Ms America and the Whoopsie in Winona (2 page)

Problem is I’m not ready to play ball yet, and I may never be.

“I can’t wait to look around Winona more,” Trixie says. “This town is so cute! Especially with all the Christmas decorations up.”

“I’m thinking we can get some of our shopping done here,” I say.

“Nothing like a small-town Christmas,” Shanelle says. “I put some bubbly in the fridge so we can kick off our celebrations as soon as we get back to Damsgard.”

Trixie’s hazel eyes widen. “We’re staying at a house that’s got its own name? That’s like Tara in
Gone With the Wind
!”

I bet Ingrid wouldn’t mind being likened to Scarlett O’Hara. “Damsgard isn’t
that
big but it is pretty impressive. It’s named after some mansion in Norway.”

“Lots of folks in these parts are Norwegian,” Shanelle says. “Like Ingrid and Maggie. And Ingrid’s second husband, who left her the house.”

“It’s awfully nice of her to put us all up,” Trixie says.

“And,” I add, “there are so many bedrooms we don’t even have to share.” Though the second those words leave my lips, I feel a teeny tiny bit glum.

The last time I was a guest in somebody’s house was last month in Miami, when we all stayed at Mario Suave’s Spanish-style manse. It may not have as many bedrooms as Damsgard but it’s pretty splendiferous. I don’t have to tell you, dear reader, that some large fraction of the appeal of Mario’s home’s derives from its owner—pageant emcee and host of
America’s Scariest Ghost Stories
—whose hotness, smartness, and all-around scrumptiousness continue to haunt my dreams. And, I will admit, sometimes my awake moments, too.

That would be A-OK if I weren’t married to Jason Kilborn, my high-school sweetheart and the father of my 17-year-old daughter Rachel. The self-same husband who just the other day threw me for a loop so big, I’m still spinning in circles.

The public-address system succeeds in distracting me. “Not done putting up your holiday décor?” the teenager inquires. “Then check out our Shotgun Shell Christmas Wreath in aisle nine! Less than thirty bucks when you mail in the ten-dollar rebate!”

“My wreath at home has red twigs and rhinestones,” Trixie whispers. “Rhett thinks
that’s
tacky.”

I’m about to make an uncharitable observation about the Giant W’s merchandise when Ingrid bustles up to our trio. She’s one of those women who look wispy and ultra feminine but in fact are totally take-charge. She’s got platinum blond hair styled in a sleek bob and a svelte build she’s showcasing in a red satin dress with jewel detailing. Unlike her sister, she has enough sense not to sport pine-needle headgear.

She homes in on Trixie and extends her hand. “You must be the third beauty queen. I’m Ingrid Svendsen.”

“So nice to meet you!” Trixie says. “I’m—”

Ingrid swings her head toward me, brandishing the opening-ceremony schedule. “You’re clear on your marching orders? Why aren’t you in the sleigh yet?”

“We were just about to—”

“Remember to be quiet while the mayor is speaking. I don’t want you drawing attention to yourselves during his speech.”

Behind Ingrid, Shanelle shoots me a look. I know what she’s thinking.
Ingrid doesn’t want us drawing attention to ourselves during
her
speech
. Not to be immodest but I don’t think you should invite beauty queens to an event if you don’t want heads to turn. Just saying.

Ingrid resumes her instructions. “And keep quiet when the lights go off for the Christmas tree lighting. Don’t ruin the drama of the moment.”

“You won’t hear a peep out of us,” Trixie assures her.

I steel myself before I speak again. “I think only two of us should ride in the sleigh.” I watch Ingrid’s brow lower. “Shanelle and I did a trial run earlier and I’m not sure it can handle—”

“Nonsense! Three is what we planned.” Ingrid spins away.

Our trio has a moment of silence. Then, “She’s not the nicest person I’ve met so far in Minnesota,” Trixie observes.

Shanelle harrumphs. “Just you wait till you get to know her better. You ask me, it’s no accident she’s got two husbands in the grave. If I were married to her I’d probably want to punch out, too.”

“I hope for your dad’s sake Maggie’s nicer than her sister,” Trixie says to me.

“She is.” That doesn’t mean I want her as a member of the family.

Shanelle pokes my arm. “Girl, you really worried about that sleigh? I want to survive this holiday season.”

“I never even heard about a sleigh until now,” Trixie says.

