"To killing Webber?"

"Among other things."

"How do you know?" Jeezus, the man p.i.s.sed me off.

"Good reporting is about being at the right place at the right time. Plus, the officer over there is my sister's husband and he was the first one on the scene."

c.r.a.p. If his brother-in-law had told him what was in Glokkmann's suicide note, he probably told him a lot more. It's a cracking shame that curiosity is such a hard taskmaster. It made me beg this creep for answers. "Who found her body?"

"Cleaning lady."

I grimaced. "That woman should get a raise."

He ignored me. "They clean rooms a little after lunch for extended stays. Glokkmann's body was barely cold when she walked in on it."

"How'd she do it?"

"Who?" He was starting to walk away from me.

"Glokkmann, of course. How'd she kill herself?"

"Gun. Pretty messy, I hear. Can't imagine this motel will stay open much longer."

"No, me neither," I mumbled as he walked off to talk to the man I presumed was his brother-in-law. Glokkmann's death didn't sit right, and it wasn't just the gruesome manner in which it had been executed. Webber had been murdered in a way that looked like suicide, and then Swydecker had attempted suicide in a stereotypically feminine way while Glokkmann had offed herself with a gun, a rare choice for women. What other connections did all three share?

I returned to Kenya's side. Wohnt still had his eyes on her, though her sobbing had subsided. "I can stay with her until her dad shows up."

His eyes flashed at me, and for a second, I thought I saw grat.i.tude.

Kenya didn't want to talk, and so I retrieved a blanket from my car and sat with her on the motel's lakesh.o.r.e deck until her father showed up two hours later. He was a handsome man in his mid-fifties, trim with salt and pepper hair and wearing a suit that had probably started out the day neatly pressed but now looked grieved in. He ran up to his daughter and held her tightly. They both cried, and it about broke my heart. I had actively disliked Glokkmann, but she had people who loved her as a wife and mother, and their sorrow deserved respect.

Seeing Kenya in good hands, I dragged myself back to my car. I smelled something familiar next to it, maybe a combination of BO and tomatoes, but I didn't see any sign of the drifter. Probably just something washed up on sh.o.r.e.

I didn't know where to go after I left Kenya, so I returned to work, craving a drink more than I had since I'd quit in September. It was a physical pain, a heartache that could only be cauterized by the hot sear of liquor gliding down my throat. Watching Kenya cry, I'd been reminded of my sad, sixteen-year-old self the day I'd found out my dad had died in the car accident. My first reaction had been shock, a term that doesn't do justice to the feeling that all of you has been shrunk to the size of an eye, with no body to hold, no legs to run away on, the world a wild spinning place, dangerous to a tiny, wet eye. All you can do is see without comprehending and remain in constant motion to stay safe.

My shock wore off before my mom's, and I spent the next few days sitting by her bedside as people came and went with ca.s.seroles and murmured sympathy. I don't remember crying. I recalled guilt over my relief, but no tears. I'd seen that same shock in Kenya, and while she had the humanity to sob in the face of her mother's death, I'd also spied a flash of relief in her eyes, and I understood. I hoped she would go easier on herself than I had.

I steered past the library and all the way to the south end of town, pulling into the Munic.i.p.al Liquor Store parking lot. n.o.body needed to know I'd had a drink. Actually, who would care? I was an adult. I'd only be letting myself down. Stepping out of my car, I wondered whether I should be civilized and buy a bottle of red wine, or be honest and buy vodka. I chose the vodka. I almost didn't stop at the library on my way back. Mrs. Berns knew how to close up and could do fine on her own. The vodka, on the other hand, needed me.

The yellow brick called to me as I pa.s.sed, though, and reminded me that I didn't know whether or not Mrs. Berns had actually made it in. The vodka could wait ten minutes. I twitched into the parking lot and pulled into my Reserved for Librarian s.p.a.ce. Walking toward the library entrance, I counted six cars in the paved lot, two of them minivans. Outside, the potentilla shrubs clung to a last bit of color, but I'd need to trim them and clean the cigarette b.u.t.ts from the rock garden before the first snows. .h.i.t. There'd be time.

A feeling of utter relaxation seeped into my bones. I knew how I'd be spending tonight, and it felt good. Just had to make sure the library was in capable hands, and I'd go home and check out for the night.

"You get laid?"

"What?"

Mrs. Berns was sitting on a rolling chair in the center of the library with her cast propped in front of her on another chair. She was painting her free toenails a hot pink. "I asked if you'd gotten some action. You've got a goofy look on your face, and you either got laid or you're ..." Her eyes sharpened. "Go get it."

"Get what?" I'd already started backing toward the door.

"The bottle."

"I don't know what you're talking about." That was the wrong answer. I always knew what she was talking about, even if I didn't want to, and Mrs. Berns was fully aware of that fact.

"You're going to make a crippled old lady get off this chair and fight you for a bottle of wine?"

"Vodka."

"That bad, huh?"

"How'd you get here anyhow?"

"Well, I can tell you for sure that gravity didn't lend a hand." She capped the bottle of polish and blew on her toenails. "I'm trying out this color for my wedding. What do you think?"

"Looks fine."

"From there, yeah, but come close so you can see it from my perspective."

I strode over and peered at her toes. "A little bright, but nice."

Smack. She whacked me across the top of the head.

"What'd you do that for?" She'd hit the same spot I'd bonked on the underside of the table when trying to spy on Wohnt and Glokkmann.

"Because you're a dumba.s.s. Things get tough and you go back to drinking? I never understood why you were giving it up in the first place, but since it was your choice, you'd think you'd have a little more backbone about it."

