had yet to formally meet, and regardless, why hadn’t they emerged at the sound of the ambulance and police sirens? I raised my hand to knock. The door opened preemptively, and I found myself face to face with Glokkmann.
“Everything okay?” I asked. She was pale, a slash of red highlighting one cheek.
“Fine.” She kept the door tight to her body. “What’s all the commotion out here?”
“Swydecker. He was taken away by ambulance.” Was I mistaken, or did she not seem surprised?
“Heart attack?”
“Dunno. Grace went with him.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I’ll have to call her.”
We stared at each other. It was still quiet behind her. “You sure everything is okay?”
“I’m sure. I broke a vase. That’s all.”
A vase? In a hotel room? “I heard another voice.”
“The TV.”
Short of calling her a liar and pushing her out of the way to see for myself, I had no choice but to leave. Seeing Swydecker gray as ash had taken all the fight out of me. “There’s police right down from your room if you decide you need help. Good night.” I hurried downstairs, determined to hunt down Bernard and reroute some of my aggression his direction. He wasn’t in the lobby, or down by the lake, and when I jogged back to the restaurant, I couldn’t find him there, either. My questions for him would have to wait.
The next morning, Kennie filled me in via a phone call. Apparently, Swydecker had overdosed. He swore he’d accidentally taken too many of a sleeping pill prescription and hadn’t been trying to kill himself. He also claimed that he and Swinton were mere acquaintances by dint of their jobs, and that he hadn’t fully latched his door. It must have swung open, which is how Swinton was able to happen across him sprawled on his bathroom floor and called 911. I wondered if he knew about the bridge Mrs. Berns had for sale.
The police had no options other than to treat his story as factual on the face of things, though I knew Wohnt wouldn’t let it slide that easily. The good news, for my curiosity anyhow, was that today I’d be interviewing Glokkmann at the library so I could get her angle on the Swydecker situation as well as see if she cared to share anything more about last night’s “broken vase.”
At home, I was down to condiments, one egg, and slimy lettuce that I’d bought with good intentions. I scratched out a grocery list, wondering why I continued to organize it according to what popped into my head first rather than by meal or what section of the store the ingredients were available in. Micro-evolution eluded me. List made, I herded the animals toward the lake, grabbing a stocking cap and light gloves. The outside thermometer warned me it was only thirty-one degrees, and I wanted to be prepared. The grass crunched underfoot as I stepped onto the lawn, but the sun was already coaxing a melt.
“Want me to bring the frisbee?” Luna’s eyes said yes, and we took off toward the lake.
The portion of Sunny’s property that abutted Whiskey Lake was not as appealing to me as the thick woods, but I did love the metallic flash of a warming October sun on the surface of open water. Luna followed me down the road that connected my driveway to the driveway of Shangri-La, a woodsy resort located on the peninsula that marked the end of the road. Between my place and Shangri-La was a sandy beach that was all mine. It was a wide spot on the side of the road and anyone going to or from Shangri-La passed right by it, but in the fall, it was quiet.
A rustling in the woods alongside the road alerted me that Tiger Pop was joining us but would not deign to consider herself part of the group. I smiled. The sun felt toasty on my naked cheeks and it wasn’t yet 9:00 a.m. That was unusual for mid-October. The last few years, the state had been covered in snow by this time of year. My breath still came out in visible puffs, but the air was redolent with the earthy smell of decomposing leaves rather than the bite of snow approaching from the west.
Most of the leaves still clung to their branches and under the bright eye of the sun, the woods looked like they were ablaze with the reds, oranges, and golds of maple trees against the rich brown of oak leaves and deep green of pine needles. The air smelled like anticipation, like opening a book you were excited to read. Out on the lake far off to my left, a lone fisherman was casting off his boat, a soft breeze waving the lake and gently rolling lapping water onto the shore. I tugged my coat tighter when we reached the edge of the water-it was colder here-and whipped the Frisbee down the road for Luna.
While Luna and I were deep into a game of fetch, Tiger Pop trotted out to sun herself on the dock. I’d need to get some help pulling it in this year. Sunny had written me a letter the previous week informing me that she usually hired a guy named Johnny Leeson to do it, but that anyone in town would be more than willing to help. Yeah, I’ll bet she and every other woman in the county wanted to hire a guy named Johnny Leeson. Even the sight of his name made my heart skip, but where we were at now, I didn’t know.
I trained my mind back on the moment, the rhythmic game of toss and return with Luna, the soft whisper of the lake, the rustle of wind through dying leaves. It was peaceful, and I absorbed it through my pores. I’d missed this more than anything in the city, the solace of nature. Unfortunately, it was soon time to get to work. I sucked in one last refreshing breath, enough to carry me through the day, and followed the animals back to the house.
I wasn’t looking forward to the Glokkmann interview. In fact, all of a sudden, I wanted to wash my hands of the whole ordeal and focus on tending to my fruits and spices, baking, and reading, maybe invite some friends over for a quiet dinner party. Maybe even jump into a relationship with Johnny with my heart fully open to being accepted or being crushed, but open nonetheless. The breeze picked up and blew hair into my face, and I wondered if I could smell a hint of snow after all. I herded Tiger Pop and Luna into the house, reminded them they had a pet door and should keep an eye on each other, and drove to town, vowing that once this murder was solved, I’d embrace all the simple and good things my life offered me.
Glokkmann was waiting for me at the library door, last night’s slap mark disappeared from her cheek. She wasn’t alone. Standing next to her were Tanya Ingebretson and the dark-haired woman I’d first approached at the debate, the woman who referred to the Representative as “Queen Glokkmann,” the woman who I’d been harboring a hunch was Kenya Glokkmann.
“I’m sorry, Sarah. Have you been waiting long?”
She made a show of studying her watch. “I thought you’d be here early now that the library will be opening at ten.”
“It’s not quite 10:00.”
“Aren’t there procedures you have to go through first?” Tanya asked. I realized she reminded me of a chipmunk, a tiny, lethal chipmunk, all puffy chest and squat legs, a swirl of brown hair accenting her round, wide- eyed face. She did work hard for Battle Lake, no doubt about it, but she did it to mold us all into her vision rather than out of the goodness of her heart. She’d been a burr under my saddle since I’d arrived, but it wasn’t until I’d heard her ridiculous proclamations on gay people that I had a solid reason to dislike her. I wondered if I could start a counter-campaign to deny civil liberties to people who fell in love with wealthy, humorless men named Bud, which happened to describe her husband exactly.
“The library opens at noon. I’m here two hours early as a courtesy to the Representative. I’m sure that will be sufficient time to run through my procedures.”
Tanya humphed but didn’t press her luck. Glokkmann had already passed me to case the place as soon as I’d opened the door. “This is so charming! One big room. What a wonderful example of how we can do more with less. Do you have sufficient chairs for the reporters?”
I’d driven the long way through town and knew that the parking lots of the motels were again full, the news of Swydecker’s suicide attempt bringing in a new rush of bloodthirsty reporters. I was fairly confident Glokkmann had invited any she could track down to today’s Q & A.
“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.
