Ms America and the Whoopsie in Winona (21 page)

“Peter, let it go!” She stomps her foot in its cute teal-colored ballet flat. “You told me you hated the way Ingrid redecorated the foyer anyway. This gives you a good excuse to re-do it.”

“The damage really is minimal,” I add.

“There shouldn’t be any damage,” Peter insists. He tosses his overcoat toward the couch but misses. It puddles messily on the carpet. He stomps over to pick it up, his shoes leaving angry smudges on the carpet. “At least this’ll be the end of it. Today’s the day the pack of you head home, right?”

Now comes the next hard part. “There are still a few things we need to clear up so I was hoping we could stay a little longer—”

“Of course you can stay,” Barbara says before her husband can again erupt. “Everybody in town knows that Ingrid is gone and it’s better that the house be occupied.”

“
We
could occupy it,” Peter says.

“You cannot expect a woman who’s about to give birth to move houses,” Barbara says. “I’m not going anywhere until the baby is born.”

“Maybe it’s time we get out of your hair,” Shanelle suggests, and as usual her timing is spot-on. We say our goodbyes and make our escape. “Do you think Ingrid’s murder might’ve been a Mob hit?” she asks once we’re back in the rental car.

“It’s a possibility, wouldn’t you think?” In the deepening gloom I ease the car onto the road from the shoulder, where the snow is already piled high. The sky is full of fat gray clouds that echo Peter Svendsen’s mood. I’m a little shaky from the encounter with Peter, even though it was relatively mild. Knowing what I know now, from here on I want to avoid making him mad. I am not optimistic that my pepper spray would hold up well against a Mob contract. “Even though Barbara says that women aren’t involved in these activities,” I go on, “we all know they get whacked sometimes.”

It is on that somber note that Shanelle and I return to Damsgard. Thanks to Maggie concocting her fruitcake, the kitchen is a hotbed of activity. While a mess has overtaken every horizontal surface, she does look like she’s having a good time. Despite the fact that she’s got flour all over her skintight red sweater, her skin is flushed from exertion, and her hair is askew, she’s whistling a happy tune.

My perfectly put-together mother—who is standing beside her golden-brown strata placidly brushing her fruitcake with yet more brandy—greets us with a beatific smile. “Glad you’re back, girls. Lunch is ready. Happy, go get your father.”

I pull her aside. “Mom, shouldn’t you be helping Maggie? She looks like she could use a hand.”

My mother looks appalled at the suggestion. “
Help
her? This is a competition!”

“She wouldn’t let me help her, either,” Trixie murmurs. “Even though I told her we sometimes help each other even on pageant night.”

It’s when we’re all around the mahogany dining table inhaling my mother’s strata, hot scalloped apples, and homemade biscuits that Maggie pipes up with a story that grabs my attention. “I made a new friend at the grocery store,” she says.

“I love making new friends!” Trixie chirps.

“She came up to me in the baking aisle,” Maggie goes on, “and said ‘Aren’t you Maggie Lindvig?’ and I said ‘Yes, I am,’ and she said ‘I thought I recognized you,’ and at first I was embarrassed because I didn’t recognize her but some people you remember more than others.”

I glance at my mother, who somehow manages to bite back the comment I know she’s dying to let rip. “What was her name?” I inquire.

“Priscilla Pembroke,” Maggie says, and I almost choke on my strata.

“Priscilla Pembroke!” Trixie, Shanelle, and I cry in unison.

“That hoodlum who tried to steal the painting of the boats?” my mother says.

“What painting of the boats?” my father wants to know.

“She’s not a hoodlum!” Maggie cries. “She’s the nicest woman you’d ever want to meet. She remembers me from back in the day here in Winona and told me I haven’t changed one bit. She wanted to know how long we’ll be staying at Damsgard because she wants to get together with me for lunch.”

“That’s not why she wants to know how long we’ll be staying,” I say. “She wants to know when we’ll be out of the house so she can try to break in again to make off with the Claude Erskine painting. Did she tell you where
she’s
staying?”

“No.” Maggie frowns at me. “Why would I ask her that? That’s a weird question to ask. And I can’t believe you think she’s a thief.” Maggie spears her strata as if it’s a beast she’s trying to kill. “I hate to say it but you’re suspicious of everybody, Happy. That’s your problem.”