I rubbed my head. "Sarah Glokkmann killed herself this morning."

"I know."

"Her daughter looked crushed."

"You'd expect that."

My eyes felt hot. "It's just a lot to process, you know? That's two deaths and a suicide this week alone. And now, there's a girl without a mother."

She squinted at me. "That must be tough, losing a parent."

"Yeah." The heat in my eyes was turning wet.

"Probably make somebody a big baby forever."

"Most likely."

"Come here." And she pulled me to her and held what parts of me she could reach in a surprisingly tight hug, squeezing more tears out of me than I knew I possessed. She patted while she held me and didn't let up until the tears stopped. "Are you better?"

"Yes." I didn't want her to let go. Up close, she smelled like old-fashioned lipstick and fresh bread.

"Then get off of me. Hey, Harold!"

I glanced behind to see an uncomfortable-looking Harry Lohwese trying to sneak out of the library.

"Don't worry," Mrs. Berns said. "The crying isn't contagious. Mira here just found out she's allergic to vodka, right after she bought a bottle. Do us a favor and take it off her hands. It's the brown Toyota out there, doors are open."

He nodded happily and walked out. I took advantage of the break to blow a pound of snot out of my nose. "Thanks."

"You want to thank me, you find the killer."

"Done. Glokkmann confessed to it in her suicide note. Bernard didn't come tell you?"

She appeared momentarily fl.u.s.tered but covered well. "He's his own man, not p-whipped like your Johnny. So, the representative killed the bobber after all."

"Blogger."

"Gesundheit."

I sighed. "Thank you. Can I ask you something? I haven't gotten a chance to ask Bernard, but what did he do to land in jail in the first place?"

"Bar fights, mostly, with a few DWIs thrown in for flavor. He's got a temper on him when he drinks."

I considered the police blotter I'd uncovered and his rude outburst at the motel today. It wasn't just when he drank. "He drink around you?"

"Not often."

"He's doesn't deserve you." I reached into my purse and fished out the print-outs from the Daily Register. "He's got problems."

She scanned the paper. "You think I don't know all about this?"

"Do you?"

Her shoulders drooped. "Well, not this exactly, but I'm not blind to his issues." She sighed and looked me in the eye. "Fine. I didn't tell you the whole story. We've got a business arrangement, Bernard and I. The plan is that he and I party together for a few weeks, get married, and Conrad loses interest in having me declared mentally incompetent. Then, Bernard and I get divorced, I pay him $5,000, and I never see him again."

I whistled through my teeth. "So why Bernard?"

"That's all I had time for. He and I first met in the gas station, like I told you, and we had a couple weeks of fun. Then Conrad shows up, and I have to quick-like unearth a fiance. Bernard was convenient. He's got poor character, it's true, but that makes him easier to bribe and it means he knows how to keep a secret. The bobber's death almost ruined it all, but it looks like that's been cleared up, too."

"I never did get a chance to ask Bernard why he and Webber didn't get along."

"Professional rivalry, near as I can tell. It's just that when you're on probation for an a.s.sault charge, and the man you'd happened to publicly threaten at a certain small-town beer festival shows up dead the next day, you like to cover your tracks." Her toenails dry, she pulled on her sock and tennis shoe.

I chose my words carefully. "Elizabeth came to see me today."

"I know."

"How?"

"She came by afterward, told me that she wasn't going to sign off on the mental incompetency papers." She looked serious.

"Well, yeah! That's great news, isn't it?"

"She said she didn't feel close to me anymore."

"Oh." I considered returning the hug. "She does live far away."

"That shouldn't matter."

"So what're you going to do?"

A glint sparkled deep in her eyes. "I'm going on vacation. Ever been to Sedona?" She p.r.o.nounced every syllable. C-doe-na.

"Nope."

"I hear there's a lot of sugar daddies there."

I smiled hopefully. "That mean you're not getting married? You wouldn't have to anyways, now that your kids are off your back."

"Just one kid. Conrad is still behaving like a c.o.o.nhound with s.h.i.t on his nose, and he could talk another one of my fool kids into putting me away at any time."

"So you're going through with the wedding, even though you know Bernard has a violent temper and a possible drinking problem?"

"You're no better than my kids, trying to control me like that. It's a business arrangement, I told you. Bernard has weak moral fiber, which makes him perfect for a shotgun, short-term marriage. He'll serve his purpose, and I'll be a free old lady once again." Mrs. Berns reached for her crutches. "Now help me up. I've gotta get going now that you're back."

I was resigned to respect her decisions as much as they worried me. I'd have to let her accept the consequences of her decision, though you'd better bet your b.u.mper that I'd be keeping a close eye on Bernard until the divorce was signed and he was out of town for good. "How're your ribs feeling?"

"Cracked. I'll be sad when the bruises fade, though. They make me look street tough."

I studied her green and blue face affectionately. "You look tough all right." I helped her stand up, surprised at how feather light she was. "Now where are you off to? Or is it, 'to where are you off?' I always forget where to put the preposition."

She rearranged her clothes before picking up her crutches. "I find that if I toss in some profanity, it throws people off so they don't even think about the grammar. 'Where the h.e.l.l are you going?' See how that works?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"You're welcome. And I'm going to finish my wedding planning. Bernard is picking me up out front."

I watched her limp away. "Need help?"

"No offense, but you're not exactly the go-to person for girlie stuff like wedding planning."

"None taken." And she left me, still feeling a little sad and shaken but gratefully whole.

The next time I saw Kenya she looked more shattered than when I'd left her on the sh.o.r.e 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.