Ms America and the Whoopsie in Winona (3 page)

Through the store’s front windows I see cop cars rolling into the parking lot, sirens wailing and lights flashing. Cops with guns drawn soon stream into the Giant W, bringing with them frigid night air.

“You’re right.” After all Sheriff Andy Taylor solved every crime that came his way and Mayberry was a lot smaller than Winona. I watch one of the cops stop Trixie from swatting at the photographer with her elf cap.

“We can do something to help out, though.” Shanelle pulls me toward a knot of teenagers, the youngest Giant W staff, clutching one another in a teary, trembling huddle. I remember how scared Rachel got when Peppi Lopez Famosa was murdered in Miami, and Rachel wasn’t even in the theater when it happened.

The P.A. system teen, a petite redhead, is among the group. “I don’t know what to do!” she wails as we join them. “I’m supposed to make announcements but—”

I rub her back. “You’ve made enough announcements for one day. Let’s just sit tight until the cops give us instructions.”

A lanky dark-haired boy named Kevin pipes up. “They’ll want to talk to me for sure. I just hope they don’t take my twenty bucks.”

“Why would the cops want your money?” Shanelle asks. “Hey, weren’t you working the lights? Why didn’t the Christmas tree light up?”

“How do you think I got the twenty bucks?” His tone is snarky. “The note said to keep all the lights off for at least a minute. That I’d get another twenty if I did it right.” He looks away and kicks at the floor. “Now I’m thinking maybe I shouldn’t have done it.”

Shanelle and I exchange a look. And, I confess, this first clue in the murder of Ingrid Svendsen does goose me from an investigative point-of-view. I extend my hand toward Kevin. “Cough it up. The note and the twenty.”

Kevin grumbles as he digs in the pocket of his cords even though he predicted this would happen. “I threw out the note. In the garbage can in the break room.”

“Take me there.” This I want to see, even if it requires digging through trash.

Going to the break room requires us to pass within a few yards of the deceased. As I nod at the officer standing guard, I sneeze. And not one of those dainty, genteel sneezes, either. More like a huge honker.

Kevin guffaws. “You probably contaminated the whole store.”

“Put a sock in it, Kevin.” Out of desperation I wipe my nose on the sleeve of my Santa minidress and pretend I haven’t been feeling a tickle in my throat all day. “How’d you get the note, anyway?”

He’s explaining how it was mailed to his house when we arrive at the break room. Kevin gestures to a tall gray garbage bin. “Hope you Dumpster dive in your spare time.”

I ignore the sarcasm and kick off the proceedings with a delicate inspection of the top few inches of the garbage. “How long ago did you throw out the note?”

“When I got in. Around noon.”

More than six hours ago. Fabulous.

I roll up my already germ-laden sleeves. “You’re helping me,” I inform Kevin, and before long we are plowing past burrito wrappers, more corn dog sticks than I care to count, and innumerable paper plates bearing half-eaten pizza. “You Giant W workers need a crash course in healthy nutrition,” I mumble. “Hey, is this it?” I extract a small white sheet of paper with typewriting on it. Unfortunately it is soaked not only with used coffee grounds but other even less desirable lubricants.

“That’s it,” Kevin confirms.

While he’s off getting a plastic bag to hold it in, I peruse this pathetic piece of evidence. Its typewritten contents are as Kevin described. “I can’t believe you did this no questions asked,” I tell him as we exit the break room.

“A twenty’s a twenty.”

Can’t argue with that. We’re walking up aisle twelve to make our way back to the front of the store when we pass a rack of hanging calendars and what do I see?
Men of NASCAR Pit Crews
, featuring my husband on the cover.

Yes, the cameraman who took the test shots was right. Not only did Jason make the calendar cut: he scored the cover.

He’s standing shirtless next to a race car, in the hot sun, showing off the sort of 6-pack abs you’d expect of a cover boy. He’s shooting water from a bottle into his mouth but most of it is running down his torso to disappear into his tight, slightly undone jeans. With his longish dark hair, olive-tone skin, and bad-boy demeanor, he looks dangerous, sexy, and hot, hot, hot.

Kevin watches me drool over the calendar. “You look good, lady, but you’re weird.”

I put the calendar back. I guess the Giant W’s wares aren’t all bad. Between this and the discount kielbasa, if I were a local I’d shop here all the time. “That guy on the cover is my husband,” I tell Kevin.