“Well, in this case I have reason to be suspicious.” Then I see Maggie’s crestfallen expression and feel bad. I also note my father glaring at me across the table and remember our conversation earlier in which he reminded me how sensitive Maggie is to how she’s regarded in Winona. “I’m sorry, Maggie, I really am. I know she seemed nice to you but it’s just that I’ve had a few run-ins with this so-called Priscilla so I know her better than you do.”

“What do you mean, ‘so-called Priscilla’?” Maggie demands.

“Let’s just say she’s not who she says she is.” I don’t want to get into all the details. “I think she was trying to use you to get information.”

I bet “Priscilla” was watching the house and followed Maggie. After all, Maggie and my father are the only current residents of Damsgard who don’t know who “Priscilla” is; she knows she can’t get any useful information out of my mother, Trixie, Shanelle, or me. So she got us where we’re weak.

“Priscilla was not using me!” Maggie cries. “She thinks I’m fascinating, that’s the word she used, and she wants to be friends with me. She wanted my cell phone number and everything.”

I watch my mother grip her cutlery as again she succeeds in remaining silent. She must really think she has a chance of getting my father back because it’s very rare that I see her exhibit this much restraint.

My father turns to Maggie. “I’m with you, Maggie. I’m sure there are lots of people in this town who wish you’d never moved away, including this Priscilla.”

Immediately a smile breaks over Maggie’s face. “Thank you, Lou.”

I watch the two of them exchange warm glances across the table. My mother sees it, too. I can almost see her spirits fall. For the first time it occurs to me that it may not be good for my mom to be in such close proximity to Pop, even if only for a few days. It’s dangerous to her wellbeing to believe they might reconcile. Despite what Mario says, I still think their getting back together is a long shot.

“Just so everybody knows,” Pop says, “I called the airline this morning. I’m trying to get Maggie and me on a flight that goes out Tuesday night.”

“Really?” This revelation stops me from eating. “This is the first I’m hearing about that.” From my mother’s startled expression, I gather this is the first she’s hearing about it, too.

“No reason to stick around,” Pop says.

“I’ve got a meeting tomorrow with the lawyer to wrap things up,” Maggie says. “Get a check from her to pay the funeral expenses, that sort of thing. I’ll squeeze that in after Lou and I get back from ice fishing,” she adds, giving Pop a conspiratorial wink.

That cozy interplay dampens my mother’s mood even further. Apart from the food, the rest of lunch is a pretty sullen affair. After we queens rise to clean up, my mother wordlessly disappears into her room and Maggie returns to her fruitcake making, this time with Pop at her side. They’re enjoying a joke when my cell phone rings. It’s Detective Dembek.

I take the call upstairs in my lovely bedroom, telling the detective everything new that I’ve learned. On the “so-called Priscilla” front, I now understand why she wanted to break into Damsgard: to steal the Erskine, which turns out to be tremendously valuable. I also suspect, but don’t know for sure, that she’s lying about her identity.

“She befriended my father’s girlfriend to try to get information about when we’ll be leaving Damsgard,” I add. “I wish I knew where she was staying! It’d be great if you could question her but how can you if we can’t find her? I do have her cell phone number. Would that help?”

“I would have to get a warrant to force the carrier to pinpoint her location. It would be hard to justify at this point though I’ll certainly keep it in mind.”

Thus thwarted, I move on to my information about Peter, which is even juicier. But to my dismay, Detective Dembek dismisses the Mob connection. “I really don’t think so, dear. The Mafia does operate in Minnesota; that’s true. In fact, the main family is the third most powerful criminal organization in the entire Midwest, after the Chicago and Detroit families. But if Peter Svendsen were involved, we would know about it.”

“But how do you explain the whole bagman thing, which his wife confirmed just this morning? And the prison cell on the third floor of Damsgard?”

“I don’t know what to tell you about the bagman references but Peter Svendsen has told me he has no knowledge of the prison cell. And I must say I believe him.”

“How does he explain the cell then? Wait; don’t tell me. He thinks it’s more of his stepmother’s craziness.”

“That pretty much sums it up. Dear, you are discovering some very interesting things. I am finding your information quite useful. Continue to be careful and we’ll talk again soon. I’m so glad you’re staying in Winona for the time being.”

