Ms America and the Whoopsie in Winona (7 page)

So far this investigation is easy as pie. I plop my butt in the house and wait for potential suspects to come to me.

Speaking of which, we’ve rewarmed our soup and replenished our wine when Maggie breezes in through the front door, Pop right behind her. They’re both loaded with shopping bags. Bolts of fabric protrude from one of them.

“Been busy?” I inquire.

Neither of them stops to chat. “I don’t know what I’d do without your father,” Maggie tells me on her way to the stairs. “He’s going to take me to Minneapolis tomorrow. I’m so terrible with directions I don’t think I could even find it on my own.”

Judging from Pop’s expression he’s less than thrilled with that ambitious excursion, a two-and-a-half-hour drive each way. But I won’t come to his rescue because I could use the time to give Damsgard a thorough search. “By the way, Maggie,” I call, “did you ever hear your sister mention a Priscilla Pembroke?”

“I never heard that name,” Maggie says before disappearing upstairs.

“She hasn’t given herself over to grief yet,” Shanelle remarks after Maggie and Pop disappear upstairs.

“I don’t know if she’s cried even one tear over her sister,” Trixie says. “It makes me feel bad for Ingrid.”

“Me, too.” I lower my voice. “But remember. Not a word about the secret room or what Peter Svendsen said about him inheriting Damsgard.” Right now I’d prefer to be the one with the inside info. Plus I’d like to see how Maggie behaves while she believes she’s in line for a windfall from her dead sibling. Which she may well be.

“Agreed,” Shanelle and Trixie whisper.

I dispatch the rest of my soup. “I’m going to go talk to Pop.” I wonder if he’s upset, because when I go to find him he is once again shoveling.

I join him on the sidewalk. He always shovels not only the driveway and the walkways around the house but the sidewalk, too. And he doesn’t dump the snow on other people’s lawns, either. What I know about shoveling etiquette I learned at his knee. “I’ll get another shovel and help,” I tell him.

“No, you’re all dressed up.”

“I am not. This is normal for me.” Granted, the heels of my boots are four inches and the only coat I brought with me on this trip is a plum-colored Melton wool with impeccable seaming. But it’s a knockoff! And besides, this is standard wintertime garb for Ms. America Happy Pennington.

I find another shovel in the garage and get to work. “It’s nice how peaceful and quiet it is here in Winona,” I say after a while.

He grunts.

“And I like how the houses are in a square around the park,” I add a minute later. “It’s how I imagine houses in London.”

Silence.

“We’ll have to go read the plaque about the statue tomorrow in the light,” I say.

He stands his shovel upright in a pile of snow. “Out with it already. Say what’s on your mind.”

I abandon the small talk. “Fine. Have you noticed that Maggie isn’t exactly mired in grief?”

“Everybody grieves in their own way. You know that.”

“All she’s done since her sister died is plan how she’s going to redecorate Damsgard. At the funeral home she couldn’t wait to get Ingrid buried so everybody could move on to the reading of the will.”

He flushes, and not from the exertion of shoveling. “As I recall, young lady,
you
were plenty darn eager to get
your
check after you won Ms. America.”

“That’s different! I won that prize money fair and square.” My fellow contestants might quibble with that assessment but that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

“And maybe Maggie has all this coming to
her
fair and square.” He gestures to take in Damsgard and its expansive lot. “Maggie always had it a lot tougher than her sister. Why do you think she left Winona in the first place? Her father may have been a judge but he didn’t leave her any money to speak of. She had to work for a living.”

“Wasn’t that true for Ingrid, too?”

He leans closer. “Ingrid
married
money. Twice.”

That’s what Peter Svendsen said.

“Maggie wasn’t so lucky,” he goes on. “Donovan’s father wouldn’t marry her. Heck, he was such a deadbeat he wouldn’t even support his son. And Maggie didn’t have any skills. All she could do was nails. And since she didn’t want the snobs around here to see how far she’d fallen, she left.”

I ponder that. I do have to give Maggie credit for uprooting herself—which I am having trouble doing—and for starting a business that flourishes to this day. I step closer to my father. My breath puffs in the frigid night air. “I admire you for defending Maggie, Pop, really I do. But you know as well as I do that this doesn’t all add up.”

