October Fest Part 8

Grace consulted her handheld. "Your next opening is Thursday."

"You plan on staying that long?" I asked.

Her tense smile tightened. "I feel it's my responsibility to listen to my const.i.tuents when Congress isn't in session. I'll be in Battle Lake as long as that takes."

Or for the murder investigation to wrap up. "Great! What time Thursday, and where would you like to meet?"

"How about 10:00 a.m. at the library?"

"Perfect," I said. "We don't open until noon so that would give us uninterrupted time to talk. I appreciate it."

"It would be helpful if the library was open earlier," she said, her brow furrowing.

"I agree. Our funding was cut."

"Oh no, that's not right. That's not right at all. I will have to see what I can do about that. In the meanwhile, what do you say about changing the Thursday library hours?"

"Changing them to what?"

"Ten to whatever time you're scheduled to close."

"I can do that this Thursday, but like I said, there's no funding for longer hours."

She wrinkled her nose. "There must be a way to cut corners. You like your job?"

I didn't like the direction this conversation was taking. Yet. "Yeah, I do."

"And does the town love its library?"

"I think so."

"Then you'll find a way, I know you will, even if it means taking a pay cut. In tough times, we all have to tighten our belts." She nodded her head brusquely. "I'll see you Thursday at 10:00 a.m."

"Thank you so much," I said acidly. Out of the corner of my eye, I noted Tanya eavesdropping on our conversation and smiling broadly. I mentally stuck my tongue out at her.

"My pleasure," Glokkmann said, but she was already looking over my shoulder. Most of the reporters had left.

On my way out, I heard Glokkmann thanking Nancy for her wonderful food and hospitality. I wondered if Sid was going to let the representative walk out without giving her a piece of her mind.

I left all that behind me to run the library for the next six hours at what were already poverty wages. I certainly could volunteer to work to keep the library open longer hours, but that wouldn't solve the problem of slashed funding for basic community services-schools, medical care, libraries. I fumed for hours about how that woman had made me feel guilty for doing my job, but at the end of the day, I had bigger fish to fry.

Or backs to spray. I still wasn't a hundred percent clear on how Kennie had tricked me into tonight's gig. Really, it was Mrs. Berns' fault because I wouldn't be indebted to Kennie if not for her. I was rolling that negative thought around in my head, getting ready to close up the library, when in walked Conrad, marching like he was on full parade. He pounded toward where I stood behind the front counter and held out his hand. Feeling peevish, I didn't take it.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Berns?"

"It's what you can do for my mother. Allow me to speak plainly. She's going to be moved to a nursing home where I can guarantee she's safe, and I need your help in making a smooth transition for her."

I swung from one angry tree to another. "Safe? What kind of life is 'safe'?"

He pounded his fist on the countertop, and I jumped. "For G.o.d sakes, you've seen her in the hospital! She almost died on Sunday. Do you want that on your shoulders?"

I sucked in an angry breath. "I might not always agree with her decisions. You might not always agree with her decisions. But she's earned the right to make her own choices and to live with the consequences."

He leaned in closely, his nose advancing toward me like a paring knife. "I know she cares about you. If you care about her, you'll encourage her to move to the new nursing home, and you'll tell my sister that you think it's for the best. I don't know why, but Elizabeth has come to respect your input."

I didn't back down. "Do you even know your mother? Have you even asked any of her friends what she's like, or do you just come in and tell everyone how it's going to be? Because if you asked around, you'd find that your mom is pretty well-respected in this community, and she's happy. And she's settling down." I had a hard time following the script but soldiered on. "She's engaged to an employed man and she's meeting with a life coach. She's turning her life around."

He ran his hand over his face, and for a moment, I saw the man behind the curtain. "I want her out of harm's way. That's all. I just want my mother to be protected, and to live a life that would make my dad proud."

"What about a life that would make her proud?"

He didn't answer, instead turning a neat 180 on his back heel and marching out the way he'd come.

He left me agitated by thoughts of Mrs. Berns being forcibly led away despite her best attempts to get her granny on, and this agitation slowed me down. I got out of work later than expected. I had only enough time to run home and check on Tiger Pop and Luna, who were both sunning themselves in the backyard, before I cruised back into town and parked behind Stub's. I was dismayed to see the lot was already filling up. Kennie was equally disappointed when I walked in, but for different reasons.

"Sugar pie, I thought we agreed you'd come early to help decorate the tables and storm up some conversation starters?"

I had no patience for her whining. "It's been a c.r.a.ppy day. You're lucky I'm here at all. But since I am, how's this for conversational springboards for tonight's festivities: 'Why are you orange?' or 'Can you believe we paid for this?'"

"Now now, that's no att.i.tude. This is a fun night! You're a sparkly hostess! Come with me." She dragged me over to the spray tan booth she'd set up. It consisted of four cloth room dividers arranged so they formed a portable room in a roughly square shape. A curtain lay draped over the single opening so people could walk in and out without moving the dividers. Inside the makeshift room rested a single chair, which Kennie informed me was for the shirts of the tanners, and a bench which contained the MagiTan spraying equipment, hair cover-ups, and white paper towels for the clients to tuck into the waist of their pants so no orange smeared on them. My instructions were to only spray faces and upper bodies.

