Ms America and the Whoopsie in Winona (22 page)

As the obvious answer hits me, I want to slap myself upside the head. Sometimes we beauty queens deserve our reputation of being a few fries short of a Happy Meal.

I head downstairs to the secret room. I must be hopelessly bourgeois because while I admire the painting above the mantel, what I really enjoy are the festive Christmas decorations: the tree in the corner all done up in red ornaments and bows and the cheerful Santas straddling the rolling bookshelf ladder. I unlatch the secret room, prop open the door, switch on the standing lamp, and begin my examination. Because if I were Ingrid Svendsen and I had secrets, I’d hide the evidence in my secret room.

Wouldn’t you?

The problem is, I soon realize, there’s not much in this room. Hence it’s tricky to hide anything. There’s the fabric-covered shrine, with the candles and gold vases and small animal sculptures and lump of amber, and then there’s the bookshelf, loaded with leather-covered volumes. There is an aged oriental carpet but nothing on the walls.

I start with the shrine, scrutinizing each item, and then make sure nothing is hidden beneath the carpet or amid the capacious fabric that crashes to the floor. Sadly, I come up empty. I’m about to move on to the bookshelf when I hear Shanelle call my name. “I’m in the secret room!” I holler.

She joins me and sets her hands on her hips. “What you up to, girl?”

“I don’t know. Hoping against hope that I’ll find something that’ll help me crack the case.”

“Well, do it fast, because your mama is raring to get the fruitcake bakeoff started.”

“I wonder why.” She knows she’ll blow Maggie out of the kitchen and can’t wait for her moment of triumph. I’m not as convinced as she is, though, that Victory in Baking will win her Pop’s heart back. “Remind her we have to wait for Mario to get here. We can’t have an even number of judges.”

Shanelle sidles closer and lowers her voice. “In my opinion it doesn’t much matter how many judges we have.”

True enough. Not with the lopsided results we’re all expecting. “Let’s wait anyway.”

“I’ll tell the troops.” Shanelle departs. I regard the bookshelf. There’s
Robinson Crusoe
, which I started the other day, and
Tess of the d’Urbervilles
, into which Trixie dipped. Then I spy a book I’ve never heard of before.
Peace Within
. I don’t know who wrote it because there’s no author’s name on the spine. The only other book I know of like that is the Holy Bible.

I slide it off the shelf and frown.

Wow. This is weird. This sure looks like a book—it’s got a red leather cover with fancy gold lettering—and it even sort of feels like a book, except that it’s oddly lightweight. But this is not a book.

I encounter the tiniest bit of resistance lifting the cover and then find myself staring into a small box lined with crimson felt. The box isn’t empty, either. It contains papers. And these aren’t any old papers, I soon realize. This is a bank statement.

For a moment I stop to catch my breath. Yes, I do believe I’ve found something interesting at last.

I set aside the faux book and unfold the statement. It has Ingrid’s name and address on it and it’s from last month. There’s only one account listed, a standard savings account. I eye the bottom line and inhale another sustaining breath.

That’s a pretty stout balance. $169,326.46. I look at the transaction history. Only one transaction is noted in the entire month: a mongo deposit in the amount of $84,652.31 that is described as VIGILANZ TRAC PAYMENT 03582 3104177433 INGRID SVENDSEN.

Everybody’s heard of Vigilanz. It’s a major life insurance company. There seems only one conclusion to draw from this: Ingrid was the beneficiary of somebody’s life insurance policy. I would guess Erik’s. As his widow, there’s nothing bizarre about that. But why in the world did she keep this lone bank statement in this fake book in her secret room? When all her other bank statements and important papers were filed in the desk in the library?

It sure looks to me as if she were trying to hide that statement.

I grab my cell and call Detective Dembek. Happily, she answers. I relay what I found, and where.

“That is very strange,” she allows. I hear papers rustle and computer keys click. “Tell me again the name of the bank? And please read me the account number.” Half a minute later the detective again speaks, this time with something like excitement in her voice. “This is the first we’re hearing about that account, Happy. It’s especially odd because Ingrid Svendsen did all her banking elsewhere.”

“So does that mean you didn’t know about the life insurance benefits, either?”

“No, we didn’t.”