“They put it in special for the opening ceremony. I’m only a tiny bit worried about it. It’s on an elevated track,” I explain to Trixie, though by now she can see that for herself. I lead us toward the sleigh, lying in wait at the rear of the store. Here and at the front, just behind the dais, are the two locales where the track is at floor level. It’s like an in-store rollercoaster. “It just seemed so herky-jerky when we were in it this morning that I got scared it might not take all our weight.”

Trixie eyes the sleigh with suspicion. “Tell me again when I sing my song?” Since Trixie’s the only one of us with any voice to speak of, she has the dubious honor of belting out the Giant W holiday song, set to the tune of “Jingle Bells.”

“Your music is supposed to start when the sleigh does,” I tell her. “When we stop at the dais, jump out and sing. Shanelle and I will be right behind you.” I climb into the sleigh. “Come on, let’s get into this thing so it doesn’t take off without us.” Ingrid would really read us the riot act then. I’m halfway in when I hear the P.A. system’s latest 411 and freeze in place.

“Smoked chunky kielbasa only four dollars and ninety-nine cents a pound!” the teenager announces. “Aisle thirteen!”

“That’s a good price!” I cry. “Especially for smoked chunky.”

“You can get it when the festivities are over.” Shanelle gives my backside an encouraging push.

We settle ourselves in the sleigh with Trixie in position to jump out first. The Giant W’s overhead fluorescents blink to signal that the festivities are about to begin. Trixie takes a few deep breaths. “I’m always nervous before a performance.”

Shanelle pats Trixie’s leg as I assure her she’ll do great. Though that’s easy for me to say. I don’t even have a speaking part. All I have to do is cut a ribbon.

As the hush of a deep winter’s night settles over the Giant W, the cheerful opening notes of “Jingle Bells” blast from the sound system. Before I can get the words “Brace yourself” past my lips, the sleigh takes off.

“Whoa!” Shanelle yelps.

“This thing should have seat belts!” Trixie cries as the sleigh zooms heavenward and we three are slammed back.

Just that suddenly the sleigh jerks to a stop. I catapult forward, barely able to prevent myself from launching. I have a devil of a time keeping my Santa cap on my head, my meta-grip bobby pins, which perform so well on pageant night, stretched to their limit by this monster of a ride.

“Happy!” Trixie cries. I’m sure her panicked vibrato carries to the front of the store. It might have carried all the way to Lake Winona. Ingrid will not be amused.

I manage to return my butt to the bench a nanosecond before the sleigh takes off again. We three queens clutch one another for dear life. I
knew
I was right to be worried about this thing!

Finally the abominable conveyance plummets to floor level and lurches to a stop behind the dais, just past the 30-foot-tall silver Christmas tree that soon will be ceremoniously lit. Trixie doesn’t so much jump out of the sleigh as pitch out. Shanelle and I follow on unsteady legs, her elf and my Santa cap seriously awry. Ingrid glares at us but my whiplashed neck and I are past caring.

Seconds later Trixie bursts into the Giant W holiday song:

W, W, bargains every day!

Oh, what fun it is to fill my shopping cart this way, hey!

W, W, discounts every day!

Oh, what fun it is to bring a bargain home today!

Dashing through the aisles,

A coupon in my hand …

As Trixie masterfully whips through the refrain, Shanelle and I clap to the beat. A photog from the
Winona Post
captures the moment for posterity. I catch my breath and Pop’s eye. Like everybody else in the crowd he’s bundled in his winter coat. I note that both his and Maggie’s Christmas tree hats are now unlit. Ingrid probably made them turn them off so they wouldn’t draw attention from her speech. Pop winks at me like he’s done a million times before as I stood on one Ohio stage or another competing in some rinky-dink pageant. He’s been such a good dad. I just wish he and Mom were still together. Their divorce is this year’s lousiest development. Heck, I’d give back my Ms. America title to see them reunited.

Trixie sings the chorus one last time, giving the final phrase “bargain home today” a special flourish. Shanelle and I cheer along with the crowd and then our trio relocates to the back of the dais, right in front of the Christmas tree.

No surprise, Ingrid kicks off the proceedings. “Happy holidays, fellow citizens of Winona!” she brays. “I’m so glad you could join us this evening to celebrate the opening of the Giant W in our fair city! Of course as soon as I heard— ”

As Shanelle predicted, Ingrid takes credit for luring Giant W to Winona. There are two men on the dais with her—the mayor and a store executive—but it takes forever for her to cede the mic and retreat to the rear of the dais to stand in front of the sleigh. The suit kicks off with a lame joke about a reindeer in a bar before detailing the Giant W’s many charms.

