“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.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
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 2nd Street. He enters the coffeehouse, orders coffee and oatmeal with raisins, and sits down with his electronic tablet.
You know me. I’m not shy. I march over to his table and interrupt his reading. “I couldn’t help but notice how beautifully you keep your car. It looks in terrific shape.”
He beams. “It’s a 1985 380 SE. It’s got almost a hundred sixty thousand miles. I won’t part with it, though, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“Actually I was wondering if you know of a good body shop here in town.”
“Oh, there’s a terrific one. Titus Collision Center.”
“Really? So you don’t have to leave Winona to find a good body shop?”
He scoffs at that idea. “Titus is so good, people from out of town come here.”
I thank him for the tip and buy some quiche to go. By the time I get back to Damsgard, my mom, Trixie, and Shanelle are in the kitchen. I join them for a second cup of coffee and pass around the quiche. “Any sign of Pop and Maggie?”
“Your father got up early to go ice fishing,” my mother informs me. “Maggie talks big but she didn’t go with him.”
“There’s only one thing she wants to do today,” Shanelle says, “and that’s meet with Anita the lawyer about those life insurance benefits you found.”
I shake my head. “I think she’s a little overconfident about that money.”
My mother frowns at me. “You don’t think she’ll get it?”
“I don’t think it’s a slam dunk. Remember, Ingrid directed some of her assets to that animal shelter.”
My mother harrumphs. I know she believes Maggie’s interest in Pop will wane if her financial situation improves.
“You know, Mom, it’s Monday morning,” I point out. “Isn’t Bennie expecting you back at work?”
She scowls at me. “How could I go back to work? You’re still sick!”
“I’m not that sick.” I’ve been medicating myself so consistently I can barely even tell I’ve got a cold anymore.
“You’re sick,” my mother declares. “I told Bennie my place is with my sick daughter and he’ll see me when he sees me.”
“Not many people can get away with an indefinite leave when they’ve only been working for a few months. Are you sure you’re not being overconfident?”
“Apparently you don’t remember what that Bennie said to me. He told me I was indispensable. You may not know what that means, young lady, but I do.”
“Maybe he was being facetious.”
She raises a warning finger. “Don’t you start throwing those big words at me. Now if you don’t mind”—she picks up her coffee and one of the slices of quiche—“I’ll eat this in peace in the dining room.”
We three queens chuckle as my mother flounces out of the kitchen. “So that’s why she’s still here,” Shanelle murmurs. “Because you’re sick, Happy.”
That only gets us going more.
“Did you see how she and your father sat in
the living room and ate her fruitcake last night?” Trixie giggles. “I think they got a little tipsy. They were so cute.”
Mario’s words come back to me. I bet your dad is a lot more attached to your mom than he lets on. Even though he’s trying to hide it. Wouldn’t that be fantabulous?
“So what investigating are you going to do today?” Trixie wants to know. “And how can we help?”
“We were just talking about how we better help,” Shanelle says, “if we’re going to justify our continued presence here. Lamar is starting to ask a lot of questions. Not to mention my boss.”
“And I’m dying to see Rhett and the kids,” Trixie adds, “but I’m happy to put off packing up my house.”
“Let me check one thing out,” I say, and I lead my fellow queens to the library. It takes me but a moment to locate Ingrid’s file on her Mercedes and see that on two occasions she did indeed patronize the Titus Collision Center here in Winona. I explain what I learned at the Blue Heron Coffeehouse.
“You’re thinking about that receipt from the body shop in Minneapolis,” Shanelle says, “and how weird it is that Ingrid took the trouble to go all the way out there.”
I hesitate. Then, “It’s probably nothing.”
“You know what?” Trixie says. “Since it might be important but it might not be, how about Shanelle and I make a day trip out of it and go talk to them? That’d give us the chance to see Minneapolis. I’d hate to fly back home without looking around some.”
“That’s so much to ask—”
“We’ll do it on one condition,” Shanelle says. “That you tell us what you told Jason last night.”
That’s more than fair. I lower my voice. “You can’t tell my mom. I have to pick the right moment to tell her.”
Trixie starts jumping up and down and shrieking into her hands. “Oh my Lord! You’re moving to Charlotte! You’re moving to Charlotte!”
I take a deep breath. “You won’t be the only one packing up your house, Trixie.”
Shanelle starts shrieking, too. “You will be so much closer to Biloxi! I am so excited! I can’t believe it!”
This momentous news calls for a jumping up and down group hug. After a while we calm down. “What made you finally decide?” Trixie wants to know.
“I just realized I don’t want to be the sort of person who gives in to fear. I don’t do that in other parts of my life so why should I do that here? It makes no sense at all. Plus it’s ridiculous for a grown woman to be afraid of moving to a new place and building a new life. And I should go all out to support Jason as he chases his dreams. He’s done that for me all these years so I should absolutely do that for him.”
It’s really obvious, when it comes down to it. So obvious that I can’t believe it took me so long to get it clear in my mind.
There’s another aspect to my decision as well, which I don’t share. Jason moving to Charlotte by himself, with me staying in Cleveland by myself, feels like a serious threat to our marriage. Sure, we’d go back and forth constantly, but the fact remains that it would be a real rupture. Already with my Ms. America travel we’re not together as much as we used to be and that’s putting a strain on us.
