“Several. I’m happy to report they were all positive. His work was a huge help to my campaign.”
“Less of a help to Representative Glokkmann’s campaign?”
“Is there anything more? I have some work to be getting to.”
Why wouldn’t he say anything bad about Glokkmann? Didn’t he realize this was politics? “No, thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”
I stood, and he followed suit, walking me to the door. “I hope for your friend’s sake that they find the killer soon,” he said.
“And I hope the same, for your sake.”
He smiled sadly. “I think I’m already done in.”
“I hope not.” I meant it. He just about had the door closed when a thought struck me. “Mr. Swydecker!”
He reopened the door. “Yes?”
“I gotta know. When you were in public education? Were you a band teacher?”
He smiled, the first one I’d seen that reached his eyes. They made the corners wrinkle, and for the first time, I noticed his eyes were as blue and honest as Johnny’s. “No. History.”
15
“Sorry,” she said. “Didn’t see you.” She moved to the side and was about to continue down the stairs.
“Hangover?” I asked.
She tilted her chin so she could look at me over the top of her sunglasses. “Thought you looked familiar. You’re that woman from the bar last night, the one who used to date the bass player.”
“Guilty,” I said. “But in my defense, I was a lot younger when we dated.” In dog years.
She smiled. “You don’t owe me an explanation. Are you here to interview the representative?”
“Sure,” I said, making it up on the spot. “My editor would like to run a whole issue on modern politics with a special feature on the representative and her opponent.” I couldn’t get sued for lying, could I?
“That would be wonderful!”
“I’ll just need her schedule while she’s in town, so I can, you know, cover her events.”
Grace paused for a moment, and I could tell she was trying to gauge me on her bullshit-meter. I must have passed because she said, “Follow me. I have to get these to the Representative right away. We can walk and talk.”
I did follow her and even helped her to schlep some of the papers the five blocks to the main part of town. I spotted a commotion ahead. “What’s going on?”
“As I told you last night, Sarah intends to make the most of her time in Battle Lake. She’ll be speaking at the Kute Klips this morning and then will be meeting with voters at the Fortune Cafe for lunch.”
My stomach rumbled at the mention of the Fortune. It was a wonderful coffee shop, bakery, used bookstore, and public computer space owned by two good friends of mine. They served an olive cream cheese that would make a dead man weep. I took my current fixation on food as a good sign. “Kute Klips is pretty small, isn’t it? Where will she stand?”
We rounded the corner, and there hovered my answer. Kute Klips was a popular salon on the second story of a building zoned for business. It rested on top of Bill’s Nonprofit Massage, and out front, it had an ornate balcony that I’d always assumed was decorative. That is, until I saw Sarah Glokkmann perched on it, beaming to reporters like Evita on the terrace of the Casa Rosada.
“There she is.” Glokkmann spoke imperiously, pointing down at Grace. “She’ll distribute the talking points.”
I helped Grace dispense the handouts to the gathered press, maybe a dozen people from national and local news, four with cameras. There had been many more here yesterday, so some other story must currently be capturing the public’s interest. A black-and-blue Bernard Mink was one of the reporters. He pretended not to know me when I handed him a sheet, and I scowled at him. I still didn’t have a concrete plan for dealing with him, but deal with him I would.
When everyone present had a handout, Grace indicated for me to follow her up the stairs that clung to the outside of the building and into the beauty parlor. The smell on the second floor reminded me of the chemical pungency of the home permanents I’d begged my mom to give me in junior high. Salon perm? No, Ogilvie.
All four chairs in the beauty parlor were occupied by women sporting curlers or enough foil to pull in Channel 4 out of the Cities. They were twisting their necks to keep abreast of all the commotion outside, and their stylists were scolding them good-naturedly.
Glokkmann was still exchanging pleasantries with the press below. Grace stepped alongside her to briefly announce the official beginning of the press conference, and then she moved back into the main salon, her remaining papers by her side. I pulled up a chair right behind Glokkmann so I could hear her but no one below could see me. I pretended to take notes as Glokkmann trotted out her tired non-stances, while Grace hovered in a state of agitation. Glokkmann seemed to expect her mind to be read, continuing to talk while regularly reaching an angry hand back and through the partially ajar French doors for water, or a specific document. I wanted to step forward and sneak a hairbrush in there but Grace was vigilant.
At one point, Grace apparently handed Glokkmann the incorrect document, causing the representative to stumble over her facts. It became immediately clear that Glokkmann had no knowledge on the free trade agreement she’d purported to be a huge proponent of. When she couldn’t even form a complete sentence on the issue without notes, she began to cough uncontrollably and held out a hand to momentarily excuse herself from the press’ view.
She turned on Grace like a striking snake. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Or was this my fault? Did I get my calendar messed up? Was today bring a moron to work day and I forgot?”
I recoiled, and I felt the other occupants of the salon do the same behind me. Grace shrunk into herself and mumbled something.
“What’s that?” Glokkmann hissed. “You want to know why I put up with your incompetence? You want to know how I’m going to pull myself out of this mess?”
Grace raised her voice but not her eyes. “I said I’m sorry.”
Glokkmann tugged Grace’s hair sharply, and Grace shot a surprised glance at her employer. “Yes you are, Grace Swinton, yes you are. Now hand me the correct notes so I can do everyone’s favorite circus trick and pull my head out of my own ass.”
Trembling, Grace handed Glokkmann a sheet of paper. “I’m really sorry, Sarah.”
Glokkmann didn’t acknowledge her. She took a deep breath and slapped on an eerily high-energy smile before returning to the balcony. There, she eloquently stated all the reasons she supported free trade. From down below, you wouldn’t even be able to see she was reading it word for word.
I was terribly embarrassed for Grace and furious at Glokkmann. I couldn’t believe she’d treat an employee like that anywhere, let alone in public. She’d been so angry it was like she didn’t even know the rest of us had been here. I was rising to comfort Grace when I heard a loud splat come from the direction of the balcony and wondered if a bird had hit the window. My skin flashed cold. Birds were my nemeses. Have you ever heard the saying that it’s good luck to get pooped on by a bird? Me neither. It’s also not fun to have them swoop at your head or gawk at you with their beady black eyes. They had the upper hand in this world, no doubt about it, and so I tried exuding fearlessness and a love of all things feathered when I was outdoors. But they knew better.
I began to ease my chair away from the balcony, thinking that if the birds had finally united against me, away from windows would be my best bet. And that’s when there was another splat. And then a third. Horrified, I saw