Finally the mayor takes control. “What do you say we light the Christmas tree?” he calls, and as the crowd roars its approval the overhead fluorescents switch off and the Giant W is plunged into darkness. Indeed it is a dramatic moment, and as Ingrid ordained I remain as silent as Santa creeping down a chimney.

I keep expecting the tree’s lights to blaze on—I know from this morning’s run-through it’s decorated with about a thousand strings of multicolored W’s—but they never do. In the distance a train’s lonely horn pierces the evening quiet. The crowd inside the Giant W begins to shuffle and murmur. Then several feet to my right, where Ingrid is standing, I hear a sharp popping sound.

I gasp. Trixie clutches my arm. “What in the world is that?” she whimpers. I’m afraid I know but I don’t dare say it aloud. A few screams rise to the ceiling while I hear a thump, like a heavy sack dropping. Then the sleigh noisily whirrs into life.

“Turn on the lights!” the mayor hollers and none too soon we are once again bathed in their fluorescent glow.

Now it’s Shanelle grabbing me. “Where the heck is Ingrid?”

She’s not on the dais with us anymore. The mayor and the suit still are, but not her.

Overhead, near the furthest cash registers, the fast-moving sleigh jerks to one of its famous stops. To my astonishment I see that it’s not empty. Nor does its cargo remain inside.

Ingrid Svendsen, snazzy red holiday dress and all, pitches headfirst from the sleigh like a duffel bag being tossed onto an airplane’s conveyor belt. I thought I heard a gunshot and now I know I did, because there’s no mistaking the bloody wound on Ingrid’s chest. The crowd shrieks in horror. We all watch in morbid fascination as the hostess of the evening’s festivities belly flops onto the linoleum floor of Winona’s brand-new Giant W, narrowly missing a register and upending a display of Christmas sweater wine-bottle covers.

On cranks the P.A. system one last time. “Ceremony’s over! Clean-up at register five!”

We beauty queens know life is full of challenges and it is best to meet each one head-on with optimism and good cheer. But I must say that the sight of Ingrid’s ladylike corpse, now splayed amid a widening pool of blood, does not produce in me a fierce determination to pinpoint her killer.

It just makes me tired.

Trixie grabs my arm. “Let’s secure the crime scene! Make sure nobody leaves the building! Keep everybody away from the body! Hey, you!” she cries and makes a beeline for the
Winona Post
photographer, who’s next to Ingrid’s prostrate form preparing to snap his first shot. Not if Trixie has anything to say about it.

As the mayor barks orders to corral the fractious crowd, I hear the Giant W executive on his cell phone calling 911. I admit I’m relieved: for this murder at least I don’t have to be the grownup taking charge.

I shoulder my way through the pulsing mob at the front of the store to find Pop, who’s moved from where he was standing. He finds me before I find him and grabs me in a hug. His face is red and he’s breathing hard. “You all right, my beauty?”

“I’m okay, Pop. You don’t look too good, though.” Which surprises me. My father retired from police work a few years back. He never made it to homicide detective but he saw a murder or two in his time.

“I don’t know where Maggie is!” He sounds panicked. I realize he’s clutching both Christmas tree hats in his hand. “She was right next to me and then she was gone!”

“She can’t have gone—” I start to say when he cranes his neck to look behind me.

“Maggie!” He barrels in her direction and wraps his arms around her. I see she’s wearing a stunned expression.

It hits me like a stiletto heel in the gut. Poor Maggie! It was her sister who was murdered. For a moment it takes my breath away, the fragility of life. Minutes ago Ingrid was holding court on the dais. Then in a flash her work on this earth was done. I’m stepping away to grant Maggie some privacy when Shanelle takes my arm.

“You all right?” she asks.

“I cannot believe this is happening again, Shanelle!”

“Believe it, girl. Murder follows you like you got it on a leash.”

“I just don’t know if I’m up to another one of these. The last one took every brain cell I’ve got.”

“How do you know you’re gonna have to solve this one? Winona may not be as big as Vegas or Miami but for all we know it’s got a crack police force. After all, look how fast those black-and-whites got here.”