by Jess Lourey
“But what about my back?” He whined. “Will you still tan my back?”
“As soon as your pants are back on.” I stepped out and inhaled deeply. I was certain I was going to have nightmares about anteaters tonight.
He called me back in once he was dressed, and we both made a Herculean effort to avoid eye contact. He made awkward conversational attempts, but accidental nudity is hard to recover from. I quickly spritzed his back and exited the booth to help Kennie herd the lovelorn singles to their grazing ground.
While I’d been spraying the two dozen odd clients, she’d been plying them with liquor. As a result, almost everyone in Stub’s back room was approximately the color of traffic cones, and blitzed. They were voluntarily sex-segregated, the women on one side of the room giggling and staring at the men, and the men on the other shoving their hands in their pockets and dearly wishing the guy next to them would morph into a TV. It was like being at a Martian dentists’ convention: a bunch of boring, drunk, orange creatures standing around uncomfortably.
Kennie had deliberately kept the male/female ratio as close to even as possible. She’d told me the plan for the night was to seat one man at each table, and then she would blow a whistle. Each woman would charge toward the table she wanted and then have five minutes to talk up the man sitting there. When the next whistle blew, the women would stand and move one table to their right. I calculated it should take less than an hour to get through this skin auction, I’d get the dirt on the suspect from Kennie, and I’d be home to wash my eyes with hydrogen peroxide before 10:00 pm.
Kennie explained the rules to the participants, and I helped her seat one man per table. Then we stepped out of the way.
The fast-action love tango was surprisingly painful to watch, hopeful singles striving to flirt, make small talk, and open their heart in the space of five minutes. It was like watching an excruciating, high-speed job interview play itself out over and over again. The worst was when one person at a table showed an immediate interest and the other person did not, which I observed was frequently the case with Ichabod Crane, my pee-peeper. It got so by the end of the night, I was feeling even sorrier for him than before. I overheard him trotting out the same jokes to woman after woman, and they weren’t buying it:
“Hey, I’m Darcy,” he’d say, “and I just want to know, if airports are so safe, why do they call them terminals?”
If the woman laughed politely, he’d follow that with, “and have you ever noticed that how long a minute is depends on what side of the bathroom door you’re on?” That one was almost a guarantee that the woman would excuse herself to get a drink, but if she was kind enough to stay put, he’d roll out his ace in the hole. “There seems to be something wrong with my cell phone.” And he’d pop it out and flip it open. Yes, flip it open. “It doesn’t have your number in it.”
I finally couldn’t stand it any longer. I slipped in the seat across from him at the next whistle. He was by now so dejected from the process that he didn’t look up, just said in a morose voice, “Hey, I’m Darcy, and I just want to know, if airports are so—”
“Stop it.”
He glanced up. “What are you doing here? Are you a speed dater too?” He returned his gaze to his lap, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, but you’re not really my type.”
“What?” I was insulted before I realized I didn’t care. “Never mind. You’re not my type either. But you might meet a nice woman if you stop being so pitiful.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said pitifully.
“Look, despite the fact that you depantsed yourself, you seem like a nice guy. Am I right?”
“My mother thinks so.”
“Jeez. See what I mean? You talk too much. You’re on automatic spiel, and you’re not even listening to the women across from you. Everyone likes to be listened to.”
He pulled out a well-worn book from his back pocket. “Not according to Manly Man: The Guide to Irresistibility. Women like their men funny and forceful.”
I chucked the book across the room and saw two men scoop it up quick like seagulls on a hot dog. “There’s no prescription for love. You have to be yourself if you want to find someone who loves you.” Who did I think I was? Me dispensing dating advice was like Humpty Dumpty telling people how to sit.
“But no one likes me when I’m myself,” he said in a tiny voice.
“Try me. We have forty-five seconds left.”
“I’m feeling kind of insecure right now. Could I have a hug?”
“Try harder.”