I listened to half of what she said, wondering if I was supposed to have some sort of license. Any job that entailed changing the color of someone's skin should require formal training and a standardized certification. "I'm only doing this because I told you I would, you know," I said pettily. "I already found out that Swydecker doesn't have an alibi for the night of the murder."

She raised an eyebrow. "Then you certainly won't want to hear that he was with a woman that night."

"What?" I thought back to my conversation with him. He'd been the picture of resigned honesty. "He said he wasn't with anyone the night of the murder. Why would he lie if he had someone to corroborate his whereabouts and get him off the hook?"

She tapped her long red fingernail against her chin and pretended to ponder that idea. "Let's see. Why would a married man running for political office hide the fact that he'd spent the night with a woman?"

I pictured his empty wedding ring finger. "The woman wasn't his wife."

"Bingo! But don't be too disappointed. I have even more interesting information to share. We've found enough evidence at the scene of the crime to name a suspect."

My ears perked. "Not Swydecker, right?"

"You'll have to wait until after your shift to find out. When some of those men take off their shirts and you have to push aside back hair to get to their skin, you might lose your resolve without incentive to stay."

Or my lunch. I looked longingly at the rows of glittering gla.s.s bottles behind the bar, slapped myself, and walked, head down, into the booth just as the line began to form outside it.

The only way I could get through the hour of spraying the bodies of strangers was by pretending I was a prison guard delousing them, and that they were all going away for a very long time. The patrons' reactions ran the gamut from shy to sheepish to excited. Mostly, though, they were nervous and trying to hide it. The only person who acknowledged the strangeness of the evening was a sweet woman in her late twenties with a slight limp. I'd seen her around town and thought she worked at one of the gift shops. She was constantly in the library checking out books on animals, but she was painfully shy and I didn't know her name.

When her back was turned, she said, "How long have you been doing this?"

"About thirty minutes."

She laughed politely. "No, not tonight. I meant in your life."

"Yup," I said.

"Oh." She held out her arms when I asked. "This is kinda weird, then."

"I'm sorry."

She coughed and reached for the bra she'd set over the back of the chair and then caught herself, squaring her shoulders and holding her arms out again. "I'm not going to meet anyone if I don't step out of my comfort zone, am I?"

My sympathy for her squelched my sarcastic urges. "It could be a fun night."

"Yes," she said firmly. "Will the spray cover up my tattoo?"

I glanced at the lower back art, the head of a German Shepherd above the name "Toby." According to the dates, he had died last year.

"I don't think so, and it's only temporary in any case. Do you still want the spray?"

"Sure," she said. "I've seen you working at the library. Is this your new part-time job?"

"Not if I can help it. Was Toby your dog?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry. I live with a part German shepherd. Her name is Luna. I know how easy it is to love your dogs." I finished spraying her back and instructed her to face me. She was kind enough to cover her b.r.e.a.s.t.s with her hands. The spray lines would be odd, but it made us both much more comfortable.

"Yes. It is."

Her shoulders were quavering a little, so I finished quickly. "Good luck tonight."

She thanked me, got dressed, and left. I returned to the drudgery of coating people who were too embarra.s.sed to talk, which was fine by me. I was doing great until the very last gentleman entered my booth, his coupon in hand. He was in his early thirties and thin, sporting a long Ichabod Crane neck with a bobbing Adam's apple. I gave him the spiel.

"We'll treat this just like a tanning booth. First, take your shirt off." He complied. "And your gla.s.ses." He slid them off his nose and set them on his neatly folded shirt. "Hold your arms out like you're a scarecrow." I sprayed his front. We were doing great until my sprayer clogged.

"Excuse me," I said. "I have to go rinse this. I'll be right back." A quick rinse under hot water, and I had the sprayer working again in under two minutes. The end was in sight, and so by the time I returned to the tanning room, I was almost in a good mood. Until I pulled back the curtain on the tanning room and saw Ichabod standing there, facing me and completely naked. I squeaked, and then, I swear I couldn't help it, my eyes shot to his down-below before zipping back up to his face. My cheeks burned. Never underestimate the skinny guys was the hard-earned lesson there.

I covered embarra.s.sment with indignation. "What the put-your- pants-on is going on here?"

He might have blushed, but it was impossible to tell because before leaving I had sprayed his face the color of a tropical sunset. "You told me to treat this like a tanning booth. I tan naked at the tanning booth. Tan lines, you know. Everybody tans naked," he added, as if I hadn't gotten the memo. He looked ready to cry, but defiant, like he didn't want to admit that this mortifying situation was all his fault.

He looked so, well, naked. I felt bad for him. I sucked in a deep breath. "You're right that I did say to treat this like a tanning booth. I'm sorry I wasn't clearer. I really should have been." I indicated his lower torso without looking directly at it. Okay, I might have snuck in one more glance. Goodness. "This is only top-up tanning. Nothing from the waist down. I'll step out so you can get dressed."

"But what about my back?" He whined. "Will you still tan my back?"

