Ms America and the Whoopsie in Winona (13 page)

“Au contraire. Which is pretty shocking given what she told us.” We enter the house. Now with the broken window it’s almost the same temperature inside as outside. “I don’t know what to think about Priscilla. But the truth is that anybody could’ve done this. There are people who read obituaries so they can burgle the homes of the deceased during the funeral services.”

“That pretty much defines scum of the earth in my book.”

I can’t disagree. “Where are mom and Trixie, by the way?”

“They went to the grocery store to buy walleye for dinner.”

That’s a Minnesota specialty I’m looking forward to trying. And I bet tonight’s repast will be delicious. My mom will trot out every culinary trick she knows to show off in front of Maggie.

I stand in the foyer and text Detective Dembek with details of the break-in. She responds that she’ll dispatch an officer right away to dust for prints, though neither of us expects any to be found.

Shanelle hugs herself. “That is one chill wind blowing in here. We need to replace that window ASAP.”

“I’ll call that hardware store we passed to see if they can recommend somebody to take care of it.”

They do me one better. They declare they’ll send over one of their own people free of charge. “Been selling to Damsgard all my life,” the proprietor informs me. “It’s the least I can do for the family, especially with this tragedy.”

Unfortunately I can pry no useful gossip out of the man when he appears an hour later, shortly after the Winona P.D. officer departed without useful prints. But once he’s done with the window, I ask if he’ll do me another favor and unlock a room upstairs.

Minutes later he takes his leave and I cajole Shanelle into accompanying me to the third floor. It may be the middle of the day but Mario’s ghost story from last night is still reverberating in my mind. As we set foot onto the shadowy third-floor landing, we see that the hardware man left the door to the previously locked room slightly ajar. I push it open cautiously, Shanelle right behind me.

We stand on the threshold and gasp in unison.

“I can’t believe it,” Shanelle whispers.

I can’t, either. Because what this room holds is a prison cell.

Floor-to-ceiling bars create a cell that takes up about half the room. Inside are a toilet, sink, cot, and small wooden desk and chair.

Shanelle and I approach the cell. We could go inside, because the door is open, but neither of us does. We stand outside the bars and stare. We may not have found a ghost in this room but I’d say we’ve come upon something equally spooky.

“I’ll be the one to ask the obvious question,” I say into our stunned silence. “Why does Damsgard have a prison cell?”

“I can’t answer that, girl,” Shanelle murmurs. “But it gives me the creeps.”

“The cot looks slept in.” The drab sheets are mussed and the thin blue blanket is pulled back. There’s an indentation on the pillow as if a head rested there.

“I wonder how long this has been here,” Shanelle says. “Like, was it here when Peter and his sister were growing up? Is this where they sent the kids for time outs? If so it might explain why Peter’s kind of tightly wound.”

I shudder to think. “Or did it go in afterwards? I don’t know how we find out. That’d be sort of an awkward topic to bring up in conversation. ‘Hey, Peter, when did your folks put in the prison cell?’ ”

Shanelle gets into the faux jocularity. “ ‘You planning to keep it when you move in or maybe you think it’s time to take it out?’ ”

“ ‘And what about a permit? Is that required or not?’ ”

We chuckle but it’s hard to feel jolly when you’re staring at those bars. We leave the room behind us and return downstairs.

I feel rejuvenated once we step into the cheery kitchen. I pour us mugs of coffee. “I say we leave the third floor off the Christmas tour. What do you think?”

“I think you best get Detective Dembek on the horn.” Shanelle pours cream into her coffee. “That cell is too weird for words. She needs to know about it. And if she hasn’t questioned Peter Svendsen already, she can probe him about that thing.”

“Your wish is my command.”

Detective Dembek professes astonishment about the cell and assures me she’ll bring it up when she next speaks to Peter.

Maggie and my father return and in short order retire to their room. Both are so spent, I don’t even bother to tell them about the attempted break-in. My mom and Trixie come back to Damsgard with enough groceries to feed a battalion. We fix a lunch of soup and sandwiches, some of which I carry upstairs for Maggie and Pop. I spend time doing research online on my suspects, not that it proves very valuable. I do find a bio of Peter Svendsen but the only thing I learn is that he spent a year in England during college. I also discover that Priscilla Pembroke does have quite the list of acting credits. Most of them are theater roles but there are a few parts in TV and movies, too. The role of Hermione in Winona’s production of
The Winter’s Tale
doesn’t show up but maybe “ac-TORS” like Priscilla keep their regional theatrical work to themselves.

