slammed back.
Cold, waxy white skin, half-lidded dead eyes staring at me, lips pulled back in a pained rictus as he was forced to the other side without reporting his final, most important story. Bob Webber’s bloodless, wasted face. I’d seen a gravedigger’s share of dead bodies the last few months, and I’d grown callous about them. Or at least I wanted to believe I had. I’d stared at Webber dead on the floor as if he were a cut of meat at the grocer, distasteful but not earth-shaking. I’d walked away, sure I was unaffected. And I’d hardly slept since then. Only in the relaxation of REM did all the horror of his death wash over me. The poor man had been murdered, and his ghost had yet to see justice. He deserved better than that. Everyone did.
Afraid to go back to sleep, I crawled out of bed far too early. Pulling on pants, a T-shirt and a coat, I stepped outside into the brisk morning air. My breath came out in tiny cumulous clouds. Tiger Pop and Luna followed me, which had been my intention, and I gave them both a long overdue brushing. Luna was mostly German shepherd and her thick gold and black hair grew matted without regular tending. The monotonous activity usually relaxed both of us, but its magic didn’t work this time. I tugged too hard and couldn’t find a rhythm. Luna, sensing my unease, nipped at me. I wanted to pinch back.
Giving up on the brushing, I went back into the house and checked the interior temperature: 58 degrees. That had been perfect for sleeping under a thick comforter, but I needed more now that I was up and about. I pushed the thermostat to 68 and tried to relax at the soothing sound of the furnace kicking in. Standing in the central room of the open floor plan house, I examined my surroundings. My sink was free of dishes and my house clean but for dust. I vacuumed anyway to freshen the carpet and took the feather duster to the big open areas. None of it worked. I felt haunted.
Even the plants couldn’t save me. I watered them, noting that the knobby baby orange had almost doubled in size. That made it as big as a pecan instead of an acorn, which wasn’t a huge accomplishment unless you loved plants. My spices were working equally hard, and I let the fresh and pungent smell of their growth embrace me, but I couldn’t shake the cold exhale of death on the back of my neck.
And that’s when I realized I was ravenous. Striding to the fridge, I pulled out my last three eggs, a can of refried beans, an avocado that was nicely green-black on the outside and soft, two slices of sprouted grain sesame bread, and a jar of hot habanero salsa. I cooked the eggs over medium and cut the avocado in half, spearing the pit with the long end of my knife so I could pluck it out with a flick of my wrist. I sliced the green meat into five long sections on each half, scooped out the slices, and laid them in a fan on my plate before salting and peppering them. I opened the can of beans, heating half in the microwave and putting the other half in the fridge. The bread I popped into the toaster. When the microwave dinged, I yanked out the beans and spread them on my plate and slid the eggs on top, salting the works before liberally dousing it with salsa. The toast popped up and I buttered it, trying not to drool. At this point, my hands were shaking, either with a lack of proper nutrition or anticipation. A tall glass of half vanilla and half chocolate rice milk at my side, I dug in, not bothering to breathe or look up until there was nothing but faint smears on my plate to remind me that food had ever been there.
And when it was gone, I felt sick to my stomach. It was Bob Webber’s jacket that I kept going back to, the sad worn coat that was the best he could do. “Who killed him?” I asked my animals. “Who killed him and why does it feel like they’re not done yet?”
Luna thumped her tail and whined. I reassured her with a scratch behind the ears and popped in the shower. I was pretty sure my breakfast was visibly moving through my stomach like a rabbit in a snake’s gut, so I kept my eyes raised. By the time I was dressed and my hair dry, it was 8:00 a.m., a perfectly reasonable time to travel to the Big Chief Motor Lodge and find out if the candidates wanted to talk to the local news.
It was early on a Tuesday for a city, maybe, but a farm town gets up with the sun, even after there aren’t many farmers left. A steady stream of cars and pickups cruised down Lake Street, stopping in front of the Village Apothecary or parking so their owners could run in to the post office, waving hello to familiar faces on the way. The two places in town that served breakfast, the Shoreline and Turtle Stew, were full to the top. The parking lot at the Big Chief was thinner than it had been this weekend, but it still contained almost a dozen cars.
