Ms America and the Whoopsie in Winona (11 page)

“What’s her name?”

My mind cranks. “Trudy. Trudy Barnett. Lovely redhead. You’ll like her.”

“I’ll see her then.” Click.

Now I have to get Trixie—sorry, Trudy—on board.

Everyone is chatting about dinner when I return to the living room. I sit down next to Trixie. “You want me to figure out who murdered Ingrid, right? I have a way you can help.”

“If it doesn’t involve haunted houses, I’m in,” she tells me. Like every beauty queen worth her sash, Trixie is game for anything.

“No haunted houses,” I tell her. “But it does involve a late-night clandestine meeting by the lake where you’ll trade cash for information.”

“What?” Trixie screeches.

I hasten to explain. “I’d do it myself but he’d recognize my voice. He mistook me for Ingrid on the phone because he thinks she has a cold and sounds different. And we can’t have Shanelle do it because she doesn’t look like she could be Ingrid’s niece.”

“I’m not pale enough,” Shanelle says.

“And Mario can’t do it,” I go on, “because Hubble might recognize him from TV.”

“I could do it!” my mother cries. “You could’ve said you’d send Ingrid’s friend instead of her niece. You never give me enough credit.” My mother glares at me. “But I don’t mind too much because what I want is dinner.” She rises to her feet. “I’m taking the fruitcake out of the oven. Then I want to go eat.”

“Yes, let’s,” Shanelle says. “I missed lunch and I’m starving.”

I missed lunch, too—quite the rarity for me—so I’m also ravenous. “Let’s swing past the lake so we can scope out the location then go get dinner. Plus I have to go to the ATM.” Three hundred smackers is a lot to dole out for what might be useless information but maybe I can expense it to the pageant. Mr. Cantwell has said more than once that my sleuthing is excellent P.R. for the organization.

Trixie gripes about my changing her name to Trudy but, as I expected, she understands that I blurted it out in the heat of the moment. In short order she courageously accepts her mission. Mario, Shanelle, and I will keep an eye on her from a hidden vantage point, which all of us find reassuring. While we grab a hasty meal at a café popular with students from Winona State, we explain to Mario what little we know about Galena Lang.

“Maybe she and Ingrid had an ancient feud,” Trixie says.

I can tell Trixie’s getting into her role. “The only time anybody hires a P.I.,” I say, “which I’m pretty sure is what this guy Hubble is, is when they need to check somebody out.”

“Who would need to check out the local mortician?” Shanelle wants to know. “I mean, even if you want to use her services you don’t need to know whether she bounces checks or is secretly married.”

“If they were feuding,” Trixie says, “it’s weird that Galena was Ingrid’s mortician.”

“Who knew?” I say. “I got the idea Maggie picked Lang Funeral Home because it’s the most established place in town. Anyway, Trixie, remember to find out what Ingrid told Hubble about why she wanted Galena Lang investigated.”

“If she told him anything,” Mario says.

“I want to get a load of this Galena Lang.” My mother swipes her lips with a napkin. “I hope she has the good sense not to put Goth makeup on the newly deceased.”

We drop my mom back at Damsgard so she can begin “steeping” her fruitcake. I note Pop’s rental car is once again in the driveway. So Maggie and Pop are back from their Minneapolis day trip. Let’s hope the love triangle doesn’t erupt into another homicide in the next hour.

We three queens plus Mario return to Lake Winona driving two cars: our rental plus Ingrid’s silver Mercedes. To make sure that Hubble doesn’t see us, we park on a residential side street a few blocks from the boat landing. I’m sure the lake is a lovely recreational area on a warm day but now when it’s pitch dark out, barely twenty degrees, and deserted, it’s a little spooky.

We boldly bundled Trixie into Ingrid’s warmest coat so she wouldn’t freeze. It’s a delicious garment: a mid-thigh black puffer with a cinched silhouette and fur trim on the hood.

“I feel positively toasty in this,” she says as we gather curbside to review her instructions.

“It’s styling, too,” Shanelle observes.

“I agree. And that’s good because being well-dressed always gives me confidence,” Trixie says.

Spoken like a true beauty queen.

“We’ll be watching you from the rental car just up the street from the boat landing,” Mario assures her. “Don’t worry about a thing.”

“I won’t. In fact I’m kind of excited!” Her hazel eyes shine.

