street out front of Stella’s. After some begging, I convinced Johnny that it was absolutely necessary to go back and drive Mrs. Berns home because she shouldn’t be so active this soon after her accident. Bernard insisted on staying to dig around for a story, which struck me as incredibly tacky, but I wasn’t sure I was any better.

  The ambulance pulled out, as did Wohnt with Swinton in his car. I didn’t recognize the police officer who had stayed behind to secure the scene, but he was determined that Bernard and I were not to interfere, were not even to have access to the second floor. Bernard listened before charging to the lobby to make a call on his cell phone, presumably to his editor. I did not listen, which is why when the officer strode to his car to retrieve his police tape, I was able to sprint to the second floor unnoticed.

  Swydecker’s door was open and I darted in. I knew I had only a few seconds. A quick visual scan showed me the exact same room I’d been in during the interview except for a messy pile of paper pooling on the floor and an old-fashioned women’s handkerchief lying by the bed. I reached for it but heard footsteps coming up the stairs and only had time to make out two of the three letters monogrammed on the white cloth: a G and an S. Grace Swinton, the woman who hadn’t slept in her bed the night of Webber’s murder and who looked like her world had ended when Swydecker was whisked away by ambulance. I was now willing to bet my car that she was Swydecker’s alibi the night of the murder and he hers, but that neither one of them could risk their careers by coming forth.

  Knowing I was on borrowed time, I flew out of the room, my heart thumping in my ears, and rushed to the far end of the second floor walkway a split second before the police officer came into view. If he glared at me, I didn’t see. I had my back to him, pretending to knock on Glokkmann’s door. I heard a rustle of tape being unwound and glanced to my right, just enough to see that the officer had strung “Do Not Cross” tape across the entrance to his half of the second story and was doing the same to Swydecker’s room.

  Meanwhile, on the other side of Glokkmann’s door, a howling fight was underway. I heard the crash of glass, a loud thud, and then the most violent sound of all: quiet.

  Both voices were female, but I couldn’t recognize either of them and couldn’t make out what they had been yelling about. Was Glokkmann arguing with her daughter, her ostensible roommate whom I had yet to formally meet, and regardless, why hadn’t they emerged at the sound of the ambulance and police sirens? I raised my hand to knock. The door opened preemptively, and I found myself face to face with Glokkmann.

  “Everything okay?” I asked. She was pale, a slash of red highlighting one cheek.

  “Fine.” She kept the door tight to her body. “What’s all the commotion out here?”

  “Swydecker. He was taken away by ambulance.” Was I mistaken, or did she not seem surprised?

  “Heart attack?”

  “Dunno. Grace went with him.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I’ll have to call her.”

  We stared at each other. It was still quiet behind her. “You sure everything is okay?”

  “I’m sure. I broke a vase. That’s all.”

  A vase? In a hotel room? “I heard another voice.”

  “The TV.”

  Short of calling her a liar and pushing her out of the way to see for myself, I had no choice but to leave. Seeing Swydecker gray as ash had taken all the fight out of me. “There’s police right down from your room if you decide you need help. Good night.” I hurried downstairs, determined to hunt down Bernard and reroute some of my aggression his direction. He wasn’t in the lobby, or down by the lake, and when I jogged back to the restaurant, I couldn’t find him there, either. My questions for him would have to wait.

  _____

  The next morning, Kennie filled me in via a phone call. Apparently, Swydecker had overdosed. He swore he’d accidentally taken too many of a sleeping pill prescription and hadn’t been trying to kill himself. He also claimed that he and Swinton were mere acquaintances by dint of their jobs, and that he hadn’t fully latched his door. It must have swung open, which is how Swinton was able to happen across him sprawled on his bathroom floor and called 911. I wondered if he knew about the bridge Mrs. Berns had for sale.

  The police had no options other than to treat his story as factual on the face of things, though I knew Wohnt wouldn’t let it slide that easily. The good news, for my curiosity anyhow, was that today I’d be interviewing Glokkmann at the library so I could get her angle on the Swydecker situation as well as see if she cared to share anything more about last night’s “broken vase.”

  At home, I was down to condiments, one egg, and slimy lettuce that I’d bought with good intentions. I scratched out a grocery list, wondering why I continued to organize it according to what popped into my head first rather than by meal or what section of the store the ingredients were available in. Micro-evolution eluded me. List made, I herded the animals toward the lake, grabbing a stocking cap and light gloves. The outside thermometer warned me it was only thirty-one degrees, and I wanted to be prepared. The grass crunched underfoot as I stepped onto the lawn, but the sun was already coaxing a melt.

