October Fest: A Murder-by-Month Mystery (4 page)

She changed the subject as gracefully as a fish flew. “Nice T-shirt. Is that new?”

“Thank you, and no.” I blew out angry and drew in happy. It sounded like an asthma attack. “When’re you coming back to the library?”

“Don’t know that I am. Come here. I’ve got something to show you.” She detoured into the Sunset’s communications center, which she’d raised local money to outfit. It housed three desktop computers with word processing, scrapbooking, and desktop publishing software on each, plus a color printer, a fax, a scanner, and a copier. She’d talked me and a handful of others into teaching basic classes on using e-mail and “spoofing the net” as she called it, and now most of the residents were more computer-proficient than me.

All three work stations were empty, so she plopped into the nearest chair and pulled me next to her. Clickety-clack, and she pointed proudly at the screen.

“What am I looking at?” I asked.

“My registration. Check out the evidence of Alexandria Technical College’s newest student.”

“Johnny mentioned that. Good for you!”

“Jesus, he’s weak. You sure you wouldn’t rather sleep with a real man? Whoops, didn’t mean to give anything away. Anyhow, I’m going to earn a degree in Fashion Management. The college started an Elder School this fall, and they offer new online classes every four weeks. I could have my degree within a year.”

I leaned in closer to the screen and squinted to read the tiny black words. “You’re registered for one class, and it’s Human Sexuality. How does that connect to Fashion Management?”

“Only elective available this late in the game. Class starts Monday.”

I curled my lip doubtfully. “What could they possibly teach you that you don’t already know?”

She clicked again, and the syllabus popped up. “Looks like we’ll be discussing our genitalia, sexual scripts whatever the moon those are, something called fellatio”—she pronounced it with a hard “t,” no pun intended—“sexual positions
…
”

“Stop!” I had a lifetime membership in the club of girls who chose to believe Olivia Newton John’s “Let’s Get Physical” was about the benefits of aerobic workouts. I liked having sex; I just didn’t like talking about it. “I get the picture.”

“Besides, it’ll be a great way to expand my horizons, get to know people on a new social landscape.”

“That’s not a social landscape, that’s a mattress with textbooks,” I said, and then caught myself. I believed in the power of education. Plus, I did not want to witness her in granny pants again. What better way to kickstart the old Mrs. Berns than by putting her in an environment where she could, nay, where she’d be
required
to talk about copulation and hang out with young people? She’d have her own religion started before midterm. “I think it’s wonderful. I’m proud of you.”

“Don’t patronize me,” she said. “And what chickenshit Johnny Leeson question do you have, anyhow?”

She jarred me back to the dilemma that had brought me. She’d already admitted to making him send the invitation, so I cut to the chase. “Why did Johnny let you talk him into the invitation? He’s usually much more sensible. What does he want?”

“Holy Mary, girl, do you want to audit the class? I’m sure they have diagrams.”

I blushed, my head spinning from her runaround. “So that’s it? He just wants to get in my pants?”

“Ah, no, he’s too nice a boy for that, dangit. You’ll have to go yourself to find out what it is he’s after.”

“A hint?”

“Look to the boy scouts.”

Rich words of wisdom from my love mentor, the woman who saw more action in her eighties than I’d seen in my entire thirty years on the planet. I squelched the urge to pinch her and instead gave her a hug.

_____

My workday passed quickly but not particularly pleasantly as I ran through all the potential scenarios for the evening. I could bail, and Johnny would never want to see me again. I could go to the motel, and Johnny would never want to see me again. Or, he wasn’t who I thought he was at all and had some weird night of sex in mind. Or I did know him and he was going to ask for a commitment from me, some sort of official categorizing of our relationship. Agh. None of the options were good. I was so wound up when I closed the library and pulled into my driveway that even the sight of Luna bounding out to greet me didn’t cheer me up. Nor did the saucy disdain directed at me by calico cat, Tiger Pop.

“Hi, babies,” I said, climbing out of the car. The fall air was brisk but not frosty, saturated with the earthy smell of leaves turning and far off, someone burning wood. I clutched my jacket tighter, staring down the sloping, brown front lawn to the big red barn and fenced pasture that used to hold horses when Sunny lived here as a child. On the other side was the sparkling blue-gray of Whiskey Lake. This spot was idyllic, the house and outbuildings nestled amongst wild acres of golden-grassed prairie, rolling hills, and hardwood forests. Except for the smell of wood smoke, I could have been the only person in the universe. I dragged in a deep breath, momentarily refreshed.