He looks away.

Even though I tossed my shovel, I plow forward. “So where
was
Maggie, exactly, when Ingrid got shot?”

He shakes his head and says nothing. He won’t meet my gaze.

“You were upset that she wasn’t right next to you when the lights came back on.”

“That’s because I was afraid something happened to her!”

“So where was she? How did she explain it?”

“She did not kill her sister!”

“Are you saying she hasn’t told you where she was? If she is innocent I do not understand why she can’t just say where the heck she was when her sister got shot.”

He points his finger at me. “You better not be thinking what I think you’re thinking, young lady.” He grabs his shovel and stomps up the driveway. Then he delivers the sort of line I hear from Rachel. “I’m not going to talk about this anymore.”

“You can’t pretend this isn’t bothering you, too,” I call after him, but his pace does not slow.

I finish the shoveling. There’s no doubt that shoveling is an excellent activity when a person is trying to think things through. At least for us Przybyszewskis.

It’s a few hours later, while we three queens are sitting around in our jammies watching the big-screen TV and waiting for my new pore-refining white clay masque to work its magic on our complexions, that once again the doorbell rings.

I spring to my feet. “I can’t believe it!” For this must be Mario. Not only is the third time the charm but clearly the gods are toying with me by making sure the sexiest man alive heaves into view while I am makeup-free, wearing droopy cotton, and engaged in an unsightly beauty regimen.

“I’ll get it,” Trixie offers.

I leap up the stairs to the landing, prepared to dash inside my room to render myself presentable, when I hear Trixie loose a shriek of excitement.

“Mrs. P!”

It’s my mother!

I pound back down the stairs. “What in the world are
you
doing here?”

She throws out her arms. “You think I don’t know how to get on a plane?”

I have to say, she looks good. Since she started working outside the home, she dabs on makeup every day, styles her light red hair in a large pouf, and experiments with fashionable clothing. I am impressed to see her decked out in a classic black wool car coat with a trendy funnel-neck collar.

Trixie releases her and I give my mom a hug. “Since when do you fly to another state on a moment’s notice?”

“Since my daughter comes down with a cold that could kill her.” She hugs Shanelle. “And I will have you know that if those crazy planes let a person bring homemade chicken soup on board, I would have that with me. Close that door so we don’t all catch our death.” She peers at us quizzically. “What the heck do you three have on your faces?”

“Let me take your coat, Mrs. Przybyszewski,” Shanelle says while Trixie shuts the front door and starts babbling about the masque.

“You might want to try it, too, Mrs. P. It feels kind of tingly but that’s because it makes your skin look younger by accelerating cell turnover. Happy says the clay is mined from the Iberian Mountains, one of the purest clay resorts in the world.”

My mother waves a dismissive hand. “I don’t need that crap. My skin is already radiant and as soft as a baby’s bottom. At least that’s what that Bennie tells me. Oh look, Happy! There’s your father.”

“Hazel!” Pop could not look more astonished if it were Ingrid who just materialized in the foyer. And in contrast to my mom’s coiffed hairdo and zingy zebra-stripe top, he’s at quite a disadvantage appearance-wise with his uncombed hair and bedraggled striped pajamas.

“I know it’s a shock to see me,” my mom says. “It’s a shock I could get off work.” She turns to me. “ ‘Indispensable,’ that’s what Bennie says I am now. And he doesn’t just mean in the office. Anyhow, I said to Bennie: Bennie, when my daughter needs me, what else can I do but go to her?”

My mom is laying on the Bennie thing a little thick but she’s never been known for subtlety. And now that I see a certain gleam in her eye, I’m 100 percent sure I know why she showed up in Winona.

She got wind from Rachel that Maggie is trying to finagle a marriage proposal from Pop. And the original Mrs. Lou Przybyszewski wants to do what she can to head off that abomination. My burgeoning congestion is just a convenient excuse.

Sort of makes me wonder if she pulled some trick to get me sick. Like rub my coffee mug with used Kleenex she collected at bingo. I love my mom but I’m on to her.

