October Fest: A Murder-by-Month Mystery Page 19

  I followed his orders as best I could. My legs were shaky but they carried me into Brad’s bedroom and then bathroom. I was distantly relieved to see the latest issue of Juggz and Huggz on the sink next to his toilet. I hurried back and handed Wohnt the cloth. He staunched Kenya’s wound and covered her with the blanket. When the paramedics arrived moments later, some color had returned to her cheeks.

  They hauled her out, and Wohnt and the remaining officer stayed behind. Wohnt turned to me, fire blazing in his eyes. He shoved me onto the couch and stood over me. “This the sting?”

  At first I couldn’t meet his gaze, adrenaline and shock swirling dangerously fast in my stomach. Then I remembered that discomfort and indignation were close cousins and I shot to my feet, jabbing him in the chest with my finger. “I asked for your help but you weren’t interested. Said my gerbil turd theory was stupid. Said that wasn’t enough to go on.” I walked angrily toward the closet, knocking Wohnt out of the way. I leaned forward and snaked my arm down the back of still-cowering Brad’s shirt. A loud ripping sound followed by a sad squeal from Brad, and I had the tape recorder in hand. “Here. Why don’t you see if that’s enough to go on.”

  Wohnt’s eyes were glittering dangerously. “What will I hear if I listen to this?”

  “Kenya confessing to killing Webber. And her mother.”

  The other officer came up behind Gary and clapped him on the shoulder. “You were right about her.”

  They exchanged a look, and I couldn’t read either damn one of their faces. Hysteria and rage vied for position in my cluttered head. “Right about what? Right that you should listen to me more? Right that I was right and you were wrong?”

  My voice went a little screechy as the reality of what had just happened closed over me. “Right that all the men in my life are either too good for me, dead, or fiberglass statues?”

  “I’m not too good for you!” Brad said from the closet.

  “Shut up.” I shoved my hands on my hips. “Right that you can get me to confess to Watergate with that cop stare of yours, and that I’m an eyelash shy of a nervous breakdown and that I would have been better off moving to Siberia than Battle Lake and that I’m going to die a lonely old cat lady?”

  Gary was vibrating ever so slightly, and I thought he was going to yell at me before I realized he was laughing.

  His back-up shook his head in wonder. “Yup, absolutely right.”

  “I think he meant that Wohnt was right that you’re about as lucky as a three-legged cat,” said Mrs. Berns.

  “What does that even mean?” I couldn’t believe how lovely she looked in the white wedding gown. It was two weeks since her car accident, and although the bruises on her face had faded to the color of dirt smudges and she was still crutch-bound, she glowed. The dress was shamelessly white and flowing and fitted at the top to display more cleavage than I’d ever seen on her. As her matron of honor, something she insisted on calling me given what she referred to as my “geriatric” sex life, I was at the Senior Sunset curling her hair and helping her with her makeup. I didn’t know how to do either so she mostly shooed me away and took care of business herself, as usual. She insisted I fill her in on every speck of what she referred to as the “Gerbil Turd Sting.”

  “I don’t know. Tell me again what you spewed toward the end?”

  I told her. It didn’t get better in the telling.

  “Ah. I retract my first answer. My best guess is that Wohnt has been telling people that you’re a nice girl who needs to get laid in the worst way.”

  “Nobody needs to get laid.”

  “Speak for yourself.”

  I wasn’t going to argue. She was the expert at this table. I indicated the front of her dress. “Where’ve you been hiding those boobs, anyway?”

  “When you get to be my age, you just roll ‘em up. Your cups runneth over even if it takes a while to locate your nipples.” She dusted glittery powder over her soft and wrinkled skin. “So you didn’t finish your story. What’s going to happen to that crazy girl Africa now that you got her confession on tape?”

  “Kenya. And since she confessed again to killing Webber and her mom on the way to the hospital, I think she’s going away for good. Her dad’s found her a good lawyer, though, so you never know.”

  “She say why she did it?”

  I shook my head. “Not really. Just that she hated her mom and wasn’t going to let her continue to ruin lives.”

  Mrs. Berns tsked. “Makes my kids look like angels for only wanting to incarcerate me in a maximum security nursing home.”

  “Not kids, kid. Just Conrad. Remember that Elizabeth is on your team now.” I studied my fingernails. “You know what? When I think back to my conversation with Glokkmann at the jail, I think she knew Kenya had killed Webber and was hoping she would come forward on her own. Guess that wasn’t her best gamble.”

  “I’ll say. I’ve been meaning to mention, you get all glowy when you talk about solving crimes. You ever notice that?”

  I had. “Is it weird?”

  “If you mean is it uncommon, most good things are. You ever thought about going pro?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean this.” She pulled open the top drawer of her vanity and handed me a stack of papers from the Minnesota Private Detective and Protective Agent Licensing Board.