Dog and cat followed me into the house where I rinsed out their water dishes and poured a fresh drink along with kibbles for the dog and pebble food for the kitty.

“How was your day? Were you good to each other?” Luna looked at me hopefully, like if she played her cards right I might make her as smart as a cat for a day. Tiger Pop ignored us both. I scratched them until one rolled over in ecstasy and the other purred against his will.

Animals sated, I cobbled together some vegetable soup to settle my sour stomach. I still hadn’t made up my mind whether or not I was going to the motel tonight, and the indecision was making me queasy.

Crap. Who was I kidding? I’d made up my mind the minute I’d received the invitation. If only I was one of those women for whom good sense won out over inquisitiveness. Or, let’s face it, for whom dead bodies didn’t pile up like unwashed clothes. It occurred to me, then, that I hadn’t seen a dead body since the State Fair. Maybe October would be my first corpse-free month since May, I thought hopefully. If I’d known I was less than twelve hours shy of ending that good luck streak in a most gruesome fashion, I wouldn’t have bothered shaving.

You’re stupid, you’re stupid, you’re stupid
, I told myself as my Toyota hugged the corner into town, spraying gravel. When I was six years old, my mother took me to see a movie in St. Cloud, the closest town with a theater. I don’t remember where my dad was; probably my mom was trying to get us out of the house and away from him for a few hours. It was my first big screen experience: a remastered release of
Bambi
. The theater had also been updated, an old 1920s burlesque hall regilded, repainted, and recurtained to host modern film. I begged for seats in the balcony and was hypnotized when the theater went dark and the music came on, vibrating the chairs. Words appeared on the screen, followed by magical animation. We didn’t even own a television at the time, so this was heady stuff.

For a while. Then, I spotted a group of boys a few years older than me on the main floor below giggling and passing something between them. I slid away from my mother—poor thing probably needed her own break—and over to the edge of the balcony. I could see that what they were passing was shiny, catching the glint when the screen went bright. Was it a knife? A metal bottle for drinking out of, like my dad had? A decoder ring? I couldn’t quite make it out through the intricately patterned wrought iron barrier. Lucky thing there was a hole just big enough to squeeze my head through, if I wiggled and pushed. So I did, and to my great satisfaction, I saw that they were passing candy back and forth, a mother lode of U-No bars. I smiled—they’d snuck those in. I knew this because I’d begged my mom to buy me a Caravelle bar and I would have begged her to buy me a U-No bar instead if they’d sold them—and I kept smiling even as my horrified mother realized first that I was no longer seated next to her and second, that my head was wedged in the wrought iron tighter than Excalibur in the stone. It took two firefighters, a tub of Noxema, and a lot of elbow, neck, and ear grease to free me. I’m pretty sure no one in that theater has but a secondhand idea how
Bambi
ends because watching the dumb girl with the brown braids wrestle with a wrought iron balcony was a much more riveting show.

But I sure enough got to see what those boys were up to, and that made it fine that my ears were pink and raw for a week. You’d think curiosity of that magnitude, so powerful that it overrode common sense and maybe even the survival instinct, would have bred itself out of the gene pool by now, but I was evidence that it hadn’t. I was on my way to the Big Chief Motor Lodge smelling like sandalwood, wearing clean clothes, and maybe, just maybe, I’d applied a light coat of mascara and honey-flavored lip gloss.

I hadn’t yet explored the new motel. My home-away-from-home in cases of extreme mosquito invasions at the house was the Battle Lake Motel, a cute and clean log-cabin-sided destination across the street from the Big Chief. It wasn’t directly on the banks of the lake, but it was friendly, family-owned, and hospitable. The Big Chief, on the other hand, was going for the sprawling resort look with its bland exterior and massive parking lot.

I pulled into the crammed parking lot of the two-story motel, staying in my car for ten minutes, studying the cream-colored building. I could hear the oompa-whomp of polka music emanating from the football field at the other edge of town. Not With My Horse didn’t sound too bad from this distance. To my right was West Battle Lake and to my left was Highway 210. And in front of me was certainly my demise.