I wasn’t sure if Glokkmann and Swydecker would be in their same rooms as Saturday night, but it seemed a reasonable place to start. I stopped in front of room 17 because it was nearest the stairs and knocked. And knocked again. I was about to give up when a brisk voice on the other side asked, “Who is it?”
I stared into my end of the peephole struggling to exude sweetness. “My name’s Mira. I’m a local.”
Hesitation from the other side, followed by a reluctant opening of the door. “Which news station? CBS? NBC? Just tell me you’re not from Fox.”
I held up my hands to show they were empty of recording devices. “None of the above. I really do live in Battle Lake.”
“Then what do you want?” His voice was more perplexed than gruff. He was wearing a crisp white button-down shirt open at the collar, gray slacks with a black belt, and black shoes. He looked like he’d been up for a while. Swydecker’s room also looked clean except for papers spread out over his unmade bed. He followed my gaze. “Sorry. Not expecting company.”
“That’s okay. I should tell you up front that I am a reporter.”
He stiffened.
“But that’s not why I’m here. A friend of mine is sort of caught up in the fallout of the murder, and I’m trying to help her. I was hoping I could ask you a few questions off the record?”
His right hand went to his left to fiddle with a piece of jewelry that wasn’t there. I noted the faint tan line on his empty ring finger and filed that away. His marital problems did not concern me. “Why not? Haven’t got anything to lose, have I?” He smiled. It took some effort. He led me over to the small round table by his TV and mini fridge. “Coffee? I’m afraid the pot only makes one cup at a time, but I’ve already had more than my share.”
“No thanks. Coffee makes me jumpy.”
“You should try being a murder suspect.” He laughed, but it didn’t touch his eyes.
“No one thinks you did it,” I said. “I’ve been watching the news.”
“Doesn’t matter. Once you get connected to something like this, your political career is finished.”
“Representative Glokkmann seems to be making the most of it.”
“You sure you don’t want coffee?” I shook my head, and he helped himself to the pot. He was right. It barely filled one Styrofoam cup. He added powdered creamer and two packets of sugar and started another pot brewing. I noticed he had a box of single-serving ground coffee bean packets. I also observed that he hadn’t taken my bait. I changed the subject.
“Did you hear anything the night of the murder?”
He sipped the coffee like it was bitter. “Damn, what I wouldn’t give for a good cup of joe. No, I was at the Octoberfest celebration until about 9 o’clock, and then I came back to my room.”
“Alone?”
He raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t bring any of my staffers to town with me. We’re a lean bunch, anyhow. I don’t accept corporate donations, which means I don’t have extra cash lying around. I have wonderful volunteers, but they deserved a day off. The debate was to be short and sweet. So yes, I came here alone and I went straight to bed. Didn’t hear anything until the police sirens the next morning.” His voice sounded defensive. He’d probably had to recite these words countless times the last two days.
“Why’d you get into politics?” The question wasn’t on my list, but he seemed so normal and nice that I had to ask.
He chuckled ruefully. “Doesn’t seem like my best idea right about now, does it? But I raised my kids to believe that they have to be the change they want to see in the world.” He shrugged. “It was about time I lived up to that.”
I bobbed my head toward his empty ring finger. “You’re married?”
He moved his right hand to cover his left. “I am. How is this related to the murder?”
“Sorry,” I said. “Did you know Bob Webber, the man who was murdered?”
“Just through the campaign trail. He was a stand-up man, the last of a dying breed of investigative reporters. He left a lucrative newspaper job because he was tired of reporting superficial stories, and he started his blog. I don’t know that he’d ever get rich off of it, but he was making enough to get by through advertising. At least that’s what he told me the one time I sat down with him for an interview a week or two ago. We were in my hometown, Detroit Lakes.”
“He ever write any other articles on you, besides that one interview?”
