"I figured that's what this is about. So you're a reporter at The Recall ?"

"You've heard of us?"

"Not exactly. I picked up a copy of the paper when I was in Battle Lake. Looked good for a small operation." His voice was mellow and deep.

"I'm a part-time reporter."

"Doing a story on Bob?"

"No," I said truthfully. "I was staying in the room next door-next door to the room you were in the night before-and was one of the first people on the scene when he was found. I want to know who killed him."

"The Jacuzzi suite?"

I blushed. "Yes. Any idea how Bob ended up in your room?"

"The police asked me the same thing, and I'm afraid I'm clueless. Bob and I worked on some articles together because we had similar interests and wanted to share research, but we lived in different towns and hung in different circles." His voice grew even deeper. "He was a nice guy. We'd had a drink Friday night and sat next to each other at the Sat.u.r.day morning debate. That's the last time I saw him."

I replayed the debate. Vanderbrick was the reporter Webber had been talking to after he made his comment about one of the candidates drinking. "Did he say when he was leaving Battle Lake?"

"He said he was checking out Sunday morning. I told him I was staying until Sat.u.r.day around eight because I had a lead that Glokkmann would make official her future run for governor that night. When he caught wind of that, he booked his room for another night. She never did, of course, and I left for home around 6:00 that Sat.u.r.day. Never saw Webber that whole day after the debate."

That explained Webber's length-of-stay alteration on the cleaning lady's room list. He was the one who had changed the date of his stay and likely the motel staff had modified the list. "So Bob hadn't even been in your room when you were there?"

"Nope. Nor I in his."

Another dead end. "Not to be rude, but you have a witness for where you were Sat.u.r.day night?"

"About 300," he said. "There was a gaming convention in the Cities that I was at that night. We played Magic: The Gathering all night."

Pretty airtight. What was I missing? "Any idea who might have done Bob in?"

"I don't like to make accusations I can't support, but I do know that Representative Glokkmann wasn't running for president of his fan club. Other than that, no idea."

"I checked out The Body Politic. Why was Bob the only one in the media to pick up on Glokkmann's dirty dealings?"

"Was is the operative word there. He had a source on Glokkmann's campaign, don't know who, and that person gave him the dirt. Nothing he could prove, though, and it wasn't ever a big enough story for the straight news to risk a libel case over. That was until he got killed. Now everybody with a computer and two fingers is digging into Glokkmann's business. If Bob was right about her taking bribes and drinking herself into an early grave, his murder is the worst thing that could have happened to her."

That jibed with what my instincts were telling me. Glokkmann didn't kill Webber. She might be small-minded, but she wasn't stupid. Whoever killed the blogger did it to hurt her, and I could think of four people right off the top of my head who'd like a piece of that pie: Swydecker, Swinton, Kenya, and Randy Martineau. Swydecker was the most obvious suspect. Glokkmann stood in the way of his fulfilling his life dream. And, he'd just tried to kill himself, which was the action of a man with tremendous guilt. Swinton must have a great deal of inner conflict working for Glokkmann while sleeping with her opponent, too, but was it enough to kill? I thought it more likely that she was Webber's informant, though maybe that entanglement had led to murder.

Kenya did not strike me as mentally well, but if she wanted to hurt her mom, there were much easier ways than committing murder. She surely could gain access to Glokkmann's financial information as well as her personal secrets. Randy Martineau was a wild card. He was in the motel parking lot the morning after the murder, and he had an axe to grind against Glokkmann. I couldn't see a guy switching from murder to tomato-throwing, though. Too inconsistent. And I hadn't even thrown Bernard Mink into the mix. I still didn't know why he hadn't liked Webber, but I did know he had a hot temper. So who'd killed the blogger?

"It makes sense that someone out to get Glokkmann would have killed Webber. You know she's in jail, right?"

"Again, was," he said, not unkindly. "Her lawyers sprung her last night. The case against her was weak."

"Oh." Must be nice to be a real reporter who actually knew stuff.

"Anything else you want to know?"

"Yeah. How can you bloggers afford high-end motel rooms?"

He laughed. "It's the future of news. You should look into it. Do some freelance work. You can actually make money."

"I might take you up on that. Can I call you if I have more questions?" He said yes, and we exchanged information and said our goodbyes.

I returned the phone to its cradle, nursing a feeling that the only way to find the killer would be to discover why Bob Webber was in room 19 Sat.u.r.day night. But how to do that? I couldn't ask Webber, obviously. I also didn't know anything about his family and didn't feel comfortable tracking them down to bother them in their time of grief. I could always scour his blog one more time searching for a clue among his posts, maybe an in-progress investigative piece that I hadn't read closely enough. Anything that would have called him to room 19 of the Big Chief Motor Lodge would have been related to Battle Lake. Had I been overlooking something in focusing on the political candidates because the room Webber's body was found in was on the same floor that Swydecker, Swinton, and Glokkmann were staying on? What if Webber had met someone at the Octoberfest celebration and they had rendezvoused in a room that Webber knew would be empty, and their illicit activities had taken a dark turn? Dangnabbit, I'd have to call Kennie again to find out what else she knew. It seemed like I was missing something obvious, and I still felt that way when I pulled into the library to start my Friday shift. At least my head cold seemed to be clearing.

