The next time I saw Kenya she looked more shattered than when I’d left her on the shore 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.
“How is anybody supposed to see around that monstrosity?” I asked her. “And why’d you come, anyway?”
“I went to school with Sarah.”
“You didn’t like her any more than I did.”
She reached back to scratch her ankle. The fishnets must be itchy. “You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. Did you see how many people are here? We’re lucky we came early.”
“Yeah, some people had to camp out for tickets,” I said wryly. “Why didn’t you like her?”
She pursed her lips. “It’s old news.”
“I’m feeling old today. Enlighten me.”
“She wore the same dress as me to prom.”
“What?” I couldn’t help a small chuckle. If humans aren’t the most ridiculous animal on the planet, with their petty grudges and their magpie-like need to accumulate, I didn’t know what was.
“She knew I’d already bought it,” she said haughtily. “A strapless, seafoam pink gown with a matching capelet.”
“Seafoam isn’t pink.”
“It is when you buy it in Otter Tail County. And she had a professional style her hair. I couldn’t compete with that. I had to do my hair myself. She ruined the night for me.”
“It’s good you’ve been able to put this in perspective and attend her funeral.”
“Exactly,” she said, smoothing her dress and looking expectantly at the front door. I think she was hoping one of the national news crew would forego the rules and crash the church.
“So, word around town is that the Big Chief Motor Lodge is closing at the end of this month.”
She nodded. “As mayor, I hate to see a new business fold, but that place was jinxed. Two attempted suicides, one successful, and a murder? All in one week? Plus, the place had mice.”
My attention was drawn to Kenya at the front of the church, breaking away from her family to sit alone in a pew. She looked broken. “You don’t know that.”
“Do too. Saw the turds myself. All over the murdered man’s room. Can’t imagine what the rest of the place looked like. The luck there was so bad, it was probably built on a snake’s nest.”
I’d seen a news clip a couple years ago about a whole development in a suburb of Minneapolis built above snake nests, swarming live balls of hundreds upon hundreds of baby snakes. The owners couldn’t figure out how the reptiles kept getting into their houses until one woman tried to plant a garden and tilled up squirming snakes. The mere thought of it was enough to make me want to buy stilts. “Probably. Catch you later.”
“Fine.”
I sauntered toward the front of the gorgeous church, admiring the blue and gold stained glass window. The profusion of fresh flowers was overwhelming in perfume and color. As I neared the flowers, my head cold, which seemed to be clearing up yesterday, came back at me with a vengeance. I’d told Kenya I would visit with her at the funeral, so I persevered. Her sisters and brothers had surrounded each other for the pre-service, and this was the first moment we’d had to talk. I slid in next to her.
She turned toward me with sad brown eyes. “You know on Friday when I said I’d finally be getting out of this place? I was wrong.”
I tried to for lightness. “Henning is completely different than Battle Lake.”
“Coulda fooled me.”
“You’re going home after the funeral?”
“After the burial. Mom’s family is all laid to rest out here, and this is where she and dad bought their plots. Gruesome, I think, to buy that stuff in advance.”
I shrugged. “One less thing for you to worry about. How’s your dad holding up?”
“As well as can be expected, I suppose. You know they were high school sweethearts? They still held hands.”
“I’m sorry.” I sneezed twice and grabbed for a tissue. I felt like I had fiberglass under the skin of my face. “Can I ask you something completely unrelated? What’s your tattoo say?” The curiosity hadn’t been killing me, but it had been sending threatening notes.
She smiled a murmur of a smile. “You saw my tattoo?”
“Yeah. Hard to miss.”
“ Non ducor duco. ”
“What’s it mean?”
“It’s Latin: ‘I am not led; I lead.’”
I sneezed again, but with this one came an oily tingle down my back. There was danger near, something not right. Before I could pinpoint it, I saw movement in the front of Kenya’s shapeless black dress. Both her hands were out where I could see them. “Kenya, did you bring Hammy?”
She giggled quietly and slipped her hand into her pocket, pulling out a brown ball of fuzz. “Don’t tell.”
Suddenly, the world tilted a little. Kenya’s profile was in sharp relief and I could see every pore on her face. I wondered if this is what it felt like to learn you’ve been poisoned, this sudden onset of horrific awareness. I knew who had killed Bob Webber, and it wasn’t Sarah Glokkmann.