  Just reading the letterhead made me shiver, in a good way, but I played it cool. “I don’t know.”

  “Sure you do.”

  She was right. I smiled and hugged her. “You wanna do the training with me?”

  “Maybe. Depends how much work it is.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Thank you, thank you! You know you’re my best friend, right?”

  “I better be. I made you my matron of honor.” She liked calling me that.

  I stuffed the papers into my purse. I’d have to read them later, when the idea of becoming a private investigator didn’t seem so big and intimidating. Besides, tonight was all about Mrs. Berns. “Are all your kids invited to the wedding?”

  “Can’t remember.” Her voice had taken an ornery cast. “Say, did I tell you that the kitchen staff here cooked up your Eerie Ground Liver Pie for supper at the Sunset last night? That’s gotta be your best recipe yet. How’d you think of adding salted peanuts?”

  I shrugged. “Creating gross food is my gift to share with the world. So you’re really going through with this?” The ceremony was scheduled to begin at seven o’clock, and her friends had gone on ahead to adorn the church with votives so Mrs. Berns could have the candlelit wedding of her dreams. Outside, groups of ghouls and zombies were traveling door-to-door, filling their bags with enough candy to make stomachs hurt for months. Long live sugar-based socialism.

  “I’m wearing the dress, ain’t I?”

  “You sure are,” I said. “You look beautiful.” She really did. Her hair was curled and her eyes were bright. She had lovely deep lines on her face from smiling and cracking wise.

  “And I’m not getting any younger. Time to hit the road.”

  I helped her up and to the car and drove the short distance to Trinity Lutheran. My heart was heavy. Bernard was more of a dink than a Mink, but she’d chosen him as the best candidate to guard her future until Conrad decided to leave her alone. I didn’t think it was a good idea, but I didn’t have the threat of a maximum security nursing home hanging over my head. I had to support her as a friend. She’d still find a way to be Mrs. Berns, even within the temporary confines of marriage.

  Outside the church, glimmering jack-o-lanterns lit the steps all the way to the heavy wooden doors, and I smiled. Yes, she would always find a way to be Mrs. Berns. As I got out of the car to help her, I heard the organ version of “Thriller” filtering out from the closed church doors. I navigated Mrs. Berns’ wedding train and crutches so she could lean on me to limp up the stairs.

  Inside, the church was full, beaming faces turning to take in the blushing bride. Half the town must have been in
attendance. The interior of the church was magical, with the tiny teardrops of hundreds of yellow flames glinting off of the stained glass and illuminating the gold and white ribbons twining along the edges of the pews. The heady perfume of white roses floated on the air. Bernard was nowhere in sight.

  Framed by the open church doors, Mrs. Berns smacked her crutch against the floor three times, like a gavel. “I have an announcement to make!” Her voice rang out, the organ stopped, and those few who had missed her entrance turned. I wondered what was up. We hadn’t discussed this.

  “First things first. I need to speak to my children. All of you, front and center.”

  Eight people stood and walked toward their mother, who looked imposing, even on crutches. Every one of them sported the hatchet nose they must have inherited from their father. They were dressed formally.

  “Conrad here wants to send me to prison camp. Who else is on board with him?”

  The church crowd booed.

  “Mother, this isn’t the time,” Conrad began.

  “It’s the only time I’ll get all eight of you in a room together. Lord knows you don’t visit on the holidays. Now, who’s on Conrad’s team and who’s on mine?”

  Seven of them gathered around her, leaving Conrad standing alone. Whispers ran along the edge of the church as people craned their necks to view the outcome.

  “I’m on your team, mother.” Conrad’s arms hung stiffly at his side even as his voice entreated her. “That’s why I’m trying to take care of you.”

  “Conrad Berns, you listen to me good because I’m only going to say this once. I spent the first twenty years of my life taking care of my brothers and sisters, the next thirty taking care of my ungrateful kids, and the twenty-odd after that taking care of my husband and parents. For the first time in my life, I’m taking care of myself. I plan to make some mistakes, but it’s not your job to take care of me, it’s mine. Comprende vu?”

  He tried to stare her down, but she didn’t back off. “You’re not going to listen to me no matter what, are you?” he asked.

  “Ah, so you’re not a complete idiot.”

  “Fine, mother.” His shoulders slumped and he looked for all the world like a sullen little boy.

  “Not yet, it isn’t. You’re going to apologize to me in front of all these people, and you and the kids are going to all promise, out loud, that you’re never going to try to get me declared legally incompetent again.”

  Conrad looked ready to protest, but the angry murmurings of the crowd silenced him. All eight children agreed that Mrs. Berns was capable of making her own decisions.

  “Now it’s fine!” She said triumphantly. “Time to party! Let’s go.” And she turned toward the door.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I finally spotted a nervous-looking Bernard off to my right. He was wearing a cheap tux over a ruffled blue dress shirt. He appeared to be trying to slink out a side door, but there was a firm hand on his arm, attached to a lean, hard body that went by the name of Johnny Leeson. Johnny’s face was grim but he flashed me a quick smile that made me shiver.