I squeezed my sleuthing to the side to prepare the library for children's hour, my most favorite library event of the week. Some days up to a dozen kids showed, from diaper-bound toddlers to preschool-aged. The boys inevitably smelled like farts and stowed at least one plastic toy in each pocket. The girls were bossy and cute. Although it didn't give me much hope for the procreation of the species, it was glorious to bask in the open and honest joy of the children.

They loved when I employed different voices to tell the stories. When I dropped to all fours to act out a wolf sneaking up on a sheep, they squealed. If the book had a joke that involved someone's pants falling down, they laughed until their faces were red and wet with tears. I wished I could bag them all up and bring them home with me, but I bet they were a lot of work if you had to tend to their needs for more than an hour a week.

My reading selections for today were Peaceful Piggy Yoga because I thought they'd get a hoot out of practicing yoga positions while I read, Don't Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus because it was an awesome book and I'd had a tough week, But Not the Hippopotamus because they loved the silly, cheerful pictures, and You Think It's Easy Being the Tooth Fairy? because a couple of my regulars had some loose front lower teeth that they were holding onto like gold.

My books stacked, I finished some odds and ends in preparation. I was just throwing out the too-stubby coloring crayons from the art bucket I kept on hand when in strolled Elizabeth Berns.

"I hope I'm not bothering you."

I looked from the stack of books to her and decided I might as well be gracious. "I suppose not." I didn't say I was good at it.

"Can I talk to you?"

"Yeah, I've got a minute. Is it about your mom?"

She fiddled with her expensive-looking amber bracelet. "Conrad wants her admitted to the new home before Halloween."

My heart hardened. "What? I thought you two were going to monitor her for a little bit first, get a feel for her day-to-day life."

"I wanted to, but Conrad said there isn't time. He thinks she's marrying that Bernard guy so she won't get sent away and that we better move fast or we won't have any say in her life."

Was there steam coming out of my ears? I was too angry to even speak.

"I know how that sounds, believe me I do. Conrad and I fighting her fiance for control of her life."

"Then why'd you say it?"

"Can I tell you a story?" She smiled uncomfortably. "When I was a little girl, my mom was my hero. Life wasn't easy but she always made time to read to us, sewed beautiful clothes for us, and made the best from-scratch food in the county. She was famous for her b.u.t.termilk biscuits. They were rich and crusty, and we'd smother them in her homemade raspberry jam. When I was eight, my brothers and sisters and I decided we were going to make those biscuits for her for Mother's Day. She would get breakfast in bed." Elizabeth's eyes grew sad.

"What happened?"

"We ruined them, of course, and almost burned down the kitchen in the process. Dad, bless his Swedish heart, was livid. He yelled at mom for being foolish enough to let a bunch of little kids cook. She had to spend the rest of the day scrubbing the soot off the wall and cleaning her kitchen and cookware. We never ventured in her kitchen again, even though she didn't say one mean word to us. In fact, she thanked us kindly for trying to make a special morning for her. Don't you see? How could I forgive myself if I let something happen to that woman?"

A frustrated tear leaked out the edge of Elizabeth's eye, and I realized in a rush of joy that she'd already made up her mind, had, in fact, made it up before she'd walked in the door. She wasn't going to sign the papers, but she needed me, someone who knew and loved her mom as she was now, to convince her it was okay. "You and your family are very lucky," I started tentatively. "Your mother sounds like she had a level head."

Elizabeth pulled a tissue out of her purse and nodded.

"She still does, despite her escapades," I continued. "I can't promise she'll be fine, because I can't promise that about anyone. I can tell you that she's happy, and that sending her away would ruin her."

"Do you think she loves Bernard?"

"No," I said honestly. "I think she's just marrying him to get you and Conrad out of her hair."

Elizabeth sniffled. "Are we that bad?"

I raised my eyebrows. They're my best feature when it comes to conveying judgment.

"Don't be too hard on us. Conrad means well. It was hardest on him to lose Dad, and then to feel like he didn't know his mom anymore. He's been trying to fix that ever since Dad pa.s.sed, to bring back the mom he remembers."

"Don't help him to force his needs on Mrs. Berns."

"I won't," she said, drawing in a shaky sigh. "But I've got to figure out how to tell Conrad that."

"The direct route is the best." At least that's what I'd read.

"Thanks, Mira. I mean it. My mom really loves you, and I know you've done a lot for her. I wish ... never mind."

"What?"

"It's silly. I just wish I had the type of relationship with her that you do. I suppose I live too far away."

"Not today, you don't. Take her out for a night on the town. If you start out by telling her that you're not sending her up the river, I bet you two'll have a great time."