Like most motels, this one had exterior entrances for all the rooms. I counted six doors on top and four on the bottom, the bottom ones spread on each side of the brightly lit lobby. I assumed there was the same arrangement of rooms on the other side, the side facing the lake. Why, if this was about sex, would Johnny bring me here? He lived with his mom, whom he was taking care of after his dad had passed suddenly, and so there wasn’t much privacy at his place, but why not come to mine?

Only one way to find out.

I sighed, left the safety of my car, and dragged my feet toward the lobby. I could see the full moon sparkling off the lake through the other side. The glass-sided lobby was a smart design choice. It made the place seem modern and steeped in nature at the same time. Room number 2 was immediately to the left of the main entrance and room number 3 was directly to the right. Above me, on the second floor, the rooms started at 5 and went to 10. It was a good bet room 20 was on the other side top floor, far right when facing the motel. I could walk through the lobby like I knew what I was doing, up the stairs, and knock confidently on the door. Or I could pee my pants and whistle Dixie. I decided on a compromise and went to the front desk, feeling like the Whore of Babylon.

I waited my turn. The combination of the Octoberfest weekend and the political candidates and their entourages in town for the debate seemed to have filled the motel to its rafters. In fact, I recognized the emcee from this morning, Sarah Glokkmann’s redheaded assistant, Grace, in the front of the line. There appeared to be a mix-up in her room key because she was trading one plastic card for another. Seven minutes later, I was at the head of the line, still not sure what I was going to say.

“Um, I have a
…
well, I’m meeting someone in room 20 tonight, and I’m wondering if he, I mean, if
they
have checked in yet.”

Donning her best gynecologist’s face, the older woman behind the counter pressed a couple keys on her computer. I didn’t recognize her, which hopefully meant she also didn’t recognize me. “Ah yes, the Jacuzzi suite. Nicest room in the resort.” She smiled at me, and my cheeks blazed red. “There’s a fireplace in there, though it’s maybe too warm tonight. Let’s see. Yes. The other party checked in an hour ago.”

“Thanks,” I croaked. A Jacuzzi suite? What the hell? Mrs. Berns must have lied to me about Johnny’s intentions, or she was blind to them herself. I lurched toward the lakeside door, my embarrassment turning to suspicion evolving to anger. Send me a fancy linen invitation booty call, my ass. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d been fooled into believing some guy was a gentleman, and I knew exactly how to deal with this. I marched up the stairs, steaming past a vaguely familiar dark-haired man, down the cement walkway, and knocked loudly on the last door, number 20.

The answer was immediate. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.” Johnny stood on the other side of the door sporting a tuxedo that hugged his broad shoulders like a lover. His beautiful hair was curling thickly around his collar, and he pushed it back impatiently and stepped to the side, making room for me to enter. When he moved, I saw that he’d lit the fireplace, along with hundreds of candles. The Jacuzzi, thankfully, was not bubbling.

“How dare you,” I said.

The look of embarrassed expectancy slipped off his face, replaced by confusion. “What?”

“You think just because you reserve a room and buy some candles that I’ll sleep with you?”

He flinched as if I’d slapped him. “Mira, that’s not it. I just wanted a quiet night with you, on neutral ground. To talk.”

“Talk?” I jabbed a finger toward the candles behind him.

He dropped his gaze and ran his fingers through his hair. “I should know better than to listen to Mrs. Berns,” he said under his breath. He brought his eyes back to mine, and like always, looking into those deep blues made my heart skip a beat. “Look, Mira. I didn’t do this so you’d sleep with me. I’d love that, yeah, but that’s not what tonight is about. Just give me a chance. One evening, fully-clothed, to convince you that I’m the right guy.”

The angry, Tourette’s-dusted mice in my brain were whizzing and scratching, goading me to say something mean or inappropriately funny to push Johnny away, again and for good. Before they could get the better of me, I threw myself into the room and bulldozed Johnny out of the way so I could slam the door shut. My mood swing gave me whiplash. “Okay. I’m in. But don’t expect anything.” Damn. One mouse must have escaped.

