Ms America and the Whoopsie in Winona

by Diana Dempsey

  “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.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  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.

  The house is especially magical because it’s decorated for Christmas. And when I say decorated, I mean decorated. There isn’t a room that isn’t done up for the season. As I forage in my black Hobo for my key, I admire the evergreen wreath on the bright red front door, festooned with gold ribbon, pink silk roses, and beads. Unlike last night when I arrived, though, the white lights strung through the trees in the front yard and across the façade are not illuminated. This night is not for merrymaking.

  I’ve barely stepped into the foyer when Trixie finds me. She’s wearing a cream-colored flannel nightgown featuring a leaf and berry pattern and red trim at the neck. “Everybody else is asleep,” she whispers. “Do you want some stew?”

  I crinkle my nose. “Is it Maggie’s from last night?”

  “It’s not too bad if you drink enough red wine with it. Come on,” and she pads in her fluffy slippers down the hardwood corridor to the expansive kitchen at the rear whose bay windows overlook the snow-covered garden, now lit silver by the moon. The kitchen has fancy cream-colored cabinetry and a red, cream, and black mosaic backsplash. Even this room has a Christmas tree: a small one atop the table in the nook. Its only ornaments are angels made from white lace handkerchiefs. I sit down next to it and Trixie brings me a bowl of stew and a glass of wine. You can guess which one I sample first.

  “How was everything when you got home?” I whisper.

  “Maggie was already in bed. Your dad stayed with her for a while, then he shoveled.”

  I knew that.

  “Some police officers showed up to take away Ingrid’s computer and her files. They said they’d be back tomorrow, I guess to look for more clues. Then we had dinner,” Trixie concludes. “What you’re having plus ice cream. We left some for you.”

  I’ll eat it, too. I may be Ms. America but when I travel I let loose a bit. That’ll have to change soon, as in mere months I’ll be facing the specter of international pageant competition.

  “When the phone rang we let the voicemail pick up.” Trixie scrunches her nose. “It was so strange hearing Ingrid’s announcement. And it’s going to be so hard telling people what happened to her.”

  “I bet we won’t have to tell many people. This news will travel fast.”

  “I’m dreading the next few days. We have to help Maggie plan the funeral.”

  “Otherwise it’ll all be on her shoulders.” I’m pretty sure Maggie is Ingrid’s only close relation, since Ingrid was widowed and had no children. There were no other siblings in their family, either. I down the rest of my supper while bringing Trixie up to speed on my conversation with Detective Dembek.

  “She’s going to be so glad you’re here to help her.” Trixie sets down two bowls of chocolate chip ice cream. “I had some earlier but I figure on a day like this I have a good excuse to eat two desserts.”

  “I like the way you think.” I glance around the kitchen. “Can you believe Ingrid called this place stuffy?”

  “What?” Trixie yelps, then slams her hand over her mouth and gazes toward the ceiling, above which our fellow residents are trying to sleep.

  “Yup. She kept saying the house needs updating. I don’t agree.”

  “I don’t, either! It’s gorgeous as it is.”

  “Well, those renovations won’t happen now.” I barely stop myself from licking the bowl clean. I let myself do that only when no one is watching. “You ready to go up? I’m dying to get out of this Santa costume.” Oops. Bad choice of words.

  Trixie rises from her chair. “I want to hear all about Rachel and Jason and your mom but that’ll have to wait.”

  “I want to hear your news, too. Did Rhett get that job in Savannah?”

  Trixie’s eyes gleam with pride. “He did. He found out just the other day. And he’s taking it.”

  “How exciting! Congrats to Rhett!” I give her a hug. “You seem really happy about it.”

  “Well, Rhett’s thrilled, the kids will come around, a
nd I’m ready for a change. After getting fired from my job and all.”

  I carry our dishes to the sink. “I want to hear all about it in the morning.”

  Trixie giggles. “If you have any news about Mario, you can tell me about that tonight!”

  I feel her gaze on my face. “Can I make a confession?”

  “Oh, boy. Should I sit back down?”

  “It’s just that now that I’m out of town and there’s been another murder I kind of expect him to show up. You know what I mean? Even though it’s crazy.” I don’t say: And even though I shouldn’t want him to show up.

  “It’s not crazy. He showed up both other times.”

