October Fest: A Murder-by-Month Mystery (18 page)

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.”

“You’re going home after the funeral?”

“After the burial. Mom’s family is all laid to rest out here, and this is where she and dad bought their plots. Gruesome, I think, to buy that stuff in advance.”

I shrugged. “One less thing for you to worry about. How’s your dad holding up?”

“As well as can be expected, I suppose. You know they were high school sweethearts? They still held hands.”

“I’m sorry.” I sneezed twice and grabbed for a tissue. I felt like I had fiberglass under the skin of my face. “Can I ask you something completely unrelated? What’s your tattoo say?” The curiosity hadn’t been killing me, but it had been sending threatening notes.

She smiled a murmur of a smile. “You saw my tattoo?”

“Yeah. Hard to miss.”

“
Non ducor duco.
”

“What’s it mean?”

“It’s Latin: ‘I am not led; I lead.’”

I sneezed again, but with this one came an oily tingle down my back. There was danger near, something not right. Before I could pinpoint it, I saw movement in the front of Kenya’s shapeless black dress. Both her hands were out where I could see them. “Kenya, did you bring Hammy?”

She giggled quietly and slipped her hand into her pocket, pulling out a brown ball of fuzz. “Don’t tell.”

Suddenly, the world tilted a little. Kenya’s profile was in sharp relief and I could see every pore on her face. I wondered if this is what it felt like to learn you’ve been poisoned, this sudden onset of horrific awareness. I knew who had killed Bob Webber, and it wasn’t Sarah Glokkmann.

Sitting through the funeral
service was a trying experience, and I wouldn’t have done it except I had promised, and I knew the killer wasn’t going anywhere. Still, I fidgeted so much next to Kennie that she pinched me hard enough to draw blood. That served to make me crabby on top of the fidgety. The only thing that stilled me was when Grace Swinton entered the church after the priest had begun to speak, selecting a seat at the end of the back row Kennie and I had been relegated to. She was beautifully put together, wearing a crisp green suit that set off her eyes and hair. Her face was drawn and pale, her skin like porcelain. She wrung her hands nervously as she sat but was otherwise motionless.

After the priest’s initial words, Kenya’s dad stood and walked painfully to the podium. He brought out a piece of paper, his hands shaking, but forwent reading it. Instead, he told stories about first setting eyes on his wife in kindergarten and knowing even then that he’d marry her, about her commitment to her community and her faith in God, about how much she loved each of her children and would be looking down on them from Heaven. Two of the children spoke after that, followed by friends and colleagues. The priest asked if anyone else had words they wanted to share, and Grace began to stand before falling heavily into her seat, tears streaming from her eyes. I felt bad for her.

Finally, after some hymns and psalms, the service was over. The priest invited those present to join the family at the burial, immediately followed by dinner in the church basement. I’m ashamed to admit I loved church basement food. Salty turkey slices on buttered white rolls, noodle hotdish, baked beans, orange Jell-O and pineapple salad with carrot strips, potato chips and pickles, red juice, and lemon bars. I’d have to skip this one, though, because I had a murderer to catch.

The rain was still pelting the stained glass of the windows, so I stepped toward the door of the basement rather than follow Kennie out the church. I hated being pressed in a slow-moving crowd, and if I waited, the needle rain might let up. I held a placid smile on my face, idly watching the huge crowd shuffle out the church.

“Mira.”

Turning, I spotted Grace in the shadow of one of the confessionals. I strode over to her. “Are you okay?”

Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy. “I was the one who told Webber about Sarah’s ethical breaches. I did it. It was me.”

“I know.”

She wasn’t listening. She’d uncovered this geyser of guilt and couldn’t stop the surge. “It was all true, but I didn’t want anyone to get hurt. I just couldn’t live with myself if I let her get away with taking bribes and drinking herself into the ground. I see you judging me.”

I averted my gaze.

“I’d judge me, too. I can’t stand bribes and alcoholism but don’t have a problem with adultery? I’m not going to make excuses. I loved Arnold, and it was wrong.”

