Ms America and the Whoopsie in Winona (16 page)

“I don’t go out of my way to see her so I wouldn’t know.” He loops a scarf around his neck. “Barbara!”

This time he gets a response. “All right, already, I’m coming! Boy, are you trying to make up for last time or what?” She sounds snarky, or maybe she’s just hormonal, which I certainly would be at her stage of pregnancy. She halts on the stairs when she spies me in her living room. She’s a cheerleader-type blonde in a cute plum-colored activewear outfit. Poor thing looks ready to pop. “I didn’t realize we had a guest,” she says.

I walk forward with my hand outstretched. “I’m Happy Pennington. I apologize for barging in. I’m staying at Damsgard at the moment. Congratulations on the baby.”

She nods as if she’s heard my name before. Probably with invective attached.

“We really do have to go,” Peter says.

“I’ll get out of your hair,” I say. “I just wanted to assure you that we’ll do a good job with the Christmas tour this afternoon. I’m excited to meet more of the locals.”

It seems Peter couldn’t care less. He ushers me outside without further ado. I’m marooned on the stoop for what seems like forever fumbling in the recesses of my Hobo for the keys to the rental car when I hear the agitated voices of husband and wife soar to the heavens. Of course my ears prick up.

“Why did you have to say I was trying to make up for last time?” Peter says.

“I didn’t know anybody was here! Besides, who cares?”

“I care. I don’t want her to know anything about us. She’s snoopy.”

He’s got that right. In fact I’m snooping right now.

“You’re paranoid,” Barbara says. “You’re just worried she’ll find out your dirty little secret.”

I clutch my Hobo. This is getting good!

“Hardly,” Peter snorts. “Besides, you know I had a problem with the bagman. I couldn’t just ignore it.”

I frown. What the heck is a bagman? I have no idea but it sounds sinister.

“I don’t want to hear about any of that!” Barbara shrieks. “I don’t like it!”

“I told you before and I’ll tell you again. I’ll stop when the baby comes.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it.”

Darn! Their voices are fading. They’re probably on their way to the garage. Even though I still haven’t got my hands on my keys I sprint to the rental I left parked on the street so Peter doesn’t realize I was eavesdropping yet again. He would think that’s all I do and he wouldn’t be far off. I’m in the car when I see their gold Volvo SUV back down their driveway and screech onto the road. They’re jawing so much I’m not sure they even notice me.

Wow, was I right to come here! That was darn informative. Peter is certainly sensitive about being late to Tuesday’s Lamaze class. Maybe that’s because he was busy shooting his stepmother while he was supposed to be helping his wife practice focused breathing techniques. And what was all that about his “dirty little secret” and the “bagman”? I consult my cell phone on the latter and learn that a bagman is somebody who collects and transports dirty money, like for the Mafia.

This puts a whole new spin on things. Could it be that Peter is mixed up with the Mob? Might that have played a role in Ingrid’s death? Maybe this explains the prison cell on Damsgard’s third floor: it could be to incarcerate people who refuse to pay up.

It’s news to me that the Mob operates in Minnesota. Who would think that? This seems like such a wholesome state. Then again, maybe Mafiosi like the Upper Midwest because Canada is just to the north and hence available for spiriting contraband in and out of the country.

Since I’m eager to share these bombshell revelations, I give Detective Dembek a call. Unfortunately I reach only her voicemail so am forced to leave a message.

I’m en route to meet my mother at the Basilica of Saint Stanislaus Kostka, more popularly known as Saint Stan’s, when my cell rings with a call from Jason. “I just got off the phone with Zach,” he tells me. “He must think I’m holding out for more money because he upped his offer by five grand.”

“Wow. He really wants you, Jason.”

“This is a good opportunity for us, Happy.”

I detect a different tone in his voice. It’s a new degree of seriousness or something. I stop at a red light and hold my breath.

“I’ve made my decision,” he says. “I want to take the job.”

I let out the breath. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. This isn’t going to come around again. It’s now or never.”

“You’re worried you’ll regret it if you pass it up.”

“There’s no reason to pass it up.”