  “And I found out in Miami that was no coincidence.” Trixie and I stare at each other. “And now I’ve got kind of a problem with Jason.”

  Trixie’s features contort. “Oh, no. Happy—”

  “We can get past it,” I add with more confidence than I feel. “You know what? I’ll tell you about it in the morning.” If I talk about it, I’ll get upset. And then I won’t be able to sleep. And then I’ll get even sicker.

  With the promise that she’ll hear the details over breakfast, Trixie precedes me up the staircase. Evergreen garlands with big plaid bows are twined around the banister. “The policemen took us to a drugstore on the way here so we could get you Nyquil,” she whispers as we hug good night. “I put it in your bathroom.”

  That’s Ms. Congeniality for you.

  My bedroom is Christmas-y year-round, with forest-green walls and crimson window treatments and bed linens. It has a fireplace, believe it or not, and a Nativity scene has been arranged on the ivory-colored marble hearth. After admiring my surroundings, I treat my scummy self to a eucalyptus-scented bath. I’ve just finished applying my moisture recharge night cream when I hear somebody walk past my door, whistling softly. The footfalls sound too light to be Pop’s, and I sure hope they don’t belong to a spectral Ingrid, but even that possibility doesn’t keep me from creeping back into the dark hallway and then down the stairs to investigate.

  The treads belonged to Maggie, I realize. I spy her in the elegant dining room, with its rust-colored walls, French doors, and coffered ceiling. Under the half-lit chandelier a fully dressed Maggie is bustling about.

  Whistling a happy tune.

  Using a tape measure to get the dimensions of the room.

  And surveying everything she sees with a jocular air.

  Maggie is so preoccupied taking measurements and jotting notes that I watch her for a matter of minutes and she never notices me. Eventually I back silently away and return to my room. Despite the soporific trio of red wine, hot bath, and cherry-flavored Nyquil, it takes this beauty queen quite a while to fall asleep.

  I awaken the next morning to an overcast sky, falling snow, and a stuffed-up nose. I wander down to the kitchen to find a full coffeepot and Shanelle over the electric cooktop scrambling eggs and frying bacon. That’s about the best morning tableau you can get in my book. Like me, Shanelle is wearing drawstring flannel sleep pants and has her hair pulled back by a headband. I help myself to java and in return for a plate of food submit to an interrogation about my late night at the Giant W. Then I pose a question of my own. “Have you seen Maggie yet this morning?”

  Shanelle keeps her voice low. “She’s not grieving too much to eat, I’ll tell you that.”

  “Well, to be fair she and Ingrid weren’t close. I think this last week is the first time they saw each other in like five years.”

  Shanelle shakes her head. “That’s sad. Anyway, she’s out running errands with your father. They said they’d be back soon.”

  I’m still inhaling my meal—I feed both colds and fevers—when Maggie and Pop blow in through the front door. “—glad I’ve got a big, strong man like you to carry all these groceries,” I hear Maggie say.

  “You know me,” Pop replies. “Always glad to help.”

  I sip my coffee. Now that I’ve been observing Maggie at close range for a few days, I’m starting to understand her hold on my father. It’s not just that she’s a sex kitten who’s also a card-carrying member of the AARP. It’s also that just like Pop, she’s big on traditional male / female roles. Sometimes I wonder if she’s one of those women who feign helplessness because they think it will make them more appealing to men. And with some men, I bet it does.

  Seconds later the two of them join us in the kitchen. Pop hoists the groceries atop the island and gives me a kiss on the head before disappearing to parts unknown.

  The Lindvig sisters may have shared DNA but their fashion choices had nothing in common. Where Ingrid always looked like she was dressed for a committee meeting, Maggie never saw a pair of jeans she judged too tight. She also owns quite the collection of snug sweaters featuring ultra-low V necks, one of which she’s sporting now.

  I rise to give her a hug. “I am so, so sorry about your sister.”

  She shakes her head. “It’s so hard to believe she’s gone.”

  We’re all silent. Then, “May I pour you some coffee?” I offer.

  “That would be nice.” She sighs as she accepts a mug. “I thought it would be good if Lou and I went to the grocery store. There isn’t enough food in this house. Of course with all her money my sister never learned to cook.”