  “Want me to bring the frisbee?” Luna’s eyes said yes, and we took off toward the lake.

  The portion of Sunny’s property that abutted Whiskey Lake was not as appealing to me as the thick woods, but I did love the metallic flash of a warming October sun on the surface of open water. Luna followed me down the road that connected my driveway to the driveway of Shangri-La, a woodsy resort located on the peninsula that marked the end of the road. Between my place and Shangri-La was a sandy beach that was all mine. It was a wide spot on the side of the road and anyone going to or from Shangri-La passed right by it, but in the fall, it was quiet.

  A rustling in the woods alongside the road alerted me that Tiger Pop was joining us but would not deign to consider herself part of the group. I smiled. The sun felt toasty on my naked cheeks and it wasn’t yet 9:00 a.m. That was unusual for mid-October. The last few years, the state had been covered in snow by this time of year. My breath still came out in visible puffs, but the air was redolent with the earthy smell of decomposing leaves rather than the bite of snow approaching from the west.

  Most of the leaves still clung to their branches and under the bright eye of the sun, the woods looked like they were ablaze with the reds, oranges, and golds of maple trees against the rich brown of oak leaves and deep green of pine needles. The air smelled like anticipation, like opening a book you were excited to read. Out on the lake far off to my left, a lone fisherman was casting off his boat, a soft breeze waving the lake and gently rolling lapping water onto the shore. I tugged my coat tighter when we reached the edge of the water—it was colder here—and whipped the Frisbee down the road for Luna.

  While Luna and I were deep into a game of fetch, Tiger Pop trotted out to sun herself on the dock. I’d need to get some help pulling it in this year. Sunny had written me a letter the previous week informing me that she usually hired a guy named Johnny Leeson to do it, but that anyone in town would be more than willing to help. Yeah, I’ll bet she and every other woman in the county wanted to hire a guy named Johnny Leeson. Even the sight of his name made my heart skip, but where we were at now, I didn’t know.

  I trained my mind back on the moment, the rhythmic game of toss and return with Luna, the soft whisper of the lake, the rustle of wind through dying leaves. It was peaceful, and I absorbed it through my pores. I’d missed this more than anything in the city, the solace of nature. Unfortunately, it was soon time to get to work. I sucked in one last refreshing breath,
enough to carry me through the day, and followed the animals back to the house.

  I wasn’t looking forward to the Glokkmann interview. In fact, all of a sudden, I wanted to wash my hands of the whole ordeal and focus on tending to my fruits and spices, baking, and reading, maybe invite some friends over for a quiet dinner party. Maybe even jump into a relationship with Johnny with my heart fully open to being accepted or being crushed, but open nonetheless. The breeze picked up and blew hair into my face, and I wondered if I could smell a hint of snow after all. I herded Tiger Pop and Luna into the house, reminded them they had a pet door and should keep an eye on each other, and drove to town, vowing that once this murder was solved, I’d embrace all the simple and good things my life offered me.

  Glokkmann was waiting for me at the library door, last night’s slap mark disappeared from her cheek. She wasn’t alone. Standing next to her were Tanya Ingebretson and the dark-haired woman I’d first approached at the debate, the woman who referred to the Representative as “Queen Glokkmann,” the woman who I’d been harboring a hunch was Kenya Glokkmann.

  “I’m sorry, Sarah. Have you been waiting long?”

  She made a show of studying her watch. “I thought you’d be here early now that the library will be opening at ten.”

  “It’s not quite 10:00.”

  “Aren’t there procedures you have to go through first?” Tanya asked. I realized she reminded me of a chipmunk, a tiny, lethal chipmunk, all puffy chest and squat legs, a swirl of brown hair accenting her round, wide-eyed face. She did work hard for Battle Lake, no doubt about it, but she did it to mold us all into her vision rather than out of the goodness of her heart. She’d been a burr under my saddle since I’d arrived, but it wasn’t until I’d heard her ridiculous proclamations on gay people that I had a solid reason to dislike her. I wondered if I could start a counter-campaign to deny civil liberties to people who fell in love with wealthy, humorless men named Bud, which happened to describe her husband exactly.