“Wow.” I can’t help feeling a frisson of pride at my discovery. “So Ingrid had a lot more money that we realized,” I add, just as my mom barrels into the secret room with Maggie at her heels.

“I don’t want to wait, I want to do the bakeoff now,” my mother says before she realizes I’m holding my phone to my ear.

“What do you mean, Ingrid had a lot more money?” Maggie grabs my arm. “Who’s that you’re talking to on the phone?”

“I’ll send an officer right over to pick up that statement,” the detective tells me.

“You’ll get a warrant to make the bank tell you more about this, right?” I ask. “And the life insurance company, too?”

“Yes,” Detective Dembek says as I spin away from Maggie to prevent her from snatching the bank statement from my hand. “But today’s Sunday, so the soonest I can get in touch with them is tomorrow. Excellent work,” she adds, which is much nicer to hear than the mild brushoff that ended our last conversation.

“I want to know who you were talking to.” Maggie points to the bank statement in my hand. “Let me see that. I’m Ingrid’s sister and I have more right to that than you do.”

I hold it against my chest. “The police are coming by to pick it up.” But not before I jot down the account number. I make for the desk in the library, Maggie trailing me as closely as a puppy terrified of losing its mistress. She watches over my shoulder as I jot notes. I hear her suck in an enormous breath.

“A hundred sixty-nine thousand dollars?” she chokes.

My mother arches her brows. “That’s a lot of pedicures.”

I suppose Maggie does have a right to know about this. I straighten. “Yes. From a life insurance policy, apparently.”

“That means I’ll get it.” Maggie’s face lights up so bright she could guide an aircraft in for a landing. “I’m getting that other life insurance policy of Ingrid’s but that one is only five thousand dollars. Oh, my word.” She clutches her hands to her chest, fully on display thanks to yet another Dolly Parton V neck sweater. “Donovan and I will be set now.”

“You won’t need Lou’s pension,” my mother points out.

“Oh, my word. I’m going to call Donovan.” Maggie spins out of the library faster than a dervish on steroids.

The doorbell rings twice in rapid succession, the first time to herald an officer from Winona P.D. and a second when Mario arrives. I have to believe the day will come when my heart does not thwack against my rib cage every time I see him. But I’m not there yet.

I wink as I relieve him of his to-die-for overcoat. “Any ghosts today?”

To my surprise he doesn’t wink back. Nor do his dimples flash. His expression remains as grave as I’ve ever seen it. “That’s no laughing matter, Happy.”

“Are you kidding me?”

He shakes his head. “I’m like Trixie now. I don’t want to set foot anywhere near Heffron Hall ever again. But I have to go back tomorrow.” He shudders. He literally shudders. “The entire crew was freaked out shooting there today. There is the oddest vibe at that place. And then—”

“What? What?”

He swallows. “We kept hearing footfalls on the floor above us even though we were absolutely positive nobody was up there. Not only that, when we checked our videotape we saw that we had captured these filmy white, I don’t know what they are,
formations
that nobody can explain.” He brushes his hair back from his forehead with a jerky motion. “The suits at the network are thrilled. They think I’m brilliant to come here, like I pinpointed the hottest paranormal vortex in the country. But at the rate we’re going I’ll have to stay till New Year’s.”

I’ll be gone well before that time, whether I solve Ingrid’s murder or not. Somehow I’m more optimistic now that I will. I feel I’ve made a breakthrough.

Even though his story is pretty darn spooky, I give Mario a have-no-fear pep talk as we repair to the kitchen for the fruitcake bakeoff. Trixie and I move aside the poinsettias that festoon the island and set the fruitcakes side by side. Even merely from an appearance point-of-view, my mother’s offering seems far superior. For one thing, she baked her fruitcake in a sculpted Bundt pan rather than a boring rectangular dish. For another, hers is a lovely golden color with candied fruit pieces artfully arranged on top. Maggie’s is a dark brown lump. It bears an unfortunate resemblance to a half-burnt log.

“I’ll cut the slices,” Trixie offers.

“Why don’t we judges write our votes on slips of paper,” Shanelle suggests, “and throw them in a bowl?”