"As soon as your pants are back on." I stepped out and inhaled deeply. I was certain I was going to have nightmares about anteaters tonight.

He called me back in once he was dressed, and we both made a Herculean effort to avoid eye contact. He made awkward conversational attempts, but accidental nudity is hard to recover from. I quickly spritzed his back and exited the booth to help Kennie herd the lovelorn singles to their grazing ground.

While I'd been spraying the two dozen odd clients, she'd been plying them with liquor. As a result, almost everyone in Stub's back room was approximately the color of traffic cones, and blitzed. They were voluntarily s.e.x-segregated, the women on one side of the room giggling and staring at the men, and the men on the other shoving their hands in their pockets and dearly wishing the guy next to them would morph into a TV. It was like being at a Martian dentists' convention: a bunch of boring, drunk, orange creatures standing around uncomfortably.

Kennie had deliberately kept the male/female ratio as close to even as possible. She'd told me the plan for the night was to seat one man at each table, and then she would blow a whistle. Each woman would charge toward the table she wanted and then have five minutes to talk up the man sitting there. When the next whistle blew, the women would stand and move one table to their right. I calculated it should take less than an hour to get through this skin auction, I'd get the dirt on the suspect from Kennie, and I'd be home to wash my eyes with hydrogen peroxide before 10:00 pm.

Kennie explained the rules to the partic.i.p.ants, and I helped her seat one man per table. Then we stepped out of the way.

The fast-action love tango was surprisingly painful to watch, hopeful singles striving to flirt, make small talk, and open their heart in the s.p.a.ce of five minutes. It was like watching an excruciating, high-speed job interview play itself out over and over again. The worst was when one person at a table showed an immediate interest and the other person did not, which I observed was frequently the case with Ichabod Crane, my pee-peeper. It got so by the end of the night, I was feeling even sorrier for him than before. I overheard him trotting out the same jokes to woman after woman, and they weren't buying it: "Hey, I'm Darcy," he'd say, "and I just want to know, if airports are so safe, why do they call them terminals?"

If the woman laughed politely, he'd follow that with, "and have you ever noticed that how long a minute is depends on what side of the bathroom door you're on?" That one was almost a guarantee that the woman would excuse herself to get a drink, but if she was kind enough to stay put, he'd roll out his ace in the hole. "There seems to be something wrong with my cell phone." And he'd pop it out and flip it open. Yes, flip it open. "It doesn't have your number in it."

I finally couldn't stand it any longer. I slipped in the seat across from him at the next whistle. He was by now so dejected from the process that he didn't look up, just said in a morose voice, "Hey, I'm Darcy, and I just want to know, if airports are so-"

"Stop it."

He glanced up. "What are you doing here? Are you a speed dater too?" He returned his gaze to his lap, embarra.s.sed. "I'm sorry, but you're not really my type."

"What?" I was insulted before I realized I didn't care. "Never mind. You're not my type either. But you might meet a nice woman if you stop being so pitiful."

"I don't know what you mean," he said pitifully.

"Look, despite the fact that you depantsed yourself, you seem like a nice guy. Am I right?"

"My mother thinks so."

"Jeez. See what I mean? You talk too much. You're on automatic spiel, and you're not even listening to the women across from you. Everyone likes to be listened to."

He pulled out a well-worn book from his back pocket. "Not according to Manly Man: The Guide to Irresistibility. Women like their men funny and forceful."

I chucked the book across the room and saw two men scoop it up quick like seagulls on a hot dog. "There's no prescription for love. You have to be yourself if you want to find someone who loves you." Who did I think I was? Me dispensing dating advice was like Humpty Dumpty telling people how to sit.

"But no one likes me when I'm myself," he said in a tiny voice.

"Try me. We have forty-five seconds left."

"I'm feeling kind of insecure right now. Could I have a hug?"

"Try harder."

He drew in a shaky breath. "Hi. My name is Darcy. I'm an online game developer. I make around $40,000 a year and hide most of it in a Crisco can under the sink because I'm afraid of banks. If I was an animal, I'd be a fish that no one has ever discovered. I've only kissed one female besides my mom, and we got our braces tangled and had to be brought to the E.R. to separate them. She never wanted to see me again, which was hard because we were in the same homeroom."

I held up my hand. I couldn't take it anymore. "Do you have anything positive to say at all?"

He dragged his eyes to meet mine with great effort. "I volunteer at the Humane Society, and I love it. It's the only place I'm happy. I spend every free moment helping out."

My light bulb went off, though it was dim. "Hold it right there." I looked around for the woman with Toby tattooed on her back but couldn't find her anywhere. As a last ditch effort, I searched the bathroom and came across her hiding in a corner, clutching a drink like it was a life preserver. "You okay?" I asked.

She had tear streaks on her carrot-colored face and wiped them away quickly. "I don't think this is for me."

"Care to give it one more chance?"

She shook her head. "I think I want to go home."

"Please? It can't get much worse, right?"

She smiled tiredly and slammed what was left of her drink. "If it'll make you feel better. I suppose you get in trouble if we're not all at the tables like we're supposed to be."