He drew in a shaky breath. “Hi. My name is Darcy. I’m an online game developer. I make around $40,000 a year and hide most of it in a Crisco can under the sink because I’m afraid of banks. If I was an animal, I’d be a fish that no one has ever discovered. I’ve only kissed one female besides my mom, and we got our braces tangled and had to be brought to the E.R. to separate them. She never wanted to see me again, which was hard because we were in the same homeroom.”
I held up my hand. I couldn’t take it anymore. “Do you have anything positive to say at all?”
He dragged his eyes to meet mine with great effort. “I volunteer at the Humane Society, and I love it. It’s the only place I’m happy. I spend every free moment helping out.”
My light bulb went off, though it was dim. “Hold it right there.” I looked around for the woman with Toby tattooed on her back but couldn’t find her anywhere. As a last ditch effort, I searched the bathroom and came across her hiding in a corner, clutching a drink like it was a life preserver. “You okay?” I asked.
She had tear streaks on her carrot-colored face and wiped them away quickly. “I don’t think this is for me.”
“Care to give it one more chance?”
She shook her head. “I think I want to go home.”
“Please? It can’t get much worse, right?”
She smiled tiredly and slammed what was left of her drink. “If it’ll make you feel better. I suppose you get in trouble if we’re not all at the tables like we’re supposed to be.”
“Sure.” I led her over to Darcy. They might not find love, but I had a good feeling they’d be nice to each other. “Darcy, this is …?”
“Cindy,” she said, averting her eyes.
“And Cindy, this is Darcy.” I pushed her in the chair.
“Hi, Cindy. My name is Darcy.” He still looked demoralized. “Why, if airplanes are so safe, do they call them terminals?”
I launched evil eye daggers at him—had he not listened to one word I’d said?—but stopped when I heard a faint snort-hiccup and realized Cindy was laughing. Darcy, encouraged, shared his second and third joke and moved on to a fourth, and by the time I realized I wasn’t needed, Cindy was laughing so hard she was doubled over and Darcy was staring at her with a dazed, goofy grin.
The world is a strange place, and I’d had enough of it for the night. I tracked down Kennie, who’d pulled the beefiest guy out of the line-up and was trying to convince him, between whistle blasts, that he’d need to come by her place to fill out more paperwork. I stepped between them, and he took the opportunity to dash away.
“Honey! I was making a love connection.”
“He looked scared.”
“Humph. What do you want?”
“I’ve had enough. I’m going home. Tell me what you know.”
“But the night isn’t done yet! There’s still four more rotations to go.”
I scanned the room. “Have you looked around? You put too many candles on each table, and it’s melting the color right off their faces. Anyone who hasn’t left in shame is either paired up already or not gonna be. It’s time to call it a night.”
She put her hands on her hips. “Fine, but do you have to turn everything into a negative?”
“Sorry,” I said through gritted teeth. “I’m positive I never want to do this again.”
To my surprise, she laughed. “You’re a piece of work, Mira James. And for that, I’ll give you a twof
er. The first one: you know the drifter who pelted Sarah with tomatoes today?”
“Yeah, I was there. He’s got a good arm.”
“And I think he deserves a medal, but that’s beside the point. He was released today because Sarah didn’t want to press charges as long as he left Battle Lake immediately. He was driven to the county line this afternoon.”
“What is this, Gunsmoke?”
She ignored me. “As to the murder investigation, like I was saying earlier, evidence has been recovered from the scene. A couple medium, light brown hairs were found in Webber’s fist and a faint but muddy shoe print that doesn’t belong to him was also discovered.”
My throat swelled until I remembered that my shoes hadn’t been muddy. Or had they? “Light brown and not dark brown?”
Kennie studied me. “Definitely not dark brown.”
“Sarah Glokkmann has medium length, light brown hair.”
“I know!” Kennie clapped her hands in glee.
“So, the police know whose hairs and footprint they are?”
“They have a couple guesses. How fast this moves depends on whether those people willingly give up DNA samples.”
