Ms America and the Whoopsie in Winona

by Diana Dempsey

  I didn’t know that. We settle in the rear of the police car and the detective turns on her tablet to access the file with the photos. There are quite a few of them. I pay careful attention to the shots of the crowd, all taken before Ingrid was gunned down. On one shot I catch my breath. “So Galena Lang was there.” She’s partially hidden behind a hefty male but I spy her.

  “Yes. From Lang Funeral Home.”

  Lots of people attended the opening so Galena’s presence might not mean anything. But it gives her opportunity. And it’s possible she had motive, too. I return my eyes to the photos. One face I seek but don’t find is that of Peter Svendsen.

  “I know you’re suspicious of him,” Detective Dembek says, “and I am, too, even though I have no evidence he was at the opening.”

  “Where does he say he was?”

  “At a Lamaze class with his wife. Which checks out, though he arrived nearly half an hour late.”

  “What time was the class?”

  “Six p.m.”

  That’s interesting. That’s the same time as the Giant W opening. So Peter’s so-called alibi has a big fat hole in it.

  The detective and I stare at each other. I know she’s thinking the same thing I am. “I’ve been examining his finances,” she goes on, “and he’s seriously upside down on his home. He and his wife own a large property up on Garvin Heights Road.”

  “That would only make him want Damsgard more.”

  “And it doesn’t mean much that he’s not in these photos. The killer might well have taken care to avoid the camera.”

  That would’ve been smart. I digest this information about Peter Svendsen and swipe to the next photo. It’s another crowd shot and who do I see but—

  “Priscilla Pembroke!” I’d recognize that nipped-waist parka with genuine shearling trim anywhere. “Look how she’s got her hood up even though she’s indoors. I bet she’s trying to hide her face. She told me flat out that she didn’t fly in from New York until the day after Ingrid was murdered. But that’s a lie. Not only was Priscilla in town, she was at the opening.”

  Detective Dembek pushes her granny glasses up her nose and squints at the photo. “With her hood up it’s hard to see her face. But she looks vaguely familiar to me.”

  “She’s an actress. Maybe you’ve seen her in something. She also looks a lot like Ingrid. That could be what you’re picking up on.”

  “Possibly.”

  “There’s another thing. I think Priscilla was trying to break into Damsgard when she thought nobody was home.” I share the clues that led me to that conclusion. “Priscilla is supposed to come over to Damsgard tonight,” I go on, disclosing Ingrid’s history as a Freyja worshipper and the honor ritual we’re holding in honor of the heathen goddess. Then I divulge that Ingrid hired a P.I. to investigate Galena Lang, who according to him suddenly seems to have lots more money at her disposal.

  Detective Dembek jots notes in her spidery hand. “So many surprising things going on in people’s lives. That was certainly true for Ingrid Svendsen. We’re reviewing her financial transactions now but so far nothing stands out there.”

  I watch the detective. She looks unperturbed but I doubt she feels that way. “You must be under a lot of pressure to solve this murder. I feel some urgency, too, but nobody’s breathing down my neck.”

  “Our chief understands these things take time.” The detective pats my knee. “You’re helping, dear, and I appreciate that.” She glances out the window. “I would say the last mourners are arriving.”

  The church’s parking lot must be full because in the next block people are emerging from parked cars with the doleful clothing and expressions that signal they’re about to attend a funeral. Detective Dembek and I say our goodbyes and I exit the black-and-white to make for the church. En route I find myself following Peter Svendsen and a heavily pregnant blonde I presume to be his wife. I’d say with a baby on the way, this is a particularly bad time to be upside down on his home. But it’s interesting that despite Peter’s open disdain for his stepmother, nevertheless he wants to pay his respects. Then again, it could just be for show.

  I arrive at the church to find it so packed that it’s standing room only. There’s one person I see no sign of and she supposedly flew in from New York for this very event. I go so far as to walk up one aisle and down another but nowhere do I see Priscilla Pembroke. It is possible she’s late.