I hear the warning. He’s letting me know he will not be pleased if I continue to balk. “Did you tell Zach you’ve decided?”

“No. You and I need to talk about it first. I figure that tomorrow when you get home—”

Uh oh. “I may not get home tomorrow, Jason. I still haven’t solved this murder.”

Silence. Jason no longer objects to my sleuthing—he’s come to understand how important it is to me—but that doesn’t mean he takes kindly to it impinging on our lives. Finally he speaks up. “Well, you still have to make a decision. I told Zach I’d call him Monday with my answer.”

“Okay. I am thinking about it.” I cringe because that’s not entirely true. What I’m mostly doing is shoving this to the back of my mind where I put things I don’t want to think about. How mature of me. I see the white domes of Saint Stan’s rising in the distance and think of my father’s advice.
Do what I do when I need to talk something out. Go talk to a priest.

“Let me warn you about something else,” Jason says. “Rachel and I may go out tomorrow and get the tree.”

“Without me?” I screech.

“You’re not here, Happy. And from the sound of it you don’t know when you will be. And it’s only ten days till Christmas.”

“Eleven.”

He sighs. “I love you, sweetie.”

“I love you, too, Jason.”

Then the call is over. Minutes later I arrive at Saint Stan’s. It’s a spectacular redbrick edifice with one huge white dome and several smaller ones. It even has round stained-glass windows that remind me of the famous rose window on the façade of Notre Dame in Paris. Not that I’ve ever seen that for real but I hope to someday.

I’m pretty freaked out by the reality of Jason’s decision but a few moments standing in that hushed nave calm my nerves. I look for my mother among the scattered worshippers and find her near the front, her preferred location, praying so fervently she doesn’t even see me until I kneel down next to her.

“Isn’t this a gorgeous church?” I whisper. We slide back onto the pew.

“Romanesque style,” she informs me. “Did you see out front on that plaque it’s the oldest Catholic parish in Winona?”

“Yes. Since 1871.”

“That’s even before my time.” We both have a chuckle. “A couple years ago they made it a minor basilica.”

“How do you know so much?”

“That lady and I got to talking.” My mother cocks her chin at a Slavic-looking female about her age praying the rosary in the pew ahead of us. “It was built by Polish immigrants, I’ll have you know. They donated nickels and dimes back when they made only a dollar a day.”

“Impressive.”

My mother hits me in the arm. “Those are your people.” Then she resumes the kneeling position. “I got to get back to it.”

“Are you saying a novena for Ingrid?”

She frowns. “You’re right. I said I’d do that. That’s next.”

“So what
have
you been praying for?”

Her face assumes a cagey expression. “Maybe I have a special intention.”

“Like what?”

“None of your beeswax, young lady.”

I bet it has something to do with love and lust. Needless to say my mother wouldn’t appeal to Freyja for help in those areas. As Pop would say, she’d go straight to the man upstairs.

I watch her pray, a maternal impediment to any plan to sell my house and relocate five hundred miles south to Charlotte. It would be hard enough if she and Pop were still married. But with them divorced and Mom living alone while Pop gallivants around with Maggie Lindvig? How could I do that to her? Or am I using her as a convenient excuse to avoid doing something I don’t want to do anyway?

I could ask her to move with us. She might be game. Then again she’s got her new job and her budding romance with car salesman extraordinaire Bennie Hana. I can’t tell if she’s really interested in Bennie or just using him to make Pop jealous. I know it’s mean of me but I hope it’s the latter.

I need to go to confession something fierce.

I enter the confessional and kneel. The priest slides open the screen over the grille that separates us and I mouth the familiar words. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been, oh, I don’t even know how long since my last confession.”

“That’s all right,” he murmurs, “I’m glad you’re here now.” He sounds paternal and understanding.

I run through my litany of transgressions. He listens and nods and assigns me several prayers to recite for my penance. He’s about to give me the final blessing but I interrupt him. “Before I go, do you mind if I bring up something that’s bothering me?”

“I’ll help if I can.”

I give him the full download: Jason, Mario, Jason’s new job in Charlotte, my deeply conflicted feelings. I hope there aren’t too many other sinners in line for confession because it takes quite a while. Finally I run out of things to say.

