Jess Lourey - October Fest

I chose my words carefully. “Elizabeth came to see me today.”

“I know.”

“How?”

“She came by afterward, told me that she wasn’t going to sign off on the mental incompetency papers.” She looked serious.

“Well, yeah! That’s great news, isn’t it?”

“She said she didn’t feel close to me anymore.”

“Oh.” I considered returning the hug. “She does live far away.”

“That shouldn’t matter.”

“So what’re you going to do?”

A glint sparkled deep in her eyes. “I’m going on vacation. Ever been to Sedona?” She pronounced every syllable. C-doe-na.

“Nope.”

“I hear there’s a lot of sugar daddies there.”

I smiled hopefully. “That mean you’re not getting married? You wouldn’t have to anyways, now that your kids are off your back.”

“Just one kid. Conrad is still behaving like a coonhound with shit on his nose, and he could talk another one of my fool kids into putting me away at any time.”

“So you’re going through with the wedding, even though you know Bernard has a violent temper and a possible drinking problem?”

“You’re no better than my kids, trying to control me like that. It’s a business arrangement, I told you. Bernard has weak moral fiber, which makes him perfect for a shotgun, short-term marriage. He’ll serve his purpose, and I’ll be a free old lady once again.” Mrs. Berns reached for her crutches. “Now help me up. I’ve gotta get going now that you’re back.”

I was resigned to respect her decisions as much as they worried me. I’d have to let her accept the consequences of her decision, though you’d better bet your bumper that I’d be keeping a close eye on Bernard until the divorce was signed and he was out of town for good. “How’re your ribs feeling?”

“Cracked. I’ll be sad when the bruises fade, though. They make me look street tough.”

I studied her green and blue face affectionately. “You look tough all right.” I helped her stand up, surprised at how feather light she was. “Now where are you off to? Or is it, ‘to where are you off?’ I always forget where to put the preposition.”

She rearranged her clothes before picking up her crutches. “I find that if I toss in some profanity, it throws people off so they don’t even think about the grammar. ‘Where the hell are you going?’ See how that works?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. And I’m going to finish my wedding planning. Bernard is picking me up out front.”

I watched her limp away. “Need help?”

“No offense, but you’re not exactly the go-to person for girlie stuff like wedding planning.”

“None taken.” And she left me, still feeling a little sad and shaken but gratefully whole.

The next time I saw Kenya she looked more shattered than when I’d left her on the shore of West Battle. It was Sunday morning, and she was in a pew at the Henning Catholic Church for her mother’s funeral. Outside, an icy rain shot needle-like against the church walls, the sky as gray and cold as stone. Hordes of media held umbrellas against the barrage, breathing white puffs of chilly air. From above, they would look like a clot of black lily pads in a slate-colored pond.

Friends and family were allowed to enter the church early to escape the cold, but the thronging press was forbidden inside. Kennie, distastefully dressed in a black bandage dress and stiletto heels, had confirmed in a loud whisper at the back of the church that Bernard Mink was correct and Sarah Glokkmann had confessed in writing to the murder of Bob Webber before killing herself. The autopsy required in Minnesota in cases of violent death showed that she had died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head, as indicated by the range and angle of the shot as well as the powder residue on her right hand. It was too soon to know what the results of her toxicology screen were, but the medical examiner didn’t expect to find anything unusual.

“How do they know it was her handwriting on the note?” It just didn’t sit right. I knew Glokkmann hadn’t killed Webber. Didn’t I?

“They’ve got experts for that.” She adjusted her three-story hat. She looked straight out of a gothic Kentucky Derby.

“How is anybody supposed to see around that monstrosity?” I asked her. “And why’d you come, anyway?”

“I went to school with Sarah.”

“You didn’t like her any more than I did.”

She reached back to scratch her ankle. The fishnets must be itchy. “You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. Did you see how many people are here? We’re lucky we came early.”

“Yeah, some people had to camp out for tickets,” I said wryly. “Why didn’t you like her?”

She pursed her lips. “It’s old news.”

“I’m feeling old today. Enlighten me.”

“She wore the same dress as me to prom.”

“What?” I couldn’t help a small chuckle. If humans aren’t the most ridiculous animal on the planet, with their petty grudges and their magpie-like need to accumulate, I didn’t know what was.

“She knew I’d already bought it,” she said haughtily. “A strapless, seafoam pink gown with a matching capelet.”

“Seafoam isn’t pink.”

“It is when you buy it in Otter Tail County. And she had a professional style her hair. I couldn’t compete with that. I had to do my hair myself. She ruined the night for me.”

“It’s good you’ve been able to put this in perspective and attend her funeral.”

“Exactly,” she said, smoothing her dress and looking expectantly at the front door. I think she was hoping one of the national news crew would forego the rules and crash the church.

“So, word around town is that the Big Chief Motor Lodge is closing at the end of this month.”

She nodded. “As mayor, I hate to see a new business fold, but that place was jinxed. Two attempted suicides, one successful, and a murder? All in one week? Plus, the place had mice.”

My attention was drawn to Kenya at the front of the church, breaking away from her family to sit alone in a pew. She looked broken. “You don’t know that.”

“Do too. Saw the turds myself. All over the murdered man’s room. Can’t imagine what the rest of the place looked like. The luck there was so bad, it was probably built on a snake’s nest.”

I’d seen a news clip a couple years ago about a whole development in a suburb of Minneapolis built above snake nests, swarming live balls of hundreds upon hundreds of baby snakes. The owners couldn’t figure out how the reptiles kept getting into their houses until one woman tried to plant a garden and tilled up squirming snakes. The mere thought of it was enough to make me want to buy stilts. “Probably. Catch you later.”

“Fine.”

I sauntered toward the front of the gorgeous church, admiring the blue and gold stained glass window. The profusion of fresh flowers was overwhelming in perfume and color. As I neared the flowers, my head cold, which seemed to be clearing up yesterday, came back at me with a vengeance. I’d told Kenya I would visit with her at the funeral, so I persevered. Her sisters and brothers had surrounded each other for the pre-service, and this was the first moment we’d had to talk. I slid in next to her.

She turned toward me with sad brown eyes. “You know on Friday when I said I’d finally be getting out of this place? I was wrong.”

I tried to for lightness. “Henning is completely different than Battle Lake.”

“Coulda fooled me.”