  After an awkward silence I pipe up again. “I hope you’ll let me help with the arrangements, Maggie. I know Trixie and Shanelle want to as well.”

  “That’s so thoughtful of you, Happy. It’s women’s work, don’t you think? We should go to the funeral home right away, if you ask me.”

  “Maybe we should wait for the police to release Ingrid’s body,” I suggest.

  “I don’t think so,” Maggie says. “Waiting won’t make it any easier. Do you think the funeral home is open yet? It must be.”

  Shanelle raises her brows at me over Maggie’s head. As I make for the sink with my plate, I note magazines poking out of the grocery bags. I can’t help but read a few of the titles: Victorian Homes and House Beautiful.

  Maggie rises to her feet. “I’ll call the funeral home but first I want to look for a few things in Ingrid’s desk in the library.”

  I take a wild guess. “Like her will?”

  “Do you think it would be in there? That’s where I would’ve kept mine. I’ll look for it right now.” She abandons her coffee and scoots out of the kitchen at high speed.

  I am a pensive queen as I load the dishwasher. One data point I can ignore. Two, even. But I am getting smacked upside the head by evidence that only hours after her sister went to that big gingerbread Victorian in the sky, Maggie Lindvig is gearing up to assume Ingrid’s place here on earth as the mistress of Damsgard.

  I gesture for Shanelle to follow me upstairs. We waylay Trixie for an emergency tête-à-tête in my bedroom. I relay what I observed in the dead of night and Shanelle fills Trixie in on this morning’s developments.

  “Maggie is ready to put her sister in the ground,” Shanelle concludes. “It wouldn’t surprise me if she wanted to schedule the funeral for this afternoon.”

  “When I saw Pop after the lights came back on at the Giant W, he was really agitated because he didn’t know where Maggie was. Meaning”—I pause for effect—“she was not standing next to him when Ingrid got shot.”

  Trixie gasps. Shanelle speaks. “Well, the cops tested her for gunshot residue, right? Like they tested everybody who was still there. If she had some on her, they’d have found it.”

  “But remember that the killer wore surgical gloves, then flung them and the gun down aisle fourteen.”

  “Do you really think she might’ve done it?” Shanelle wants to know.

  “Well, she might have. She had motive and she had opportunity.”

  “How much do you know about her?” Trixie asks me. “Like why she moved from Winona to Cleveland?”

  “She moved decades ago but I don’t know why. She owns a nail salon in Rocky River. It’s known for Margarita Fridays,” which I’ve a
lways thought was a clever promotion. I’m snarky enough where Maggie’s concerned to doubt she came up with it herself. “She has a son named Donovan, who’s got to be in his forties, who always struck me as kind of a lump. I think he works part-time in the salon—”

  “Doing nails?” Trixie looks aghast.

  “More like running the register.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with men doing nails,” Shanelle points out. “In my experience they do excellent forearm massages.”

  “True,” Trixie allows.

  Shanelle brings us back to Topic A. “Did you catch that remark Maggie made about Ingrid never learning to cook because she had so much money she didn’t need to?”

  “That’s the big difference between those two,” I say. “Money. Ingrid lives in this big fancy house and Maggie’s in a tiny condo. That she rents.” I know she wants to move in with Pop and I’m also well aware that she tried to prod him into buying them a condo in Florida. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s got her eye on his pension.

  Uh oh. I’m thinking just like my mother.

  Trixie pipes up. “And if Maggie is Ingrid’s only close relation—”

  I nod. “—there’s a good chance she’ll inherit everything.”

  Shanelle emits a low whistle. We look around us. In this case everything is a lot.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “I know we’re supposed to be thinking about the murder,” Trixie says, “but I’m dying to know what’s going on between you and Jason!”

  I take a deep breath. I hate even to say the words because that makes the whole thing more real. “Remember that NASCAR driver Jason flew down to Miami with? He offered Jason a job on his pit crew.”

  Trixie’s hands fly to her face. “Oh my Lord!”

  Shanelle eyes me keenly. “That’s great and it’s not great, right?”

  “It’s a real feather in Jason’s cap, I’ll tell you that. Lots of guys finish pit school but almost none of them get jobs on crews. Certainly not right off the bat. And those jobs pay well, too. But here’s the thing. It’s not in Cleveland.”