Then a different question plagues me. What does one wear to eavesdrop on the reading of a will? I select my slim light gray trousers—which have a terrific drape—and pair them with a knit top with a faux wrap front in a leopard-spot print enlivened by a red background. I look so pulled together it’s a shame no one will see me.

Half an hour before everyone is scheduled to arrive, I get into position. Fortunately I earlier confirmed the location of the switch that swings back the bookshelves that reveal the secret room, because it’s none too easy to find. Trixie joins me—partly to keep me company and partly because she loves the secret room—and Shanelle moves the shelves back into place, leaving only the narrowest of gaps.

“Let’s do a test,” she says. “Can you hear me from here? Here?”

Happily, we can.

“You’ve got to report on everything that happens in every other room,” I say.

“I know. I’m your eyes and ears. Good luck.”

The secret room is exciting in lots of ways but it’s windowless, pitch dark because we can’t turn the standing lamp on, and not particularly comfortable. We both put our cell phones on silent mode and I entertain myself by using the flashlight app to shine a thin beam of light around the room.

“I wish there were chairs in here,” Trixie whispers a few minutes later. She looks cute in jeans and a white peasant blouse with black trim outlining the keyhole neckline.

“You and me both.” We’re sitting on the floor leaning back against the wall. Only an oriental carpet cushions our bony butts from the hardwood beneath. Apart from the shrine to Freyja, the lone other furnishing is a bookshelf. It’s not snazzy like the gorgeous carved built-ins in the library but all the volumes are the serious-looking leather-bound kind.

I examine the offerings. “I suppose we could read until people show up.”

Trixie joins me. “I don’t think I’m going to find a romance novel here.”

“No chance of that.” I select
Robinson Crusoe
, which has been on my To Read list forever, and give my nose a thorough blow so I can get through the reading of Ingrid’s will with clear nasal passages. I’m fighting my way through the part of the book where Robinson thinks about how “the calamities of life were shared among the upper and lower part of mankind”—which is so true—when I hear sounds of life in the library.

Trixie’s head jerks up from
Tess of the D’Urbervilles
.

I raise a warning finger to my lips and she nods in understanding. We both shut down our flashlight apps. Now we must be as silent as beauty queens waiting to hear who won the tiara. Seconds later, in the library, a woman speaks.

“Now it won’t matter that your pension could support all three of us.”

Maggie
, I whisper to Trixie, my ears pricking up. I don’t like what Maggie’s saying but I darn well want to hear it.

“After today,” she trills, “
I’ll
have enough money for Donovan and me to live in high style.”

“Good for you,” Pop says. “Glad you’re not counting your chickens.”

They lapse into silence. A few minutes later someone else enters the library. “I’m Peter Svendsen,” I hear, “and this is Walter Chapman.”

Interesting that Peter’s here. Is it possible he’s mentioned in Ingrid’s will? More likely he wants to stake his claim to Damsgard every chance he can. And who’s this Walter Chapman he brought with him? Apparently Maggie wants to know that, too.

“I’m the lawyer for the Svendsen family,” a gravelly male voice says. “I had the honor of representing Erik for many years.”

“Erik is Ingrid’s second husband,” I whisper to Trixie, “who left her Damsgard.” At least
sort
of left her Damsgard.

“But you’re not my sister’s lawyer,” Maggie says.

“No,” Walter says. “Now I represent Peter and Nora’s side of the family.”

Trixie makes a small sound. I bet she’s thinking what I’m thinking. It’s not always a good thing when a family has “sides.”

As the quartet in the library sit down and muse aloud about when Ingrid’s lawyer Anita Shea will show up, I start to worry that I made a mistake by not alerting Maggie to Peter’s claim that Damsgard will go to him after Ingrid’s death. I can’t fault myself for not wanting to bother her about something that may not be true but that wasn’t really why I did it. I wanted to see how she’d react if she found out that the riches she’s begun to count on didn’t fall in her lap.

Anita Shea arrives and introductions are made all around. We learn that Anita is not just Ingrid’s lawyer but also the executor of her will. “Shall we begin?” Anita says, and I swear that even from the secret room I can feel the tension in the library mount.