The priest sighs. Then, “Maybe you and your husband could take a break. Like Rachel and Ross did on
Friends
.”

I must admit, that is not what I was expecting. “Really? The Church would be okay with that?” Then I think of a hitch. “I don’t think Rachel and Ross were married when they took a break, Father.”

“Oh, you’re right. Too bad.” Then he chuckles. “By the way, I was joking. Trying to lighten the moment. Something told me you have a sense of humor.”

I laugh weakly. “Wow. You really threw me.”

“Got your hopes up, didn’t I? Sorry. No, I’d be in trouble if I gave advice like that. Here’s what I really think,” and he explains the Catholic view of marriage, which I already knew: that it is a gift from God and a lifelong union that allows no other.

“So the bottom line is, make it work,” I conclude.

“To quote Tim Gunn from
Project Runway
.”

“You’re good with the TV references, Father.”

“I try to keep up. God be with you, my child.”

I exit the confessional thinking Pop was right. I do feel better. I still don’t know what I’m going to do but talking it through helped.

After I finish my penance, I find my mom deep in murmured conversation with the lady in the neighboring pew. My mother introduces her as Florence Rubinski then motions me to lean in close.

“Florence here,” she says, “has told me some sad stories about that Galena Lang.”

“So you know Galena?” I ask Florence.

“My friend’s daughter is one of her best friends,” Florence explains.

“They’re tight,” my mother adds for good measure.

“Galena has had a great deal of tragedy in her life,” Florence informs us. “She lost her husband and she lost her brother.”

“I knew about her husband,” I say. “It was his family who started the mortuary business, right?”

Florence nods. “Her husband was barely fifty years old and one day he had a heart attack and that was it.”

“That’s how it goes sometimes,” my mother says. “My friend’s husband Frank, same thing.” My mom slaps my arm. “Then just this last year that Galena’s brother got killed in a hit and run.”

“That was a sad case, too.” Florence shakes her head. “He was in Viet Nam and got that PSTD.”

“You mean PTSD,” I say. “Post-traumatic stress disorder.”

“He was homeless.” Florence lowers her voice as if this is an especially shameful thing to discuss. “Drinking problem. Galena and her husband even tried to have him live with them but he didn’t want to do it.”

“Maybe he didn’t want to live on top of the funeral home,” my mother suggests. Then to me: “That’s where that Galena lives. I’m not sure I’d like that, either.”

“I don’t think that was it,” Florence says. “He wasn’t right in the head. Of course Galena didn’t talk about him because she thought it would be bad for business if people knew she had a brother who was in that situation.”

“That’s how it goes,” my mother says. “But you can’t hide these things. People find out.”

This information is rounding out my picture of Galena but otherwise isn’t very helpful. “Florence, do you know if Galena ever ran into trouble with the law?”

My mother and Florence both gasp and a woman a few pews ahead of us spins around to tell us to hush up. “Why would you think that?” Florence whispers.

“I’m just asking.” After all, I paid Hubble three hundred smackers to learn that Galena “may” have done something illegal. If I get confirmation, that money might go from wasted to well spent.

“I never heard anything like that,” Florence says. “Galena’s a little funny with the way she does herself up but I never heard she’s a hooligan.”

“Let me ask you something else. Do you know of any connection between Galena and Ingrid Svendsen?”

“That rich woman who got herself murdered at the new Giant W?” Florence shakes her head. “Why would Galena know her?”

This isn’t getting me very far. “Would you do me a favor and ask your friend’s daughter if she knows of a connection between them? Of if she knows whether Galena ever got in trouble with the police?” I have another thought. “And one last thing. Galena may have come into money recently. Please find out if your friend’s daughter knows anything about that.”

“You can tell me tomorrow at Mass what she said,” my mother says to Florence. Then to me: “8 a.m. Mass, like I go to at home. Florence here likes to meet her obligation first thing, too.”

“I’ll bring those coupons we talked about,” Florence promises my mother, who might have met a kindred soul.

Back in the rental car my mother slaps my thigh. “You think you’re the only one who can do this investigating business. But
I’m
the one who found Florence Rubinski.”