She smiled. "Probably I should wait until I've convinced Conrad to let her stay in Battle Lake. You have a good day, and thank you. I mean that."

She gave me a hug and left me feeling relieved. If she could convince Conrad that Mrs. Berns was not mentally incompetent, then Mrs. Berns wouldn't need to get married. That put me into all sorts of good mood, and as the children began strolling in, I high-fived each one of them and led them to a spot on the reading circle. In about ten minutes I had the group settled on the floor, their mothers and one father looking exhausted but hopeful, when in walked Kenya.

She plopped down at the outskirts of the circle. "Oh good! I was hoping I'd make it."

"This is for kids," Walter, the child nearest her, exclaimed. He was three years old but would swear he was four if you asked.

"I know! I love children's stories. Do you mind if I stay?"

And the children, with their blanket acceptance, all agreed she was perfectly welcome to stay and would be even more welcome if she happened to have some loose candy on her. She didn't.

I began the story, not as accepting as the kids. Kenya was a click off of normal, and I didn't like her imposing on my happy place. Still, she did look bright-eyed and turned out to be gifted with children, helping them to achieve the down dog and stretching cat poses and redirecting their attention to me when Walter accidentally tooted during the frog pose. By the time story hour was over, she had two children in her lap and another one braiding her hair.

A few kids stayed after to read books with their parents, but most of them cleared out for lunch and naptime. Kenya stayed after.

"Hope it didn't bother you that I showed," she said. "I saw the flyer for kids reading time when I was here yesterday. I love kids. I'd love to open a daycare someday, actually."

"Why don't you?"

Yesterday, she'd seemed on drugs, and today she was sane as a judge. I decided there'd be no percentage in commenting on her mood swings.

She made a grimace. "My parents say it'd be a waste of a good brain. I'm studying engineering at the University of North Dakota."

"Maybe you could engineer a daycare?"

She laughed at my lame joke. "I wanted to thank you, too."

"For what?"

"For being so nice to me yesterday, and for helping me to see the light. I'm getting a little old to be rebelling against my parents, you know? My mom was released from jail last night, and we had a good talk. She seems like she's learned a little humility. My dad couldn't make it yet-the insurance business is booming, you know-but the police said we can go back to Moorhead tomorrow morning. No offense, but it'll be a relief to be back with my friends, and even back in my stupid cla.s.ses."

"The police are letting you go home?"

"Well, they could never officially hold us, except for when mom was in jail. They just asked for our cooperation in staying close, and mom has to always be a friend to the law. Whoops! There I go again. Old habits die hard. She was probably right that it was best for everyone that we stayed around while they looked for the killer."

"They still don't know anything?"

"Not that I know. Hold on." She reached into her pocket to pull out her vibrating cell phone. She smiled at first, and then her mouth drooped, and then it looked like she had been stabbed, all the blood drained from her face so fast. She dropped the phone and stood there, staring toward nothing.

I put out my arm to catch her. "What is it?"

"My mom. She's dead."

I entreated one of the mothers to watch the library until Mrs. Berns could arrive, and then I drove Kenya to the motel as fast as I could. She was silent the whole way, staring straight ahead as if she were sleepwalking. I felt like I should reach out to her but didn't know what to say. We pulled up to the familiar sight of police cruisers and an ambulance in the motel parking lot.

Kenya hadn't remembered to wear her jacket from the library, and it was cold out. I wrapped my coat around her to ward off the brisk lake wind driving waves onto sh.o.r.e with white-capped ferocity, even though she seemed oblivious to the temperature. Gary Wohnt was the first to spot us and strode over to take Kenya off my hands, not even bothering to shoot me a look before leading her off to his car, where he had her sit half in and half out and offered her coffee.

I stayed close by.

"I'm sorry," he told her gruffly. She didn't acknowledge the coffee he was offering her, and he set it on the roof of his car before continuing. "Your father called you?"

She nodded.

"He should be here shortly. It looks like your mother committed suicide. We found a note on the scene."

She looked at him timorously. "Can I see it?"

"I'm afraid not. We're treating this as a crime scene until we know exactly what happened."

Kenya began sobbing, deep hiccups of sadness. I stood there feeling helpless until I spotted Bernard Mink skulking along the perimeter, a tiny tape recorder shoved against his mouth. I told a blank-faced Kenya that I would be back and snuck up on Bernard from behind.

"Whatcha doing?"

He jumped and turned. His bruise had become an ugly green-yellow. "f.u.c.k off."

I was completely appalled. I'd meant to annoy him, sure, payment in kind. I hadn't expected to be met with crude anger. I feared I was looking at the true Bernard Mink. "You can't talk to me like that!"

"Looks like that's one more thing you're wrong about."

"What's the other thing?"

"Go away."

"You go away. I'm only here because I'm trying to clear your ugly name in the murder of Bob Webber."

He glanced back toward the second floor to the open door of Glokkmann's room. "Not necessary. She 'fessed up. In her note."