Jess Lourey - October Fest

“Where’s Grace?” I asked, disregarding her question.

The dark-haired woman made her first noise, a snort.

Glokkmann spun on her heel. “Mira, please meet Kenya, my daughter. My husband and I adopted her from Korea. We took her in when she was two, so she struggles with attachment disorder.”

The cruelty in her words was breathtaking. They had clearly rattled Kenya. Judging by the crafty look on Glokkmann’s face, that had been her intention.

“You don’t have to tell everyone that, mother. We get it. You’re a real humanitarian and I’m a mess.” She possessed a striking face, beautiful for its angles and contrasts. She also had a strong body, lean like a dancer, and she carried herself confidently, though I’d already noticed she was more comfortable on the sidelines than the front row. She was dressed professionally in a fitted burgundy cardigan set over pressed black corduroys.

Glokkmann acted as if she didn’t hear her. “You know what we could do? We could have the Q & A here in the children’s alcove, and the reporters could sit around on the floor like it’s story time. That’ll show them who’s got the upper hand.”

Tanya laughed along with her new BFF and pulled out the clipboard that Grace had carried on Tuesday so she could jot down notes. Centering the Q & A in one of the four corners of the library seemed a straightforward proposition to me, but I suppose it made Tanya feel important to have something to write on a clipboard. She and Glokkmann must have made up.

I cleared my throat. “You didn’t mention where Grace was.”

“My mother fired her after she found out she was boning the competition,” Kenya said, playing with the half pencils at the front counter. Her voice was devoid of emotion.

Her proclamation confirmed beyond a doubt that Grace was the woman who’d been with Swydecker the night of the murder. He must have chosen to protect her rather than clear his name, or I was all wrong about him and he was a cad who didn’t want anyone to know he was fooling around on his wife. Regardless, the devastation on Grace’s face when she thought she was going to lose Swydecker was evidence of a deep attachment, and that’s all I knew for sure.

“That’s enough, Kenya! You have to learn when to shut your mouth.”

The biting words had an odd effect on Kenya. Her confident posture changed in subtle ways, her shoulders hunching forward and neck swiveling to stare at her mother. Her clear expression went sullen, but she didn’t respond. Glokkmann had so far illustrated herself to be more of a chicken-wire momma than an affectionate one, and that must have taken its toll, but there was something darker reflected in her daughter. I wondered how often she’d turned her abusive tongue on her children.

The front doorminder donged, and the reporters began to file in. Tanya directed them to form a half circle around the low-to-the-ground cube chairs that ringed the children’s table in the sunny south corner of the library, proud of her authoritative role in front of a potentially national audience. I started to get nervous. I hadn’t planned for a crowd when interviewing Glokkmann, and nearly thirty people had streamed in, at least five of them with cameras on their shoulders. They all settled uncomfortably on the floor in a semicircle.

I needn’t have worried. All my questions were drowned out by the real reporters who wanted to know about Swydecker and the effect of his attempted suicide on her race to maintain her representative seat, now that she was the shoo-in candidate. Glokkmann rebuffed the questions graciously, answering only when it was to her advantage and even then, sticking to her sound bites. She was a consummate salesperson, and it was hypnotizing. I wouldn’t have been able to tear my eyes away if not for the feeling that I was being watched. I ignored the itch until Glokkmann reached for a bottle of water, and then I looked up briefly to see Kenya staring at me, a ghost smile on her lips. I shivered.

“No, I will not be trick-or-treating this Halloween,” Glokkmann said to laughter, answering a reporter’s question as she set down her water. “Trick-or-treating is a perfect example of how socialism thwarts hard work and innovation. It discourages what would otherwise be a productive and fruitful society.”

Off to her left and at the rear of the crowd, I gave her my best what-the-hell face. Was she really equating the blessed tradition of dressing up like monsters and politicians and finagling free candy to socialism? Well, if it was wrong, I didn’t want to be right. Unfortunately, Tanya’s vigorously agreeing face cancelled out my doubting face, and Glokkmann moved on to the next question. Twenty minutes later, the reporters grew restless, their adult legs not equipped for long stretches of sitting cross-legged on the floor. Glokkmann, ever the reader of her audience, announced the Q & A period at an end and encouraged everyone to look around “this functional example of their tax dollars at work.”

Most of them headed straight to the door and so were not present when Gary Wohnt strode through five minutes later in his civilian clothes, sans sunglasses. He could have been any townsperson off the street in to browse the periodicals except for the hell-bent-for-leather expression on his face. It made my chest flutter because I knew from experience that when he looked like that, he usually got what he wanted. Inside the door, he quickly scanned the room, his eyes brushing over me with an almost physical intensity before landing on Sarah Glokkmann, who was trading small talk with one of the few remaining reporters. I grabbed the counter for support, grateful that I wasn’t the object of his attention.

He stepped to the side to wait until Glokkmann was finished with her conversation, but he didn’t remove his eyes from her person. I took advantage of the rare chance to study him in profile from a safe distance. He had been sort of doughy and repellent before leaving with his born-again tart, but had returned hard and taut, a compact boxer’s body under jeans and a button-down white shirt that set off his skin tone beautifully. He reminded me of someone, and I couldn’t quite place it. Was it someone I had met in the Cities? Certainly not anyone I’d gone to high school with. Was it some actor?

“Oh my GOD!”

The scattering of people in the library halted their conversations to rubberneck me. I ripped my eyes away from Wohnt, but not before they snapped toward mine with a dangerous glint that spoke of irritation and something muskier.

“I can’t believe I forgot my lunch! I was so looking forward to that salad.” It was lame but I had to say something because everyone was staring at me and I couldn’t say what I was really thinking, which was that Deputy Gary Wohnt, from the side, looked. Exactly. Like. My. Hot Sexy. Unobtainable. Erotic-dream-driving. Chief Wenonga statue.

My ejaculation changed the mood of the room, which I guess is their nature. The reporters still lingering gave me a wide berth, leaving only Glokkmann and Tanya to side-by-side stare disapprovingly at me. Kenya, I assumed, was off in the stacks along with several regulars who’d been thrilled to find the library open early. Gary took advantage of the break in conversation to stride over to Glokkmann and Tanya. He uttered a few quiet words to Tanya, who blanched before exiting with her purse clutched so tightly I wondered if she had her spare heart in it.

I doubted Glokkmann would pale in the presence of the Grim Reaper himself, but whatever Gary was telling her was making her body stiff. I grabbed the closest object to me, which happened to be a stapler, and strolled over to the table directly behind them and knelt underneath it, pretending to be busy. I presumed that the hair and shoe print in Webber’s room had been positively identified, and that Glokkmann was soon going to be kicked off her throne. I wanted to hear it firsthand, though. Unfortunately, Gary was speaking quietly and the only words I caught were “evidence,” “reason to believe,” and “a scene.”