  I broke eye contact and whispered to Mrs. Berns. “You haven’t gotten hitched yet.”

  “Duh. I wasn’t ever going to go through with it. I just needed my kids off my back and an excuse to party. Oh, and a chance to humiliate Bernard in public. The guy’s a jackass.”

  Tanya Ingebretson, who was sitting in the back row with her husband, gasped. “But we talked about this in great detail! This is a major step in your remodeling. The wedding will transform you.”

  “Same me, better dress. And your life coaching? I’ve gotten better advice from a Magic 8 Ball. But thanks for keeping my kids off my back long enough to get them all together.”

  Tanya gasped again, but Mrs. Berns’ attention had already moved elsewhere. “Off to the Rusty Nail! First round’s on me. I have the kids’ inheritance to spend.” She cackled and cleared a path with her crutches before limping out.

  I raced to catch up with her, my heart light. Behind us was the sound of a couple hundred people gathering their belongings. “So you were never going to go through with it?”

  “Please. Have you even looked at Bernard? He might know his way around a bedroom but he’s a musty old thing, and bossy to boot. Stupid enough to think he’s in charge, and that’s the only good thing I can say about him.”

  “I’m right here,” he whined, appearing at her side. “Where’s my money?”

  “If it was up your butt, you’d know.”

  He wasn’t smiling. “Five thousand dollars. That’s what we agreed on.”

  “I was double undercover, Bernard. I lied to my kids about getting married to keep them off my back, but I had to also make you believe we were actually going through with it and that I’d pay you or you’d never have stuck around long enough to get everyone in this church. And don’t think I didn’t see you trying to sneak out just now when you thought this was going down.”

  “But we had a deal,” he griped.

  “I’ve already paid you more than you’re worth, Bernard. I put up with your attitude, broke my ribs and leg because of you, and I got Mira here to clear your name in a murder investigation so I didn’t have to hire another patsy to play my fiancé. I think you owe me money.”

  I stepped in. “Scram, Bernard. She knows how to use those crutches, and I’ve seen her drop a man twice your size. She knows where to grab.”

  He looked ready to put up a fight, but a couple of Battle Lake’s bigger, kinder brutes materialized from the crowd, catching scent of Mrs. Berns in trouble. Bernard might be stupid, but he wasn’t dumb, and he stomped off. I had a feeling we hadn’t seen the last of him, but I was too ecstatic to care too much right now—Mrs. Berns wasn’t getting married!

  We were at my car. I eased her into the passenger seat and tucked her crutches in back, unable to wipe the smile off my face. Around us, people were talking and laughing, many of them taking advantage of the unseasonably warm fall evening to walk to the Rusty Nail. I noticed none of them had gifts. I looked to Mrs. Berns suspiciously. “Was I the only one who didn’t know this was a fake wedding?”

  “Maybe, if you don’t count my kids and Bernard,” she said. “But Lord knows you can’t keep a secret, and I needed my kids to believe there was going to be a real wedding.” She pinched my arm. “Looks like someone wants to talk to you.”

  I turned. Johnny stood at the top of the church steps, leaning against the open door. The wind ruffled his curling dirty blond hair, and he had a faint grin playing on his lips. He’d undone his tie and his crisp white dress shirt was open at the collar. I could make out a hint of his muscled chest, and his pleated slacks fit him like a hand to a glove. I wondered idly if I could get him to put on a loincloth and hold a tomahawk in an erect position.

  “I’ve given up on men,” I managed to choke out. “I’m going to be single forever.”

  “Get off that egg,” Mrs. Berns said. “You don’t have the stones for it. You know you want him.”

  She was right. I offered him a timid smile. His grin grew. He pushed off the door and sauntered down the steps toward me. He was sexy-on-a-stick, open and loving, and I wanted those lean hips against mine until I screamed out for more.

  I heard Mrs. Berns shift in the car and chuckle. “I think tonight’s going to be a night to remember.”

  “I’m scared,” I said, as Johnny neared.

  She grabbed my hand and said just loud enough for me to hear, “It’s tough sometimes, Mira James, but when life squeezes you, you gotta trust your own juice.”

  “Yeah,” I said, stepping forward and into Johnny’s arms. “I just might try that.”

  About the Author

  Jess Lourey spent her formative years in Paynesville, Minnesota, a small town not unlike the Murder-by-Month series’ Battle Lake. She teaches English and sociology full time at a two-year college. When not raising her wonderful kids, teaching, or writing, you can find her gardening and navigating the niceties an
d meanities of small-town life. She is a member of Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, the Loft, and Lake Superior Writers.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Dedication

  Copyright

  Title_Page

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  About_the_Author