“Where’s Priscilla?” Trixie whispers.

Here, too, she’s a no show. Apparently if “dear Ingrid” left Priscilla anything, it wasn’t enough to warrant her appearance at the reading of the will.

A throat clears and then Anita begins to read. “ ‘I, Ingrid Jane Lindvig Harris Svendsen, of the city of Winona, county of Winona, and state of Minnesota, being of full age and sound mind and memory, do make, publish and declare this to be my last Will and Testament.’ ”

It’s a solemn moment. You can almost feel Ingrid peering down on the proceedings from on high.

For a while Anita reads boring legalese about debts being paid from the estate but then matters liven up. “ ‘The distribution of my household goods and tangible personal property is outlined in my letter of instruction.’ I’ll read that in a moment,” Anita says as an aside. Then, “ ‘I hereby give, devise and bequeath the sum of ten thousand dollars to my sister Margaret Louise Lindvig of Rocky River, Ohio. I direct that the rest, residue and remainder of my property be given to—’ ” and Anita reads the name of an animal shelter in Minneapolis. Then there’s more legal-sounding stuff that basically says that if any beneficiaries object to the probate of the will, they will be cut out entirely.

Silence falls. That’s it? That seems awfully simple for the will of a wealthy woman like Ingrid Svendsen.

“Shall I read the letter of instruction?” Anita asks.

“Excuse me,” Maggie says, “I’m a little confused,” and I will admit that I am, too. “I didn’t hear my son Donovan mentioned.”

“No, he does not figure in the will,” Anita says. “Nor in the letter of instruction.”

“He’s Ingrid’s nephew. Her only nephew.”

Anita Shea has nothing to say to that.

“Okay.” With obvious reluctance, Maggie moves on. “What about that ten thousand dollar thing? There’s more cash than that coming to me, right?”

“I’m afraid not,” and Anita reiterates the business about the animal shelter.

Maggie’s voice takes on a note of hysteria. “Are you telling me that Ingrid left her money to an
animal shelter
?”

There seems no getting around that. Actually it improves my opinion of Ingrid that she left some fraction of her estate to a worthwhile charity.

“You are mentioned in the letter of instruction,” Anita hastens to say. “Why don’t I read that,” and once again she regales us with legalese. Then it gets juicy again. “ ‘All jewelry and clothing in my possession at the time of my death are to be given to my sister Margaret Louise. If she does not desire any item, she may sell it and the proceeds will devolve to her.’ ” Anita reads that with enthusiasm but somehow I don’t think Maggie will be appeased.

I am proved right.

“Her jewelry and her clothing, fine,” Maggie says. “But what about the Mercedes?”

Anita hesitates, then, “That’s going to the animal shelter.”

“What? That’s ridiculous!” Maggie sputters.

I wish I were a spider on the library wall so I could see this with my own eyes. But I can easily visualize the scene: Pop patting Maggie’s hand to try to calm her down and Peter Svendsen watching in smug silence as Ingrid’s sister embarrasses herself.

“Well, what about this house?” my father asks. “I haven’t heard a peep about Damsgard.”

“Ah, yes, Damsgard,” Peter says, in what I must say is a slimy superior tone. “Let’s talk about that, shall we, Walter?”

More throat clearing, followed by Walter Chapman’s gruff voice. “You and I have discussed the disposition of Damsgard, Anita, which is why Peter and I are here this afternoon. Shall I continue or would you like to proceed?”

Apparently Anita defers to Walter, which is what I’d do, too, if I knew what was coming next.

Finally comes the big finish. With what sounds like gusto, Walter reiterates what Peter told us the other day, though in more convoluted legal terms. Despite all the lawyerly mumbo jumbo, the bottom line comes through loud and clear: Damsgard goes to Peter Svendsen.

Maggie can’t believe it. She is so undone that all she can say is one word. “What? What?”

I feel sorry for her. Trixie must, too. She clutches my hand and together we huddle in the secret room and shake our heads in sympathy. You, dear reader, know I am not Maggie Lindvig’s biggest fan. I even think it’s possible she’s a murderer. Nevertheless, at this moment I am pained for her. I can imagine how hard it would be to discover that a windfall that could change your whole life, and your son’s whole life, is not going to come your way.