that whatever had hit the partially-open French doors leading to the balcony was now oozing a red liquid. The foiled woman in the chair nearest the doors screamed, and Grace yanked the doors open all the way to wrest Sarah Glokkmann to safety. And that’s why Glokkmann was in my direct line of sight when one of the bloody blobs met her face and revealed itself to be a soft tomato.
“Woot woot!” I said. Grace shot me a glare before pulling Glokkmann to a chair out of harm’s way. Glokkmann snarled that she was fine, and I shot down the stairs three at a time to see who the tomato pitcher was. And when I did, you could have knocked me over with a fly swatter.
16
“How are you?” He asked when I was within speaking distance. His tone suggested we were old friends meeting for a planned coffee date.
“The pavement get uncomfortable?” I asked Randy Martineau, my parking lot guru. He was wearing the same gray and frayed clothes I’d seen him in the morning after the murder, and his BO hadn’t changed either.
He idly studied his bag of tomatoes. “I never stay too long in one place.”
“You might want to leave this one,” I said. Around me, reporters were clicking away on their handhelds. “I don’t know if it’s illegal to throw tomatoes at public figures, but it’s for sure frowned upon.”
“Oh, it’s illegal,” he said. “Especially if you hit someone. That’s why I didn’t bring the rest of my crew with me. No one else needs to go to jail. But I never do a crime if I’m unwilling to do the time.”
A heavyset reporter for the
He methodically brushed his free hand on his pants, leaving a wet trail of tomato residue. “Civil disobedience.”
“To what end?” Another reporter asked.
“To get heard. Representative Glokkmann does not represent me. Her opposition to health care is a danger to our democracy, and she’s sown so much ill will in the House with her polarizing ignorance that she can no longer meet the obligations of the position to which she was elected.”
His accusations echoed Webber’s. “How do you know all this?” I asked.
He looked me straight in the eye. “If you look for it, you can find it.”
The truth is out there, right? This guy radiated kookiness, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of truth in his words, or the sense that he knew something important. “Did you know Bob Webber?”
“Did I know Bob Webber.” It didn’t come across as a question or a statement. In the background, a police siren blared. We didn’t have much time.
“What were you doing in the motel parking lot on Sunday morning?”
“The truth never sleeps. We must be ever-vigilant in our pursuit of it.”
“Come on,” I said. “Give me something. Who killed Bob Webber?”
But my voice was drowned out by the multitude of questions from the other reporters, who had latched on to the possibility that this man might be connected to the murder they had originally come to town to cover. The crazy drifter espoused his political views and love for anarchy right up until he was handcuffed and shoved into the backseat of a police car. Fortunately, Deputy Wohnt wasn’t the arresting officer.
When the police car pulled away, Glokkmann appeared, a smile on her face and her hair more perfect than ever before. She looked like she’d been hit with a beauty brush rather than a tomato. She spoke loud and clear to get everyone’s attention. “I’ve already had my salad. Who wants to join me at the Fortune Cafe for a main course?”
The reporters laughed at her quick recovery, and I gave her silent points for it. If only she used her powers for good, I thought, tagging along with the throng. She was one twisted sister. As we walked, I wondered if the tomato thrower would be granted visiting privileges in jail. I couldn’t tell if he was a crazy agitator or if he genuinely knew something, but I had a stake in finding out. It would be one more thing to ask Kennie tonight.
I wrote myself a note, which was a good thing because as soon as I reached the Fortune Cafe, all negative thoughts flew from my head like so many dirty bats. My Paul Bunyan breakfast was at least three hours behind me, and I had room for a garlic bagel with a healthy heaping of Greek olive cream cheese and a side of green tea with steamed soy milk added. It was all I could do not to elbow my way to the front of the line. When I got there, Nancy’s beautiful smile greeted me. In it was total acceptance, happiness to see me, and a sparkle signaling me she had something funny to share.
“What is it?”
“Don’t you mean, ‘how have you been?’ Haven’t seen you in a week! Sid, come on out. Mira’s here.”
Sid came out from the back, wiping her hands on her flour-dusted apron that proclaimed, “GLBT Is Not a Sandwich.” She was something of a baked goods mad scientist and spent a lot of time in the kitchen crafting bagels, scones, and pastries that made you cry they tasted so good, while Nancy ran the front counter and kept everyone happy. It was a perfect arrangement as Sid wasn’t what you’d call a people person.
“So I see,” she said in my direction. “Did the eggs come in yet?”
Nancy tossed her a loving wink. “I told you I’d bring you the eggs when the shipment arrived.”
“But I need the eggs now,” Sid said.
I interjected. “I can go on an egg run.”
Nancy shook her head. “The truck is due at 1:00. We’ve got enough eggs until then.”
“You sure? I’d be happy to run to the grocery store before I open the library.”
Sid softened. “Nancy’s probably right. I can make do until 1:00. Nice to see you Mira.” She turned to go into the kitchen, but Nancy snuck in a playful pinch on her bottom first. Sid swatted her hand away but I caught her smile.
Nancy returned her attention to me. “You want the usual?”
“Yes. And I also want to know why you had that cat-got-the-mouse grin when I came up to your counter.”
“Someone told me that Representative Glokkmann already met her vegetable requirement for the day. It gave me the giggles. Mean-spirited ones, I’ll grant you that, but giggles nonetheless.”
I glanced over to where Glokkmann was holding court in the packed main room of the Cafe, a book-lined open space with eclectic tables ringing the edge and lots of natural sunlight and robust green plants. At some point, Tanya Ingebretson had joined the entourage, along with a healthy sprinkling of other locals. It made sense that Glokkmann would want to rub elbows with the most influential people in town. Maybe they even knew each other from their school days. I was pretty sure Tanya was a native of the area.
“It’s true,” I said. “A protestor caught her square in the face with a tomato. You heard about the dead guy at the motel also?”
Nancy nodded sympathetically. “Murder, people are saying.”
“Looks that way.”
“You’re not involved, right?” Her voice was concerned.
I coughed. I had only yesterday admitted my sleuthing addiction to myself. I wasn’t ready to go public with it. “Not directly. Need help making that tea?”
“Don’t rush me. I can do two things at once. Speaking of,” and her eyes started to twinkle again, “what’s this I hear about a tanning and speed dating event at Stub’s tonight?”
“I was hoping no one would know about it, and I’d get done early.”
“So you
“I was tricked.”
Nancy reached into the glass display case to grab the biggest, freshest-looking bagel this side of New York City. “You might find love there.”
I wagged my head vigorously. “I’m into self-love now.”