  I’m back outside the church, snowflakes dusting the shoulders of my coat, when the hearse arrives, driven by Galena. She looks her usual Goth self. Maggie and Pop walk solemnly behind the casket, carried by pallbearers. Her head bent, Maggie clings to my father’s arm. He and I exchange a nod. Regardless how fraught her relationship with her sister, I know Maggie must be feeling terrible sorrow today. She had one sibling in the world and that sibling is gone.

  The service begins. Still no Priscilla.

  Twenty minutes later my cell buzzes with a text. It’s Shanelle.

  If you don’t need to be there come back.

  I skedaddle. When I arrive back at Damsgard I see immediately why Shanelle summoned me. Together we survey the shards of glass on the porch floor from the newly broken dining room window.

  “I’m glad some of us stayed home,” Shanelle says.

  “What happened?”

  “I was in my room and all of a sudden I heard glass breaking. Trixie and I raced downstairs screaming at the top of our lungs. We must’ve scared off whoever it was.”

  “This is the window I’d break if I was trying to get in.” The double-hung window is easily accessible from the porch and has a traditional sash lock. The would-be burglar simply broke the upper part of the window then reached inside to twist open the lock. Were it not for the screaming, one lift later they would’ve been able to clamber inside and go about their nefarious business. In a big city this house would have an alarm system with every window wired but that’s not the case here. “It’s too bad there are so many footprints in the snow,” I say. “We can’t tell which ones the perp left.”

  “At first I thought it must be Priscilla but she was at the service, right?”

  “Au contraire. Which is pretty shocking given what she told us.” We enter the house. Now with the broken window it’s almost the same temperature inside as outside. “I don’t know what to think about Priscilla. But the truth is that anybody could’ve done this. There are people who read obituaries so they can burgle the homes of the deceased during the funeral services.”

  “That pretty much defines scum of the earth in my book.”

  I can’t disagree. “Where are mom and Trixie, by the way?”

  “They went to the grocery store to buy walleye for dinner.”

  That’s a Minnesota specialty I’m looking forward to trying. And I bet tonight’s repast will be delicious. My mom will trot out every culinary trick she knows to show off in front of Maggie.

  I stand in the foyer and text Detective Dembek with details of the break-in. She responds that she’ll dispatch an officer right away to dust for prints, though neither of us expects any to be found.

  Shanelle hugs herself. “That is one chill wind blowing in here. We need to replace that window ASAP.”

  “I’ll call that hardware store we passed to see if they can recommend somebody to take care of it.”

  They do me one better. They declare they’ll send over one of their own people free of charge. “Been selling to Damsgard all my life,” the proprietor informs me. “It’s the least I can do for the family, especially with this tragedy.”

  Unfortunately I can pry no useful gossip out of the man when he appears an hour later, shortly after the Winona P.D. officer departed without useful prints. But once he’s done with the window, I ask if he’ll do me another favor and unlock a room upstairs.

  Minutes later he takes his leave and I cajole Shanelle into accompanying me to the third floor. It may be the middle of the day but Mario’s ghost story from last night is still reverberating in my
mind. As we set foot onto the shadowy third-floor landing, we see that the hardware man left the door to the previously locked room slightly ajar. I push it open cautiously, Shanelle right behind me.

  We stand on the threshold and gasp in unison.

  “I can’t believe it,” Shanelle whispers.

  I can’t, either. Because what this room holds is a prison cell.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Floor-to-ceiling bars create a cell that takes up about half the room. Inside are a toilet, sink, cot, and small wooden desk and chair.

  Shanelle and I approach the cell. We could go inside, because the door is open, but neither of us does. We stand outside the bars and stare. We may not have found a ghost in this room but I’d say we’ve come upon something equally spooky.

  “I’ll be the one to ask the obvious question,” I say into our stunned silence. “Why does Damsgard have a prison cell?”

  “I can’t answer that, girl,” Shanelle murmurs. “But it gives me the creeps.”

  “The cot looks slept in.” The drab sheets are mussed and the thin blue blanket is pulled back. There’s an indentation on the pillow as if a head rested there.