“Good thinking,” I say. That way we can keep our votes anonymous, unless, of course, everybody votes the same way. I believe there’s an excellent chance of that outcome. “I’ll get a bowl,” I offer, but even as I bustle about assembling what we need, I can’t help but be distracted by the bank statement I just found.

One thing seems odd to me. There’s a big deposit in the account from last month and it’s just shy of half the balance. Meaning there was probably one other deposit of the same size at some point, and over time interest accrued. I can safely conclude that so far there have been two deposits from the life insurance company.

If these are benefits from a policy Erik Svendsen purchased, isn’t it odd that the deposits were made to his widow so recently? He died over three years ago. Then again, I think as we five judges and two contenders gather around the island, maybe it’s not so odd after all. Maybe in a case of big disbursements like these the process takes a while.

Our group gathers around the kitchen island. Two people look particularly cheerful: my mother, who senses victory at hand, and Maggie, because my life-insurance discovery has put her on top of the world.

“Everybody has some of each fruitcake on their plate,” I say. I regard my two samples, one of which looks yummy and one of which looks considerably less so. “We all ready to taste?”

I start by tasting my mom’s, since I’m the type who wants the good news first. It is delectable, in more ways than one. “How much brandy did you put in this?” I ask her.

She looks away. “I don’t like to stint when I bake.”

To my left, Shanelle coughs. I see she’s tried Maggie’s first. “I’m going to get some water,” she chokes.

“Get some for all of us,” Mario requests. He started with Maggie’s, too.

I glance at my father. Since he started with my mom’s, his expression is rapturous. He’s chewing slowly, his eyes closed, as if he were tasting heaven.

Eventually all of us toss our votes in the bowl. We appoint Mario to read them. He clears his throat. “Hazel,” he says.

That vote has to be Pop’s. He’s the only one who would call her that.

“Mrs. P,” Mario reads. That vote could be mine. Mario continues, reading the same name again.

“Three votes,” Pop says. “That means you win, Hazel.”

She bows her head. “What a nice surprise.”

“You did a wonderful job, too,” he tells Maggie.

She giggles. “Not bad for my first time making it.” In the wake of the life-insurance news, I think nothing short of thermonuclear war would dim her good mood.

“I think you did a wonderful job, too,” Trixie says. “So you should keep reading the votes, Mario.”

I frown at her. At least now it’s not clear that the vote is unanimous. She eyes me steadily.

“If you insist,” Mario says. Then, “Maggie,” he reads with obvious surprise.

I understand what happened even before I see the little heart drawn over the “i” in Maggie. In true Ms. Congeniality fashion, Trixie voted for Maggie so Maggie would get at least one vote.

“Mrs. P,” Mario finishes. “Congratulations to both you ladies. Job well done.”

We judges give both contenders a round of applause.

“Well,” Maggie says, “I didn’t have the luxury to work inside the home and learn how to bake. But maybe someday soon I’ll be able to.” She winks at Pop and races out of the kitchen. “See you all later. I have to make a few phone calls.”

“What’s that all about?” my father wants to know.

“Your lady friend got some good news,” my mother says. “Let’s have some more fruitcake and I’ll tell you all about it.”

I wonder what spin my mom will put on
that
story.

“More fruitcake,” Pop says, “don’t mind if I do,” and I watch my parents take slices of my mother’s fruitcake to the living room to enjoy it there. Alone. Together.

I only wish I weren’t worried this will all end with a fresh break in my mother’s heart. Mine, too, truth be told.

Not long after, Mario bids us good night. He has to spend the evening with his producer sorting through ghostly video. The rest of us pass a few hours of leftovers and conversation. I am lost in my own thoughts.

And then, late, I call Jason with my decision. Afterward it takes me a while to relax enough to sleep. But eventually I do.

The next morning I make for the Blue Heron Coffeehouse, a cozy space adjacent to a small bookstore. I order a latte and a frittata with olives and grab a seat by the window. It’s very pleasant on a frigid Monday morning to sit inside toasty and warm, heating your hands on your mug, watching the world go by.

It is in that serene frame of mind that I watch an older man carefully park his pristine cream-colored Mercedes sedan on 2
nd
Street. He enters the coffeehouse, orders coffee and oatmeal with raisins, and sits down with his electronic tablet.