Trixie gets in the Mercedes and drives off. We wait a few minutes then take a different route to park in our prearranged spot. Mario cuts the engine. We see the Mercedes parked ahead, and Trixie waiting by the boat landing, her breath fogging in the frigid air.

“I’m kind of excited, too,” I murmur. “This is like a stakeout.”

A few minutes pass before a nondescript Japanese sedan parks behind the Mercedes. A huskily built man in a parka and wool cap emerges and greets Trixie at the boat landing. We watch her hand over the wad of cash stashed in her pocket. Hubble doesn’t bother to count the bills.

“He must think Ingrid’s good for it,” I whisper.

Hubble and Trixie engage in an animated conversation. Every once in a while Hubble glances around as if to make sure no one is observing the tête-à-tête. I always freeze in place when he does that. At one point Trixie’s mouth gapes as if she just heard something shocking.

“I am dying to know what he just told her,” Shanelle says.

Then Hubble pulls out his wallet and hands Trixie something.

“Good,” Mario mutters. “I think she just got his business card.”

That was part of her mission, too. We want to be able to contact Hubble again.

Finally the two amble back to their cars and shake hands before parting. We don’t budge until both have driven off, then return to Damsgard via a circuitous route.

We find Trixie in her bedroom as prearranged, since it’s probably best at this point to keep everything on the QT. Read: keep my mother out of it. Trixie’s skin is still pink from the cold and her hazel eyes still shine with excitement.

“What did you find out?” I whisper.

Trixie takes a deep breath. “Mr. Hubble said he thinks Galena might be doing something illegal.”

“
Might
be doing something illegal?” I hope I didn’t shell out three hundred smackers for “might” be. “What’s the illegal thing he thinks Galena’s doing? And how is he going to prove it?”

“He doesn’t know what the illegal thing is,” Trixie says. “Or how he’d prove it.”

I shake my head, visualizing my money swirling down a drain.

“Hear me out,” Trixie says. “Mr. Hubble told me he found out that Galena nearly filed for bankruptcy back in the fall then all of a sudden she had enough money to go on a trip to England to attend some Goth festival.”

“I wonder if she went for Whitby Goth Weekend.” Now that he hasn’t seen a ghost in a while, Mario’s typical self-possession has returned. “I saw something on TV about that. It’s gotten to be a pretty big deal. Thousands of people go, from all over the world. Not just Goths, either. Steampunks, metallers, bikers, whatever.”

“Anyway,” Trixie goes on, “if she’s almost bankrupt, how did Galena get the money to go to Europe? Mr. Hubble says he’s close to finding out more, if Ingrid is interested. I told him she’d let him know.”

“Hubble’s information isn’t good enough to justify another payment,” I say. “Plus he seems too loud and boisterous to be a real P.I.”

“He is one all the same,” Trixie says. “He used to be a policeman but he told me he can make better money this way.”

He sure can. Thanks to me, he’s three hundred dollars richer. “What did he tell you about why Ingrid hired him?”

“All he would say was that Ingrid told him Galena was trouble. That’s the word he said she used. ‘Trouble.’ ”

“When did she hire him?” Shanelle wants to know.

“About a month and a half ago,” Trixie reports.

“So obviously there was bad blood between Galena and Ingrid but we still don’t know the source of it,” I say. “It had to have been pretty serious if Ingrid went to the trouble and expense to hire a P.I.” Now that I’ve seen his business card, I know for sure that Hubble is a private investigator.

“Why didn’t Ingrid just have Mr. Hubble come here to Damsgard for their meetings?” Trixie says. “She lives alone. No one would have been the wiser.”

“Maybe she didn’t want him to see how rich she is,” Shanelle says. “She probably figured his fee would go up if he knew.”

That’s not a problem I’ve ever had.

Trixie grimaces. “I felt bad when Mr. Hubble told me he hoped Ingrid felt better soon. I knew that wasn’t going to happen.”

We’re all silent as we ponder Ingrid’s sad fate. Then I pipe up again. “Hiring Hubble to investigate Galena Lang is another thing Ingrid was keeping secret. There’s a pretty long list now.”

“True,” Shanelle says. “Secret number two: that she worshipped the heathen goddess Freyja. Number three: that she didn’t own Damsgard.”

“Really?” Mario says.