The call ends. The detective was extremely gracious but I know a brushoff when I hear one. To cheer myself up, I call my daughter. “How the heck are you, Rach?”

“Pretty good. For one thing I aced my physics test.”

“That’s great!” Then I have to bite my tongue.

Of course my rocket scientist of a daughter can tell. “Don’t say it, Mom. I don’t want to have to get into it again.”

I glance out the window, where across Windom Park a young mother is bundling her baby’s car seat into the back of a minivan. As draining as caring for an infant can be, I often think raising a teenager is more challenging. When a baby pushes your buttons, it’s an accident. Sometimes I think teenagers do it for sport.

“Rach, it’s just that when you do so well in school, I hate it even more that you’re not going to be putting those smarts to use.”

“I will be putting them to use. And they won’t disappear. My grades won’t, either. After I’m overseas for a year or two—”

“Two?” I shriek.

“—I’ll be an even stronger applicant for college. You have to distinguish yourself to get into a good school, Mom, you say that all the time.”

I hate when she throws my own words back at me.

“So let’s talk about why you really called,” she goes on. “Dad’s new job. He’s totally psyched about it, you know.”

“I know.”

“He can’t stop talking about it.”

“I know.”

“I’m really psyched for him but I’m already sick of hearing about it and he hasn’t even started yet.”

“Are you happy he’s going to tell Zach yes?”

“He should totally take this opportunity. And so should you.”

From the day she could talk, my daughter has been bold about voicing her opinions. “I just don’t get how you can be so blasé about us moving away from the place where you’ve lived your entire life.”

“That’s because I’ll be moving away myself. Look at it this way, Mom. You’re going to go crazy missing me. This way you’ll have something new to obsess about.”

I dread the day my daughter moves away from home. I’ll be so proud of her but I’ll be a basketcase, too. How ironic that all this will happen in September, the very month I’ll have to relinquish my Ms. America crown.

“Besides,” Rachel goes on, “if he doesn’t like it, he can quit and you can move back to Cleveland.”

She makes it sound so easy. “But I’d have quit my job and we’d have sold the house and—”

“You don’t have to sell the house. You could put everything in storage and rent it out. Then give yourselves a year to decide if you want to stay in Charlotte. If Dad likes his job and you both like the place, you’ll want to.”

I hadn’t thought of renting out the house. It’s a good way to hedge our bets.

“Grandpa will be okay,” Rachel goes on. “He’s got Maggie. It’s Grandma I’m worried about. All this will freak her out. And I don’t like to think of her by herself.”

“I know what you mean. But she has friends. And now she has a job. Not to mention Bennie Hana.”

“He doesn’t count.”

On that, too, Rachel and I agree. “I have thought of asking her to move with us.”

“Only one problem. If she lives with you, Dad will freak.”

She’s right. Jason and I could land in divorce court if he’s forced to reside with my mother. Or I could be solving a murder case that hits very close to home.

“You’ve got to decide soon, Mom,” Rachel reminds me.

“I know.” I try to ignore my stomach clenching. “Tell your dad I’ll call him tonight.”

A few minutes later as I’m brushing my teeth—I usually brush after lunch; it’s good for the pearly whites—I force myself to stop thinking about my own life and to start thinking about Ingrid Svendsen’s.

In every murder case I’ve solved so far, the victim was involved in something that got him or her into trouble. In some cases, it was in no way the victim’s fault. In others, the victims were taking risks that eventually landed them in serious trouble.

I don’t have a strong basis for it but I believe Ingrid wasn’t living her life entirely on the up and up. Call me crazy but I’m suspicious of someone who has a prison cell on her third floor and who has such a beef with another individual that she hires a P.I. to ferret out dirt about them.

I cannot shake the feeling that something gnarly was going on in Ingrid Svendsen’s life. I wish I knew what it was. What the heck could it be?

And where would there be evidence of it?

I’ve already snooped around the desk in the library. The police pored over her files and computer, I know, and if they turned up anything crooked Detective Dembek hasn’t seen fit to share it with me. Shanelle and I did a thorough search of Ingrid’s bedroom and the only thing we found that was remotely odd was the receipt from the body shop in Minneapolis. Where else should I be looking?