  “I wonder how long this has been here,” Shanelle says. “Like, was it here when Peter and his sister were growing up? Is this where they sent the kids for time outs? If so it might explain why Peter’s kind of tightly wound.”

  I shudder to think. “Or did it go in afterwards? I don’t know how we find out. That’d be sort of an awkward topic to bring up in conversation. ‘Hey, Peter, when did your folks put in the prison cell?’ ”

  Shanelle gets into the faux jocularity. “ ‘You planning to keep it when you move in or maybe you think it’s time to take it out?’ ”

  “ ‘And what about a permit? Is that required or not?’ ”

  We chuckle but it’s hard to feel jolly when you’re staring at those bars. We leave the room behind us and return downstairs.

  I feel rejuvenated once we step into the cheery kitchen. I pour us mugs of coffee. “I say we leave the third floor off the Christmas tour. What do you think?”

  “I think you best get Detective Dembek on the horn.” Shanelle pours cream into her coffee. “That cell is too weird for words. She needs to know about it. And if she hasn’t questioned Peter Svendsen already, she can probe him about that thing.”

  “Your wish is my command.”

  Detective Dembek professes astonishment about the cell and assures me she’ll bring it up when she next speaks to Peter.

  Maggie and my father return and in short order retire to their room. Both are so spent, I don’t even bother to tell them about the attempted break-in. My mom and Trixie come back to Damsgard with enough groceries to feed a battalion. We fix a lunch of soup and sandwiches, some of which I carry upstairs for Maggie and Pop. I spend time doing research online on my suspects, not that it proves very valuable. I do find a bio of Peter Svendsen but the only thing I learn is that he spent a year in England during college. I also discover that Priscilla Pembroke does have quite the list of acting credits. Most of them are theater roles but there are a few parts in TV and movies, too. The role of Hermione in Winona’s production of The Winter’s Tale doesn’t show up but maybe “ac-TORS” like Priscilla keep their regional theatrical work to themselves.

  Then a different question plagues me. What does one wear to eavesdrop on the reading of a will? I select my slim light gray trousers—which have a terrific drape—and pair them with a knit top with a faux wrap front in a leopard-spot print enlivened by a red background. I look so pulled together it’s a shame no one will see me.

  Half an hour before everyone is scheduled to arrive, I get into position. Fortunately I earlier confirmed the location of the switch that swings back the bookshelves that reveal the secret room, because it’s none too easy to find. Trixie joins me—partly to keep me company and partly because she loves the secret room—and Shanelle moves the shelves back into place, leaving only the narrowest of gaps.

  “Let’s do a test,” she says. “Can you hear me from here? Here?”

  Happily, we can.

  “You’ve got to report on everything that happens in every other room,” I say.

  “I know. I’m your eyes and ears. Good luck.”

  The secret room is exciting in lots of ways but it’s windowless, pitch dark because we can’t turn the standing lamp on, and not particularly comfortable. We both put our cell phones on silent mode and I entertain myself by using the flashlight app to shine a thin beam of light around the room.

  “I wish there were chairs in here,” Trixie whispers a few minutes later. She looks cute in jeans and a white peasant blouse with black trim outlining the keyhole neckline.

  “You and me both.” We’re sitting on the floor leaning back against the wall. Only an oriental carpet cushions our bony butts from the hardwood beneath. Apart from the shrine to Freyja, the lone other furnishing is a bookshelf. It’s not snazzy like the gorgeous carved built-ins in the library but all the volumes are the serious-looking leather-bound kind.

  I examine the offerings. “I suppose we could read until people show up.”

  Trixie joins me. “I don’t think I’m going to find a romance novel here.”

  “No chance of that.” I select Robinson Crusoe, which has been on my To Read list forever, and give my nose a thorough blow so I can get through the reading of Ingrid’s will with clear nasal passages. I’m fighting my way through the part of the book where Robinson thinks about how “the calamities of life were shared among the upper and lower part of mankind”—which is so true—when I hear sounds of life in the library.

  Trixie’s head jerks up from Tess of the D’Urbervilles.