“Yeah, right.”

We arrive at the front of the store and I’m about to repeat my assertion when I notice a short gray-haired lady standing over Ingrid Svendsen’s corpse, so close she must be someone official. She’s wearing low-heeled ankle boots, a camel-colored walker coat with a faux fur collar, and a matching brimmed hat. She must’ve just arrived, as a light dusting of snow still clings to her hat. She lowers her head, clasps her hands, and closes her eyes.

“Is she
praying
?” Kevin sounds incredulous.

“Looks like it. And you know what? It’s not a bad idea.”

He shrugs and joins his teen coworkers. Shanelle and Trixie join me. “That’s the homicide detective,” Trixie whispers.

I’m surprised. And pleased, when I think about it. A Miss Marple who’s a real-life cop.

“You find the note?” Shanelle wants to know.

I hold up the plastic bag and explain the latest to Trixie. “Whoever killed Ingrid,” I whisper, “had to know exactly how the opening ceremony would go down.”

Trixie nods, hazel eyes wide. “An inside job.”

“That should narrow the field,” Shanelle says.

“Maybe,” I say. “But there’s a schedule, remember?” All three of us have copies. “Any number of people could’ve gotten their hands on that.”

“But the killer had to know stuff that’s not on the schedule,” Shanelle points out. “For example that Kevin was in charge of the lights.”

“They had to know his home address, too,” Trixie points out, “to mail him the note and the twenty.”

I ponder that truth as I watch the detective work the crime scene. Now she’s examining the sleigh.

“It takes brass to kill somebody in plain sight,” Shanelle puts in. “Even though it was so dark nobody could see a thing.”

It’s similar to what happened in Vegas. In that case, thick pink smoke did the job of pitch darkness. “The surveillance cameras won’t be any use at all.”

“The ones outside in the parking lot might be,” Trixie points out. “They’d show the people who bolted right after the shooting.”

“Some people sure as heck did,” Shanelle says. “I almost did myself.”

I’d lay odds the killer was smart enough not to draw attention to him or herself by making that mistake. Meaning they remained among us until they could leave without attracting notice. “I wonder if the cops will check everybody here for gunshot residue.”

“They already started doing that,” Trixie reports.

One cop calls out to the homicide detective and my ears perk up. “Did you hear him say Dembek?” I say. “I went to school with a Nadine Dembek! This detective is probably Polish!” Since my last name is Przybyszewski—Pennington is the pageant name my mom came up with—I find that possibility deeply meaningful.

I don’t talk about it much—in fact I don’t talk about it at all—but lately I’ve been harboring the fantasy of becoming a homicide detective in my post Ms. America life. I know, I know, I’d have to go to cop school and be a regular cop first, probably for ages, maybe forever, but the idea that I might,
might
eventually trade my tiara, scepter, and sash for a gun, badge, and holster is pretty darn thrilling. So it gives me a boost to see a Polish female like myself achieve that dream.

We three are tested for gunshot residue but it seems an eternity before it’s our turn to be interviewed by the good detective. By then she’s already spoken with Pop and a shell-shocked Maggie, whose hands she held warmly in her own. I watch my father escort Maggie outside, his arm around her shoulder. She’s so lucky to have him. As we’re introduced to Detective Rita Dembek, I probe our ethnic connection and discover that indeed it is real.

“Winona has a sizable Polish community,” she tells us. “Now you ladies tell me what your roles were in today’s ceremony.”

We share every detail we can think of. I’m proud to hand over the plastic bag bearing Kevin’s note and the twenty.

“So Ingrid Svendsen drove you here to the store in her Mercedes,” she confirms. “We’ll need to examine that. I’ll ask an officer to drive you back to Damsgard.”

I’m surprised the detective knows both the name of Ingrid’s house and the make of her car. Apparently Trixie is, too. “Was Mrs. Svendsen well-known here in Winona?”

“Oh, yes, dear. One of our most prominent citizens.” She glances down at her notebook, filled with spidery writing. Her granny glasses slip down her nose and her hand flutters as she turns to a new page. She bites her lip as she examines her notes.

I watch her. Then, “If you don’t mind my asking, how many murders do you have here in Winona?”