“How is he?”

“Fine. He’s a good man, the best. He decided he couldn’t live with what he’d done, but he doesn’t think that anymore. He’s going to go to counseling.” A sob escaped. “With his wife.”

I reached out to her, but she pulled away. “No, no, this is what I deserve. I need you to know something, though. Sarah Glokkmann was a fighter. She would never kill herself.” She grabbed my upper arm, her fingers like a steel trap. “Listen to me. She didn’t kill herself.”

An icy tongue licked between my shoulder blades. Grace’s words had the ring of truth. This added a layer of urgency to my actions. I gave her a quick hug and darted out a side door of the church, ignoring the sleet and milling crowds to dash to my car.

I knew my case was precarious, so I did my research first, stopping on my way back from the funeral to talk to Darcy and Cindy. They’d stopped by the library twice since I’d introduced them, all blissed out on new love and searching for books on everything from horse grooming to rabbit care. They’d been together all of three days before they were finishing each other’s sentences. On the last visit Cindy had given me her phone number, telling me that she and Darcy wanted to take me out to thank me for bringing them together. I’m surprised I’d hung onto it. Being forced to witness the saccharine glow of new love appealed about as much as licking dirt.

I was glad I had, and as I pulled up to Cindy’s 1970s-era rambler and knocked on her door, I was also grateful that they were around on a Sunday afternoon.

“OK, guys, I have a weird question? Um, guys?” They had greeted me nicely enough and ushered me into the spacious living room but were now staring deeply into each other’s eyes. To make it even worse, Cindy was a doll collector, and had two full China cabinets of glass-faced horrors on each side of the room watching me, noting my weaknesses, moving slowly just out my line of vision.

“Sorry,” Cindy said, blushing. “What’s the question?” Darcy whispered something in her ear and she giggled.

I looked at her in desperation. PDA + doll collection = I needed to get out of this house before my eyes combusted. “I think I’m allergic to gerbils. How would I tell?”

“That’s very
…
” Darcy said.

“
…
common,” Cindy finished.

I held up a hand. “One at a time.”

Cindy stepped up to the plate. “Gerbils are similar to cats in that they have a protein in their urine and saliva that people can be allergic to. They clean their fur, the protein gets on the fur, they shed the fur. If you’re sensitive, you might get headaches, itchy eyes, and sneezing.”

I nodded. It was exactly what I’d suspected. “Would it take a whole army of gerbils to set this off, or would one be good enough to do it?”

“Depends how sensitive you are,” Darcy said. “Come on down.”

And they welcomed me into Cindy’s basement, which looked like Noah’s Ark had crashed into Dr. Doolittle’s island. She had one of everything—lizard, bunny, frog, even a disagreeably beady-eyed parakeet. I thought they’d been playing one of those soothing sounds of nature soundtracks when I arrived, but it turned out they had the real deal going on.

“How come it doesn’t smell down here?” I asked before my social filter clicked in.

“I figure they want to live as cleanly as I do,” Cindy said. “I spend a lot of time cleaning bedding. Now I have Darcy to help me.” They exchanged eye syrup and dopey smiles. “Follow me.”

I sidestepped the bird, holding my fingers over my face like the bars of a cage to remind him who had the power. Cindy led me to the bunny pen and reached out to hand me a soft, warm puff of white.

“It’s shaking,” I said.

“Pet it like this.” She showed me where to stroke behind the ears, and I snuggled my nose into its sweet fur. “Feel anything?” She asked.

“Love and warm rainbows.”

She smiled. “No itchy nose?”

“Nothing.”

“OK, come over here.” She removed the bunny from my hands against my will and led me to a cage full of tiny brown and white rodents, short-snouted versions of Hammy. She reached in and selected one for me.

I held it up to my nose. Nothing. Damn! That was my whole theory up in smoke.

“Not allergic?”

“No, but I was positive I was.” I hung my head.