  I raise a warning finger to my lips and she nods in understanding. We both shut down our flashlight apps. Now we must be as silent as beauty queens waiting to hear who won the tiara. Seconds later, in the library, a woman speaks.

  “Now it won’t matter that your pension could support all three of us.”

  Maggie, I whisper to Trixie, my ears pricking up. I don’t like what Maggie’s saying but I darn well want to hear it.

  “After today,” she trills, “I’ll have enough money for Donovan and me to live in high style.”

  “Good for you,” Pop says. “Glad you’re not counting your chickens.”

  They lapse into silence. A few minutes later someone else enters the library. “I’m Peter Svendsen,” I hear, “and this is Walter Chapman.”

  Interesting that Peter’s here. Is it possible he’s mentioned in Ingrid’s will? More likely he wants to stake his claim to Damsgard every chance he can. And who’s this Walter Chapman he brought with him? Apparently Maggie wants to know that, too.

  “I’m the lawyer for the Svendsen family,” a gravelly male voice says. “I had the honor of representing Erik for many years.”

  “Erik is Ingrid’s second husband,” I whisper to Trixie, “who left her Damsgard.” At least sort of left her Damsgard.

  “But you’re not my sister’s lawyer,” Maggie says.

  “No,” Walter says. “Now I represent Peter and Nora’s side of the family.”

  Trixie makes a small sound. I bet she’s thinking what I’m thinking. It’s not always a good thing when a family has “sides.”

  As the quartet in the library sit down and muse aloud about when Ingrid’s lawyer Anita Shea will show up, I start to worry that I made a mistake by not alerting Maggie to Peter’s claim that Damsgard will go to him after Ingrid’s death. I can’t fault myself for not wanting to bother her about something that may not be true but that wasn’t really why I did it. I wanted to see how she’d react if she found out that the riches she’s begun to count on didn’t fall in her lap.

  Anita Shea arrives and introductions are made all around. We learn that Anita is not just Ingrid’s lawyer but also the executor of her will. “Shall we begin?” Anita says, and I swear that even from the secret room I can feel the tension in the library mount.
r />   “Where’s Priscilla?” Trixie whispers.

  Here, too, she’s a no show. Apparently if “dear Ingrid” left Priscilla anything, it wasn’t enough to warrant her appearance at the reading of the will.

  A throat clears and then Anita begins to read. “ ‘I, Ingrid Jane Lindvig Harris Svendsen, of the city of Winona, county of Winona, and state of Minnesota, being of full age and sound mind and memory, do make, publish and declare this to be my last Will and Testament.’ ”

  It’s a solemn moment. You can almost feel Ingrid peering down on the proceedings from on high.

  For a while Anita reads boring legalese about debts being paid from the estate but then matters liven up. “ ‘The distribution of my household goods and tangible personal property is outlined in my letter of instruction.’ I’ll read that in a moment,” Anita says as an aside. Then, “ ‘I hereby give, devise and bequeath the sum of ten thousand dollars to my sister Margaret Louise Lindvig of Rocky River, Ohio. I direct that the rest, residue and remainder of my property be given to—’ ” and Anita reads the name of an animal shelter in Minneapolis. Then there’s more legal-sounding stuff that basically says that if any beneficiaries object to the probate of the will, they will be cut out entirely.

  Silence falls. That’s it? That seems awfully simple for the will of a wealthy woman like Ingrid Svendsen.

  “Shall I read the letter of instruction?” Anita asks.

  “Excuse me,” Maggie says, “I’m a little confused,” and I will admit that I am, too. “I didn’t hear my son Donovan mentioned.”

  “No, he does not figure in the will,” Anita says. “Nor in the letter of instruction.”

  “He’s Ingrid’s nephew. Her only nephew.”

  Anita Shea has nothing to say to that.

  “Okay.” With obvious reluctance, Maggie moves on. “What about that ten thousand dollar thing? There’s more cash than that coming to me, right?”

  “I’m afraid not,” and Anita reiterates the business about the animal shelter.

  Maggie’s voice takes on a note of hysteria. “Are you telling me that Ingrid left her money to an animal shelter?”