“You’ll tell me when you find out?”
“We’ll see.”
I knew that was all I was going to get from her, and it was more than I’d expected. “You know, Kennie, you’re not all bad.”
She winked. “Just bad enough.”
We said our goodbyes and I was about to write this night off as “not as atrocious as it could have been” when I ran smack dab into Deputy Gary Wohnt.
“You’re too late for the speed dating, I’m afraid. You’ll have to catch it next round.” My heart was whining like a puppy.
“Kennie Rogers still here?” He growled.
I pointed behind me to where Kennie was dancing seductively and alone to Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me.” She didn’t appear to have any takers.
He nodded his acknowledgment. And he still wore the mirrored shades.
“You ever wonder what the world looks like without those glasses on?” I asked.
And immediately regretted my smart aleck words as he slid the sunglasses off and pinned me to the wall with his black and bottomless eyes. I tried not to let on that my knees had gone wobbly, but it was hard. If he was a superhero, Gary Wohnt would be the Black-eyed Truthinator. “I stole Twinkies from John Fuch’s lunch box in first grade, but only because my mom wouldn’t buy me any and I’ve never stolen anything since.”
Did his eyes twinkle, or were they merely catching the reflection of the disco ball swirling at the center of the room? “You give any more thought to your whereabouts the night of the murder, or more specifically, the morning the cleaning woman discovered the body of Bob Webber?”
I steeled myself. I was a champion liar. I could keep a secret better than the ocean. But what was it about those eyes that delved into my soul? I exhaled noisily. Might as well face the music now, when I had a façade of control over the outcome. “Look, I was at the motel that night. I heard the maid scream the next morning, and I ran in to see if she needed help. She had called 911, confirmed that Webber was dead, and told me there was nothing for me to do. I didn’t touch anything. Lord knows I don’t need to be found next to any more dead bodies, so I left.”
“Is that all?”
I knew he wanted me to finger Mrs. Berns and her boy toy, but I wouldn’t do it. My personal resolve may be periodically weak, but when it came to protecting my friends, I was Fort Knox. I tried throwing him off the trail. “I slept with Johnny Leeson the night before, if that’s what you want to know.”
He blinked rapidly for a moment, but it was enough to break the laser spell of his gaze. “I know.”
“Then you know what I know. Is there anything else?”
“I’ll be in touch,” he said gruffly, sliding his glasses back on as he walked toward Kennie, who was now illustrating to the dwindling audience her take on the quickest way to bring Sexy Back.
I drew a deep breath and scurried out while the scurrying was good.
_____
I woke the next morning finally beginning to feel normal again. I’d gotten sufficient sleep two nights in a row, and my stomach was back in the game. I spent some quality downtime with my plants and animals before cruising to Alexandria to pick up Mrs. Berns. She was so anxious to escape the hospital that she was waiting curbside in a wheelchair when I arrived.
“I told you I’d be here by 10 o’clock.”
“Pah. I knew you’d be early. Help me get on these sticks and load up my bags.” She had a pair of old-fashioned wooden crutches strapped to the back of the wheelchair and a suitcase next to her.
“Wouldn’t a wheelchair be more manageable?”
“I’d sooner have a colostomy bag,” she said. “People see you in a wheelchair, they think you’re weak. They take advantage of you.”
I unstrapped them and held them out to her. She looked bruised and tiny in the wheelchair, but her eyes were as fiery as ever. “And on crutches?”
Almost before my sentence was out of my mouth, she’d snatched a crutch out of my hand and swung it in a whipsnake arch. I ducked to avoid getting whacked.
“Point taken,” I said. I eased her into the car where she stayed while I made a quick run to Freda’s room for my promised visit. I made sure she had what she needed and gave her my word that I’d be back again soon.
