Jess Lourey - October Fest

Glokkmann was the fifth name, and she understandably called out a whole slew of hits, the first couple pages of which I’d already read. A few deep blog postings hinted that Glokkmann was off her rocker, referring to her recent immigrant comment as well as statements she’d made about the baseless global warming scare being an anti-American conspiracy, but the only direct accusations I could find originated at the blog of Bob Webber. I perused his articles on Glokkmann more closely. In several pieces covering the alleged bribes she’d received from the oil industry, Webber cited her tax returns and her public campaign fund record as evidence of her illegal behavior, but when I cross-referenced those, I saw that while she had taken money from oil companies, she’d been up front about it. It might not be the height of ethics, but it didn’t seem out of line with what every other politician was doing. Same with her voting on a bill that could have potentially helped her husband’s business. If she thought it was a good bill for the state, she had a right to vote on it, regardless of how it benefitted her family.

When it came to her alleged drinking problem, though, Webber claimed to have several reliable sources who might in the future be willing to go on record stating that Glokkmann sometimes got so drunk during the day that she couldn’t even be wheeled into the Congressional chambers, and several key votes had been missed as a result. Unfortunately, none of those “reliable sources” were willing to go on record at this time.

The only issue Webber had really pinned her on was taking two of her daughters to New York City on the state’s dime. Glokkmann testified that she’d had to attend a conference and didn’t know she wasn’t allowed to bring her children. The issue had been scheduled to come before the House Ethics Committee last month, but Glokkmann sidestepped that by repaying the money and issuing a formal apology for her “honest mistake.” So, even in the issue that she was likely guilty of, she came out smelling like a rose. In reading the article, I was drawn to a throw-away line mentioning that she and her husband had adopted or fostered eighteen children. Wow. I was stretching myself thin with a cat and a dog.

Based on what I knew, Glokkmann should be my biggest suspect in Webber’s murder because she had the most substantial grind against him. But, the more I thought about it, the more I decided that made her the least likely killer. She’d be stupid to snuff the man who was publicly trying to take her down, and she struck me as cruel but not dumb. Back to square one, maybe one and a half. I returned to the list and in the range of the H’s to the R’s found a group at the motel for a family reunion, a couple who had just gotten married and, according to their travel blog, were hitting Midwest festivals for their honeymoon, Bernard Mink in the room right below the one where Webber had been found, and a slew of dead-ends.

I reached the S’s and observed that Swinton and Swydecker were next to each other alphabetically. Their motel rooms were adjacent as well with Swinton in 18, which was the unused room I’d seen her enter yesterday morning. Swydecker was in 17. Why hadn’t Glokkmann and Swinton gotten rooms side by side? Was that the room glitch I had seen her complaining about at the front desk the night I’d gone to meet Johnny? And had Swinton been in Glokkmann’s room Saturday night, and that’s why her room was unused? If so, had they been working on campaign strategy or on something more sinister? But Kennie had said Glokkmann and one of her staff had no alibi, so if they’d been together that night, they surely would have covered for each other.

A knock at the front door interrupted my train of thought, and I glanced up, annoyed. Couldn’t a woman uncover a murderer in peace? At the other side of the door was Bad Brad, my ex, the man who had helped set the events in motion that had brought me to Battle Lake. Right about the time I’d decided my life was crap and I was drinking too much, I’d stumbled onto the neighbor’s visiting niece playing a solo on his pink oboe. These are the crazy things you see when you spy on your boyfriend through a skylight. Choosing the passive-aggressive route, rather than confront him with the facts, I jacked his bike tires so they’d come off mid-journey and pointed west without saying goodbye. Unfortunately, Fate can find you anywhere. Brad and his band had ended up playing a gig in Battle Lake back in July and we’d accidentally reunited, him doofily and me kicking and screaming. Unfortunately, he felt right at home in Battle Lake and decided to stay. He’d talked most of his band into relocating with him.

Even though we now lived in the same tiny town, we didn’t hang in the same circles. Actually, I didn’t really hang anywhere but home and the library, which worked nifty when there are lots of people you want to avoid. I stormed over to the door, unlocked it, and yanked it open. “What?”

“Hey, babe.” The brains had never been what had attracted me to him. In retrospect, I wasn’t sure what had. “How’s it hanging?”

“I’m really busy. Whaddya need?”

He shot his eyes over my shoulder. “Um, a book?”

“Gotta wait ’til we open.” I let the door swing shut, locked it, and returned to my computer station. I worked steadily for five minutes before I realized he was still outside the door, a hangdog look on his face. I stomped back. “What?”

He pointed at the etched numbers on the door. “This says the library opened twenty-five minutes ago.”

I hate trading in my anger for embarrassment, so I didn’t bother. “Whatever,” I said, leaning over to flip on the rest of the lights. “Knock yourself out.”

I cleaned up my computer station, shuffling my meager notes so they were in order before stuffing them into my cloth purse, and I went about the business of running a library. Over the next hour people came and went, but Brad stayed. I mostly ignored him until it became grossly apparent he needed help. Then I ignored him for another ten minutes before approaching.

He glanced quickly at his feet, and the edges of his face pinked. This from the man who when we were dating used the toilet with the bathroom door open so he could watch the TV in the other room. I had to admit I was intrigued. “You don’t need to be embarrassed,” I said. “Reading is nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I need to find a book that explains how to get rid of eyelash crabs.” He was talking so fast that it came out as one long word.

“Oh,” I said. “I stand corrected.”

“Don’t judge me, Mira.”

Judge him? That would have taken my focus away from laughing. Maybe all three Fates weren’t lined against me. I stepped back another five feet. “You should probably just go to the doctor.”

“I hate needles.”

I considered conjecturing about the size of the syringe the doctor would likely use to eradicate the bugs but thought better of it. Now was a good time as any to put some quarters toward the red ink of my karma. “The doctor won’t use needles.”

Either his eyes lit up or the crabs were sending me an SOS. “Really? You’ve had eyelash crabs before?”

“I don’t even know how you get… never mind. You just go to the doctor, they rinse off your eyelashes with a special liquid, and you’re all better. No worries.” I actually had no idea how a doctor would address this particular situation but I wanted Brad to go away.

“I don’t know how to thank you, Mir.” He leaned in to give me a hug and I lunged for one of the newspaper holders, pointing it toward him like a sword.

“No thanks necessary.”

“Okay, then. I better get to the doctor.”

“Okay then.”

He smiled again, and I recognized it as his flirtatious smile, the one that preceded him asking me if I wanted to ride the baloney pony. “You sure look good.”