“That’s what Ingrid’s stepson Peter Svendsen claims,” I say. “We don’t know it for a fact yet. We’ll find out tomorrow when the will is read.” I am really looking forward to that. I have high hopes that it will be a revealing moment.

As we say our good nights, I realize I soon may be adding Galena’s name to my suspects list. She might have had a motive for murder. Clearly there was recent conflict between her and Ingrid if Ingrid hired Hubble to investigate Galena just six weeks ago.

I walk Mario downstairs to the front door. I won’t see him again until late tomorrow because he has shoots lined up all day. I wonder if Winona’s ghosts have gotten the memo.

He steps outside. “It’s hard to believe this house is missing any Christmas decorations but you know what I can’t find? Mistletoe.” He winks at me as he heads down the snowy path to the sidewalk. “And believe me, I’ve looked.”

That gets me shivering again. But this time there’s no ghost in sight.

It’s only after I’m ready for bed that I remember to text Priscilla Pembroke about conducting one of the Friday-the-13
th
rituals for Freyja tomorrow evening here at Damsgard. She replies instantly that she would be honored to preside and will bring all the necessary accouterments.

Then another idea occurs to me.
Will you be coming to Damsgard earlier in the day for the reading of Ingrid’s will?

Perhaps,
she replies.
The dear always did say she would leave me something.

I’m slipping downstairs to get a glass of water when I hear voices coming from the room Pop and Maggie are sharing. Since Maggie is among my suspects, the tone is agitated, and I am shameless, I tiptoe close to their door to eavesdrop.

“Why shouldn’t I have asked her?” Maggie demands. “She’s my sister!”

Low muttering sounds, which must come from my father.

“She had more than she knew what to do with,” Maggie asserts. “And Donovan and I are the only family she had left. She was a skinflint, is what she was.”

My father must’ve moved closer to the door because now I hear him clearly. “She had a point, that after all these years of working you should have something to retire on.”

“Easy for you to say! You have a pension from the police department. You don’t get one of those when you run your own business. Plus you know I never got any help from Donovan’s father.” Silence, then in a superior tone: “And after tomorrow when I finally get what I deserve, maybe it’ll be
me
who doesn’t want to get married, not
you
.”

I wait a bit longer but that’s the end of that conversation. I’d say the two of them retired for the night in less than perfect harmony. That’s fine with me.

I hasten to complete my water run. And even though as I return upstairs the Nyquil is beginning to take effect, I am not too addled to grasp the meaning of what I just overheard. To wit: Maggie asked Ingrid for money to help her retire; Ingrid said no; Maggie was seriously irked but she’s over it now because she believes that tomorrow, after the reading of Ingrid’s will, she’ll get her long overdue payday.

Seems to me Ingrid’s death came at a pretty convenient time for Maggie. And there’s good news in all of this for me: in mere hours Maggie may be so rich she’ll no longer have a financial incentive to marry Pop.

Something else may be working in my favor. I perceive the two of them have been out of sync ever since Maggie admitted she stole an inflatable fruitcake from the Giant W. That sort of thing wouldn’t sit well with Pop. It doesn’t sit well with me, either. And I still think her crime spree may have extended beyond theft to murder.

The next morning I rise to an early alarm. I don’t want to miss the chance for a few minutes alone with Pop and I know the best time to catch him is first thing over coffee. Indeed I come upon him alone in the kitchen in his pajamas and robe, sniffing Mom’s fruitcake. He’s unwrapped some of the cellophane and is holding it up to his nose. He looks enraptured, and having eaten Mom’s fruitcake I understand why. I wish she were awake to witness this display.

I pad into the kitchen in my jammies and slippers. “Morning, Pop.” I give him a nuzzle. “I’ll make the coffee. Maggie still asleep?”

He looks sheepish as he rewraps the fruitcake. “If she doesn’t have to get to the salon, she’s not an early riser.”

I busy myself with the coffeepot. “What did you two do yesterday in Minneapolis?”

He settles at the table in the nook. “I don’t want to tell you because you’re going to think what you thought before. That she doesn’t care what happened to her sister.”

I spoon ground coffee into the filter. Maggie probably wanted to go shopping for home décor items. And yes, that would be my assessment.

“That’s a lot of hooey,” he adds.

“I couldn’t help but overhear you two last night,” I lie. “Talking about Ingrid refusing to give Maggie money so she could retire.”