The drive back to Battle Lake was pleasant, a last explosion of red, gold, and orange before the white fist of winter clamped down on the landscape. The air smelled like change, the turn of the wheel that leads to dormancy, cold, and rest. But we weren’t there yet. Today was about unseasonable warmth, the scent of brown leaves cooking in the sun, and maple trees so brightly colored that they sang. While I navigated the road, I filled Mrs. Berns in on what I’d learned, minus any mention of her fiancé’s bad behavior or her son visiting me at the library. I didn’t want to cause her unnecessary stress. We both agreed that the hairs found in the room were a good sign unless Glenn Vanderbrick or any of his guests also had long, sandy-brown hair. I assumed the police had already ruled that out, which is why they considered the hairs and the shoe print to be real evidence. We also agreed that it wasn’t such a good time to be Sarah Glokkmann or Arnold Swydecker.
“All politicians are the same,” Mrs. Berns said. “Just door-to-door salesmen with a wider audience. Don’t trust a one of them.”
“I dunno. Swydecker seemed different.”
“You mean different from the other unfaithful husbands you’ve known?”
“I’m not a fan of his alleged personal choices. I’m talking about his politics. He really seemed sincere and dedicated.”
“I bet he did. Say, I’ve got a bridge I’d like to sell you. It crosses from West Battle Lake to the Mississippi, and underneath lives a magical troll who poops diamonds and blueberries. Good deal, going fast.”
I changed the subject. “Your fiancé meeting you at the Sunset?”
“If he knows what’s good for him.”
I still didn’t know how I’d broach the subject of Bernard’s checkered past, but I was formulating a plan that might involve a hint of blackmail. “I’ve been thinking that it would be a good idea for me to interview him.”
“What for?” She asked. She was studying me suspiciously.
“To completely rule him out as a suspect. And to find out why he didn’t like Bob Webber.”
“Seems your goals are in opposition to each other.”
I’d been thinking the same thing. “Knowledge is power.”
“Knowledge is shit compared to a Taser when it comes to power. I dare you to think your way out of an electrical volt designed to make you cry out your feet.”
“Nevertheless,” I said, trying to get her back on topic. “Do you think I could have some time with Bernard? We don’t know a lot about him, you know.”
She beetled her brows. If she did in fact know about his past, a p
ossibility I’d entertained, she wasn’t letting on. “Bernard and I are going out for a fancy dinner tonight to celebrate my homecoming. Why don’t you join us?”
That was too easy. “The catch?”
“His name is Johnny Leeson.”
My face grew hot, and she chortled. “I don’t know if that’s shame or anticipation on your face, girlie. Knowing you, probably both.”
“Our night at the motel didn’t go as well as planned.”
“Really? Did you know that cows have four legs? Because that’s another unexpected bit of information I like people to know.”
“It’s even worse than you think. I threw up.” I shuddered as I relived the scene. “He saw it. He held my hair.”
She whistled. “Were you naked or in clothes?”
“In clothes!” I said indignantly.
“Thank God for small favors. Nothing less attractive than a naked girl throwing up. There’s no recovery from that.”
“You think I can recover from this?”
“You want to?”
“I don’t know,” I said honestly.
“Christ, I don’t care. I just love to watch you make a fool of yourself. So I called Johnny this morning to say you were having dinner with me and Bernard tonight and you wanted him to join us. And if you want to talk to Bernard, you’ll have to show.”
“But I’m only talking to Bernard to help you!”
“That’ll teach you to trust an old lady. Now pull up in the handicapped spot right there. If these crutches don’t buy me better parking, then I’m going back to the wheelchair.”
I’d worked at looking pretty the night Johnny had invited me to the motel room, and look where that’d gotten me. Lip gloss, mascara, and shaved legs equal face over toilet, eternal shame, and a dead body. I wasn’t going to make that mistake twice. I loped on over to Stella’s straight from my library shift, not even bothering to brush my hair.
“You look beautiful.”
“Huhn?” I swiveled in the narrow entryway. I hadn’t seen Johnny approach.
“How are you feeling?” He looked concerned, handsome, emotionally vulnerable.