Maggie sashays into the foyer wearing a low-cut black negligee and leopard-print marabou slippers with 3-inch heels. My mother walks forward to grasp her hands. “Condolences on your loss. I’ve already lit a candle for your sister and I plan to say a novena.” My mother is positively purring. This is quite the performance, I’m sure for my father’s benefit. No one would ever guess she believes she’s talking to a sister killer. “If there’s anything I can do, please let me know.”

Maggie blinks at my mother. “I can’t get over that you’re here in Winona.”

“It’s a surprise to me, too,” Pop says. He seems a trifle wary. I don’t blame him.

“I’m hoping you can find a little room for me somewhere in this big house,” my mother says. “Of course I
could
stay at a hotel—”

Maggie’s eyes light up but I head her off. “Of course you’ll stay here, Mom. There’s a lovely bedroom on this floor with an en suite bath. I’ll go make sure the bed has clean sheets.”

“How about some cocoa?” Trixie offers, and an hour later we all retire to our rooms with full bellies and the kitchen smelling of chocolate.

I’m more relaxed than I’ve been all day but I text Jason anyway. These days, what with his job offer, our interactions are often a tad strained.

I’m slammed, sweetie,
he texts back.
Made any decisions I should know about?

Darn. That’s all he wants to talk about these days.
Not yet. But you should know there’s been another murder.

My cell rings. It’s Jason. “What the heck happened?” he wants to know and I give him the download. “You don’t seriously think Maggie did it, do you?” he asks.

“She doesn’t seem the type but you never know. She had motive big time. And she went AWOL right when Ingrid got shot.”

Jason looses a low whistle. “Your dad sure knows how to pick ‘em.”

I know he’s not referring just to Maggie. “What’s Rachel been up to?”

“Cramming for a physics test tomorrow.”

“Another one?”

“It’s an AP class, babe.”

The only insight Jason and I have into advanced-placement classes is through our Einstein daughter. “By the way I saw the calendar. You look amazing, Jason.”

He chuckles. “Kimberly told me it’s selling so fast they had to print more copies.”

“That’s fantastic! But who’s Kimberly?”

“The photographer. You’ve heard me mention her before.”

“Really?”

“Sure you have. She’s the one who predicted I’d land on the cover.”

“Oh, you’re right, you did tell me it was the photographer who said that.” Somehow it never occurred to me the photographer was a woman.

“Anyway, I really am slammed. How about we talk tomorrow? And remember I have to give my decision to Zach next week.”

“I know. I love you.”

“Love you, too, babe,” and then he’s gone.

The next morning my cell wakens me when it’s still dark and I would much rather remain comatose. But this call I have to take. It’s from Sebastian Cantwell: Ms. America pageant owner, besmirched tycoon, and, I soon learn, Giant W stockholder.

“The shares are down seven percent in two days, Ohio.” His British accent gets even more pronounced when he’s mad. Sometimes I can barely make head or tails of what he’s saying. “Apparently investors take a dim view of a murder happening on the store premises.”

“I think we’d all rather the murder hadn’t happened, sir. But I am investigating. I think it’ll help that the homicide detective is cooperating with me.” Not that I’ve spoken with Detective Dembek since the night of the murder. My bad.

“Wrap this thing up ASAP. I want those shares to recover. Then you can do something else for me.”

“Do you need a favor?” I try to be obliging to the man who wrote me a check for a quarter of a million dollars.

“You can testify on my behalf. My trial’s coming up fast.”

Sebastian Cantwell has been charged with creating false losses in the pageant to avoid taxes. It never sounded all that bad to me but Mario assures me it’s a felony. And since on the QT Mario helped the feds with the investigation, he’s sure Mr. Cantwell is guilty. I’m more inclined to give my pageant owner the benefit of the doubt, though I admit I always prefer to be on Mario’s side.

“I’m happy to testify but I doubt I would be of any help,” I say.

“You’d do great, Ohio.” The call disconnects. Sebastian Cantwell is never one for prolonged goodbyes.

I’m in the kitchen making coffee when Pop and Maggie come in through the side door bearing a wide flat white box that emits an extremely tantalizing aroma.

“Donuts,” Pop says.

“From Bloedow’s.” Maggie pronounces it BLAY-doughs. “They were voted best donuts in Minnesota last year.”

“Yum.” I select a long frosted one that’s got to be a thousand calories. Guess I’ll be doing a long run today, snow or no snow.