“Not many at all. One every two years, I’d say. Very often it’s a murder suicide involving a husband and wife. That can’t be the case here.”

“No,” I agree. “Ingrid Svendsen was a widow.”

Detective Dembek nods solemnly. “I remember a case years ago when a man named Donald Howard was released early from custody. He was supposed to be in for life for hiring a hit man to shoot his wife but they let him go after twenty years. The day he was sprung, so many people called each other up to share the news that the phone system jammed and you couldn’t get a free line.”

We three nod in understanding. That wouldn’t happen in a big city. It goes to show what big news a homicide is in Winona.

“Did you grow up here in Winona?” I ask.

“Born and raised. On 4
th
Street over by St. Stan’s.”

“Did you always want to be a detective?” I feel Shanelle’s eyes on me as I pose the question.

“Oh, I’ve always been a crime buff. Other girls dreamt of their wedding day. I dreamt of putting a man in handcuffs.” A blush tinges her cheeks. “You know what I mean. An old spinster like me.”

After confirming that we’ll be at Damsgard for a few more days, Detective Dembek leaves us to continue her work. I give my nose a mighty blow into the Kleenex Trixie has procured for me. “You go back to the house without me,” I say. “I want to watch a while.”

“Don’t stay too long,” Trixie says. “It’s already nine o’clock and in case you haven’t noticed, you’ve got a cold.”

Unfortunately, I have noticed.

As Trixie goes off to get their coats, Shanelle gives me one of her penetrating looks. “So you got no interest in solving this case, huh?”

I lower my voice. “I’m thinking Detective Dembek could use a little help.”

“She seem nervous to you, too?”

“I know I would be. She doesn’t get the chance to investigate much homicide and I’m sure she doesn’t want to put a foot wrong. And with Ingrid Svendsen so well-known, there’ll be lots of scrutiny.”

“Which means lots of pressure. Well, one good thing.” Shanelle chuckles ruefully. “I bet you’ll find lots of suspects. Strikes me Ingrid Svendsen was better at making enemies than she was making friends.”

I sigh. “This investigation could get complicated.”

Shanelle winks. “Just the way you like it.”

Hours pass before I’m able to wrangle alone time with Detective Dembek. By then it’s quite late and only a handful of cops remain on the premises. Never one to be timid, I plunge right in and tell my Polish compadre about my crime-solving history.

She listens carefully then lowers her voice. “That is impressive, my dear. And it is true that I don’t get a lot of practice doing homicide. And if you don’t practice—”

“I know. You get rusty.” Even though no one’s nearby, I make my voice as quiet as hers. “But I have been practicing. I’m in tiptop crime-solving shape.” My nasal passages might not be performing at peak levels but my brain cells are. And now that I feel I could be useful, I’m as enthusiastic as ever. “I know I would learn so much from watching you work, too,” I add, and that’s no empty praise.

“I’ve never been one to turn down help.” She closes her notebook. “Though of course there will be information I can’t share.”

“I understand.”

“There is something I can tell you now, though,” she adds, and my ears perk up. “We found the murder weapon underneath a display case in aisle fourteen.”

Just hearing that makes me shiver. “What was it?”

“A .38 Special. There was a pair of discarded surgical gloves not far away.”

So the killer could keep prints off the gun and residue off his or her hands. That takes forethought. Just like making sure that the lights would be kept off for a long time. Clearly this murder was planned. It was no crime of passion.

We head for the exits, a black-and-white at the ready to ferry me to Damsgard. “There’s one last thing I have to mention, Detective. Do you know they announced earlier that Giant W has smoked chunky kielbasa on special for just four dollars ninety-nine cents a pound?”

Behind her granny glasses the detective’s blue eyes widen. “That’s a fabulous price for smoked chunky.”

“You’re telling me! But I can’t help but feel it’s in bad taste to indulge in premium sausage so soon after … you know …”

Detective Dembek nods in agreement. “Kielbasa and murder do not go together.”

As we say our good nights, I feel I’ve found a kindred soul.

I don’t know what kind of mansion Damsgard is back in Norway but here in Winona it’s a Victorian. It’s a lovely blue-gray color with white trim and is positively humungous. I pass through the picket fence and scurry up the long, straight brick path. I note it’s clear of snow and bet Pop worked off steam by shoveling, like he used to do at our house back in the day.