His grin broke open. He spread out his arms so I could take in the whole room. I couldn’t resist the impish smile on his face. I turned to follow his gaze and saw a candlelit table with a white tablecloth. On top rested a gorgeous blooming African violet alongside a frosted bottle of sparkling grape juice and two champagne glasses, a pizza from Zorbaz—cheese and green olive, if my nose was not mistaken—and enough Nut Goodie bars to kill a diabetic. Could he hear my heart breaking? Not wanting him to see the happiness on my face, I scurried toward the table.

“This is nice,” I murmured, wondering how many slices of pizza I could eat without crossing a line.

He strolled past me, and I felt the heat of his body skimming my back as he moved to pull out a chair. “Madam.” He indicated the seat and smiled boyishly. My lips couldn’t resist. They smiled back before welcoming a boatload of pizza and chocolate.

I’d like to say I grew closer to Johnny that night, but it turns out I already knew him pretty well. Over the course of the meal, he filled me in on how his mom was doing and asked me about mine, told me about his plan for returning to the University of Madison next fall to begin his PhD in Horticulture, and gently probed me for more information about my past. His voice soothed the angry mice, and it wasn’t long until I’d forgotten my misgivings about the night.

As our conversation fell into an easy give and take, I found myself desiring more than words. Without warning, my six-month dry spell had snuck up on my cowardice, slapped a chloroform rag over its mouth, and stuffed it in the closet. I became fixated on Johnny’s lips, those strong cupid’s bows, and I imagined what they would feel like on my neck, my lower back, my breasts.

Suddenly, I noticed that his mouth had stopped moving. “What?” I shot my gaze guiltily upward.

He smiled. “I said, are you okay? You’ve been quiet the last couple minutes. Do I have something on my teeth?”

I blushed and wiped the drool off my chin. “I’m fine.” There’s something really hot about a guy who respects you enough to provide your favorite meal and then backs off and waits for you to come to him. Problem was, I didn’t know how to do that sober. A couple drinks in me and I’d be on him like white on rice, but without alcohol, I wasn’t sure of the protocol.

I began by trying to shoot him mind rays suggesting he kiss me. After a few minutes, it became apparent that wasn’t the most efficient method. And I flirted about as well as a pig wore shoes, so that only left the direct route. Get to your feet and kiss the man. Just do it. Take your future into your own hands, I told myself, and choose something good for once. I slammed back the last of my sparkling grape juice and stood, all glorious woman going after her man.

I tried, I really did, but halfway out of my seat, my nerves took over and forced me back down with an oof. I tossed some sort of half-hearted wink in the middle to try and distract from the failed attempt. Probably I looked like a twitchy ventriloquist’s dummy, or a party balloon that someone gave up on. My dorkiness made me sick to my stomach, and I became acutely aware of the heat of the fireplace smelling like a hundred lighter flames and the candles reflecting my embarrassment back to me.

Johnny eyed me quizzically. “You sure you’re okay, Mira? You look a little green.”

I was feeling a little green. Who corrects themselves in mid-move? The only thing more embarrassing would have been to fall on him, or to snart midstep. Why not try all three? It’d be a trifecta of humiliation. Why was my heart racing? And since when had Johnny been standing over me? I thought he was across the table. How’d he reached me so quickly? Was he making the move? Were my lips glossy? I made a seductive prepucker. I could still pull this off. I could redeem myself. But gawd was it hot in here.

“I think you need to go to the bathroom.”

“Huh?” If there was a list of things you
don’t
want to hear when you think the man of your dreams is about to kiss you, that would be at the top. Before I could protest, he was leading me toward the bathroom. I caught a glimpse of myself in the wall mirror and was dismayed to see I was the color of St. Patrick’s Day beer. Urp. That was it. The thought of beer pushed me over the edge. I leaned over the toilet, expelling a torrent of purple grape juice, red pizza, and brown chocolate.

“Don’t worry, it’s probably just a stomach bug,” Johnny said, holding my hair back. “When I brought my mom in for her checkup, the doctor said it was going around.”

The sweetness in his voice mortified me. I reached for the toilet handle to erase the evidence, but it was immediately replaced by more. Twenty minutes of heaving later, I was spent, having only the energy to calculate how long it would take to obtain a passport so I could fly to India to officially pursue my future as an untouchable. Johnny handed me a warm, wet towel, and I cleaned off my face. He left the bathroom, closing the door to give me some privacy, and returned a few minutes later, knocking softly before handing me a toothbrush and miniature toothpaste from the front desk. I accepted both gratefully.