Cindy and Darcy exchanged sly glances before bursting out laughing. Darcy delivered the punch line. “That’s a hamster, not a gerbil!”

Oh, what fun. “Do you have gerbils?” I asked impatiently.

“Over here.” Cindy led me two cages down, and my eyes started watering immediately. I wasn’t even holding the gerbil when the sneezing began.

“Yup,” Darcy said. “You’re allergic.”

Just to be sure, he handed me one. My eyeballs burned so bad they tried to scratch themselves, and the postnasal drip was immediate. I thanked them profusely and scurried out of the house.

Next stop, Gary Wohnt. Despite no longer being police chief, he had reclaimed his old office, making me wonder where Kennie had set up shop. He was sitting behind his imposing metal desk rifling through paperwork when I entered.

“Got a minute?”

He peered up, and I steeled myself. His glance left me bare, but this time I didn’t fight it. He was in his deep blue uniform, hat off to reveal slicked-back black hair. Judging by the soft appearance of his mouth, I guessed he still had his Carmex habit, but his lips were the only soft thing on him. His face was chiseled, shoulders broad. I stood my ground and let him give me the up down. I was here for once not because I felt guilty but because I wanted to help him.

“One.”

“That’s all I need.” I dragged the lone empty chair in the room to the front of his desk and laid into the story. I told him how I’d sneezed when I’d first come upon Webber’s body. I hadn’t thought much of it until I realized that I had the same reaction whenever I was near Kenya, who always kept her trained gerbil close at hand. And then, I pulled it all together with the coup de grace: gerbil turds found around Webber’s body in a room that Kenya had no reason to be in if she wasn’t killing Webber. I explained that although Kenya had provided an alibi for her mother the night of Webber’s murder, she’d also said her mother had been knocked out on sleeping pills and so Kenya herself had no alibi. And I shared my fear that Kenya had given her mom sleeping pills and then killed her, too.

He held up his hand. And then held it there for a moment longer, apparently searching for the right words. “You’re asking me to accuse a woman of two murders because you’re allergic to her pet?”

“It’s not a lot, I know, but she’s unstable. Glokkmann told me Kenya has attachment disorder, and a symptom of that is defiance and inappropriate attachments. She had motive to kill Webber to frame her mom.”

“A lot of people had motive,” he said. His sleeves were rolled back enough to reveal muscled forearms flexing with impatience. “What makes you think she also killed her mother?”

“I didn’t at first. I thought Glokkmann really had killed herself to protect her daughter—she’d told me in jail that she’d do anything for her kids—but then her assistant Grace told me at the funeral that the Representative would never have done that. And she’s right. Glokkmann was selfish, superficial, and too convinced of her own worth to ever end her own life.”

He glared at me wordlessly.

“Look,” I said. “If you can prove her gerbil was in the room Webber was murdered in, wouldn’t that be enough?”

“Not by a long shot.” He steepled his fingers. “And the room has been thoroughly cleaned.”

My heart sank. “I know I haven’t always been up front with you, or reliable, but I know she did it, Gary. I know it.”

I’d never called him by his first name before, and it hung in the air between us awkwardly. The muscles on his forearms flexed again. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and controlled. “What did you have in mind?”

“A sting.”

His eyes flashed with impatience or suppressed laughter. I was not good at reading this man. “A sting?”

“Yes, a sting.”

He arranged the papers on his desk, standing to file a loose one. I couldn’t help but stare at his butt, which looked roughly firm enough to crack a walnut. Damn that man and his psy ops. He turned and caught me staring. A muscle in his cheek jumped, and he sat back down. “I’ll pass on the sting. And if I hear that you’re within a hundred yards of Kenya Glokkmann, I’ll arrest you.”

I coughed on my own spit. “On what charges?”

“Don’t need any. At least not right away.”

I was so angry I could only see out of one eye. “Is that all?”

“You tell me.”

The one time in my life I needed a comeback more than a fish needed water, and I had nothing. I stormed out, slamming the door on my way and then returning to slam it again.