Then there’s the Mario factor, because in my heart of hearts he is a factor. I am already so drawn to him. Should the distance between Jason and me grow wider, there’s a real risk Mario could step further into that gap. Then what? As tantalizing, as tempting as Mario is to me, I am not ready to venture down that path.
“Your mama is not going to like this,” Shanelle says.
“Well, it may help that Jason and I are going to take it slow. We’re not going to sell the house right away, for example. We’ll just rent it out. That was Rachel’s idea.”
“How does Rachel feel about all this?” Trixie wants to know.
“She thinks we should both go to Charlotte and give it a try. We’ll have to figure out the timing because she’s still got five months of high school.” None of which I want to miss, so that’ll have to be sorted out. “But anyway, if it all works out in Charlotte I’ll encourage my mom to move there, too.”
“Bennie Hana would never allow it,” Trixie warns, “your mom is indispensable to him,” and we all collapse in giggles again.
“Bennie Hana won’t have a dang thing to say about it,” Shanelle predicts. “It’s your mama who’s leading him around by the nose.”
It’s after Shanelle and Trixie depart for Minneapolis, dropping my mother off on the way to do some Christmas shopping in downtown Winona, that I get a call from Hubble. He says he has something big to tell me and so wants to come right over. I don’t get too excited because so far Hubble hasn’t produced much. By the time he arrives I’ve showered and put on my skinny rust-colored cords and charcoal long-sleeved tee, which is super soft and features a flattering ballet neckline.
Hubble passes on coffee and won’t be enticed to sit down, either. All he’ll do is pace the living room. “I thought I’d find something on Galena Lang,” he tells me, “but never anything like this.”
“What in the world did you find out?”
“I’m not one hundred percent certain—”
Great. Already here we go with the caveats.
“—but she might be trafficking body parts.”
“What?” I shriek. “What are you talking about?”
“Biomedical companies want the parts. Or sometimes they go to R&D. I heard about this happening a few years ago in Jersey. In that case it was a ring of morticians who were paid about a thousand bucks a corpse.”
“That is vile! That is disgusting!”
“It’s a way to make money. And the funeral directors, sometimes they fake consent forms from next of kin, make it look like the family gave permission.”
“It may be lucrative but it’s big-time illegal. Immoral, too.” The bereaved families would be outraged to learn that a mortician was dismembering their loved ones to make extra money on the side.
“Desecrating human remains is a crime,” Hubble says. “People go to prison.”
“For a long time, I hope.” Then I remember how Hubble started this conversation. “Wait a minute. You said Galena might be involved.”
“I got it on excellent authority that a D.A.’s office in Wisconsin is investigating whether a certain funeral director in this area is involved in a multistate ring that’s doing this trafficking.”
“But there’s more than one funeral director around here. What reason do you have to believe they’re focusing on Galena Lang?”
“I gave my source that name and he confirmed she’s being looked into. And with Galena Lang, there’s also the fact that suddenly she’s come into money.”
“There’s a plausible explanation for that. I was told she received veteran’s benefits after her brother died.” I rise from one of the velvet chairs and begin pacing myself. “You know this is a very serious allegation.”
“You don’t have to tell me that.”
“Would the local police be aware that a D.A. in another state was investigating a citizen in their jurisdiction?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
I’m thinking I really should put Detective Dembek on speed dial when the front door crashes open. I race to the foyer to see my mother burst inside. One look at her face and I know something terrible has happened.
“I just got a call,” she pants. “Your father’s in the hospital.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
I think my heart stops. I clutch Hubble’s beefy arm. “What do you mean Pop’s in the hospital? What happened to him?”
My mother is too flustered to answer any questions. “You have to drive me to that hospital. I don’t know how to find it. I don’t have a car, either. I got somebody to give me a lift back here to the house.” She dumps a shopping bag in Damsgard’s charred foyer then walks right back outside. “We’ve got to go now.”
“We’ll go right away.” I pull her back inside the house and grab her in a hug. Her entire body is t
rembling. “But first I want you to calm down and tell me exactly what happened.”
“I don’t know what happened! I was in that shop where they have the Christmas decorations put up so nice and I got a call on my phone. It’s from the hospital, who tells me that your father fell through the ice when he was doing that fishing.”
“He fell through the ice. Oh my God.” Visions of Pop flailing desperately in frigid water fill my brain.
“We’ve got to get to that hospital,” my mom repeats.
I have to restrain her to keep her from racing back outside again. “We will. Right away. Do you remember the name of the hospital?”
She does. Hubble offers to drive us. I know he can easily imagine us getting in a wreck given the state we’re both in.
“I don’t know how long we’ll be there,” I tell him, “and I can’t ask you to wait so please just write down the address for me so I can put it in the GPS. Better yet, will you put it in the GPS for me?” I hand him the keys to the rental and race to the hall closet for my coat. “Mom, what did they tell you about Pop’s condition?”
“They told me he’s stable. Hurry up.”
The second I hear the word “stable,” I feel one iota calmer. Something else occurs to me. “We have to tell Maggie.” My mother erupts but I ignore her. “She’ll want to come with us.”
At least so I would have thought.
“Oh, I can’t go to the hospital. I wish I could but I can’t.” She rights the towel on her head. Apparently she’s about to conduct the important business of drying her hair. “You said he’s in stable condition?”
“I did, but what are you talking about? Nobody likes hospitals but—”
“Oh, your father will understand,” she assures me. “You won’t even have to explain. He knows I’m terrified of hospitals.”
Ms America and the Whoopsie in Winona Page 18