Ms America and the Whoopsie in Winona (17 page)

“That’s all well and good, Mom, but her information wasn’t all that useful.”

“Someday you’ll give me my due,” my mother predicts. “I hope I don’t drop dead first.”

I continue west on 4
th
Street. “You ready for lunch?” It’s a rhetorical question because my mom, like me, is always game for a meal. “I told Trixie and Shanelle we’d meet up with them.”

“That Maggie won’t be joining us. Not that I mind.” My mother harrumphs. “She had some so-called important errand to do, not that she would tell anybody what it was. She wouldn’t let your father go with her, either.”

“That’s probably okay with him. I think he wanted to talk to somebody about ice fishing.”

“That’s the one thing he wants to do while he’s here in Winona. Hey, this must be the place.”

We spy Trixie and Shanelle heading into Bub’s Brewing Company, located in an old-style brick building. From outside it looks deserted but inside it’s bustling. We pass through a corridor with framed quotes like Mae West’s: “Marriage is a great institution but I’m not ready for an institution.” And this pearl from Phyllis Diller: “Never go to bed mad. Stay up and fight.”

Trixie hails us from a booth. We walk past mounted televisions airing college football and armchair coaches hollering at the action. “Can you believe Bub’s is pronounced boobs?” Trixie chortles when we sit down.

“This place has our name all over it,” Shanelle deadpans. “I say we share a few burgers and the Cajun fries.”

“Perfect,” I agree.

“Let’s try the beer, too.” My mother points to a poster for Bub’s beer, a brew made here in Winona. I gather she’s ready to relax after all her praying.

We are contentedly sipping our brewskis when I point out that Trixie seems in an even better mood than usual. She leans forward confidentially. “I wasn’t going to say anything because really we should be talking about Ingrid’s murder—”

“We talked to a lot of Ingrid’s neighbors this morning,” Shanelle interrupts to say. “None of them ever heard of Priscilla Pembroke.”

“Yes, we’ll tell you about that,” Trixie goes on. “But the reason I’m so happy is because I had a very interesting conversation with Mario.”

“He has a shoot later but he came to Damsgard looking for you,” Shanelle tells me. “Apparently you weren’t answering your cell phone.”

Not after the call from Jason. After which I needed a break from everyone and everything. Even Mario.

“I invited him to dinner, by the way,” Shanelle goes on, which elicits a grunt of approval from my mother.

“Anyway,” Trixie goes on, “Mario asked what I planned to do after I got the family settled in Savannah and I told him of course I would look for a job at a bridal salon. And you know what he said? That I should open my own!”

“You should,” I say. “You were better at running your old salon than the owner.”

“That didn’t stop her from firing me,” Trixie says.

“Her loss,” Shanelle says. “Anyway, tell them the rest of what Mario said. The
really
good part.”

“I’m almost afraid to say it but here goes.” Trixie takes a deep breath. “Mario said he was very impressed with how I pulled things together for the Teen Princess of the Everglades pageant and so if I was interested in opening my own salon he was interested in becoming an investor!”

“Wow!” I cry. “That is amazing, Trixie! Congratulations!”

We all toast with our chilled beer steins. I am delighted to hear this: it is yet more evidence that in addition to his other charms Mario Suave is one good guy. Trixie goes on. “But here’s the hitch. I have to write a business plan, which I’ve never done before in my life.”

“I told her I’d help,” Shanelle says. “And Lord knows
I
need something interesting to do.”

“I don’t like the sound of that,” I say.

Shanelle shakes her head. “I know I should be content because everything is fine. Lamar is fine; Devon is fine; I’m fine. The problem is I’m bored. You two know nothing about that,” she says to Trixie and me. “You both have exciting things going on.”

My mother slaps my thigh. “Like what, in your case?”

“Oh”—my mind cranks—“Shanelle means trying to solve this murder.”

I can tell my mom’s not buying that answer but the last thing I want to do is raise the dreaded topic of Jason accepting a NASCAR pit-crew job in Charlotte. Fortunately Trixie plunges forward. “You need something new to strive for, Shanelle, now that your pageant days are over.”

“Exactly,” Shanelle says. “This queen needs a new goal. But what?”

We brainstorm the entire time we’re eating but don’t come up with anything that floats Shanelle’s boat. As we’re paying the check I remember what Shanelle said earlier. “So nobody in the neighborhood knows Priscilla? She told us she has all kinds of connections in the area.”

“Nobody we talked to ever heard of her,” Trixie reports.

“And we must’ve asked a dozen people,” Shanelle adds. “Did you check in with Detective Dembek?”

“I tried. I had to leave her a message.” We bundle up against the cold and head outside to find overcast skies and a chill wind that probably blows no good. I turn to my mom. “Will you go back to Damsgard with Trixie and Shanelle? I want to stop by the funeral home.” I thought of a pretext for visiting Galena the Goth Mortician and as we all know, there’s no time like the present.

“Be back before 4,” Trixie says. That’s when the candlelight tour begins.

I arrive at Lang Funeral Home just as the hearse screeches to a halt out front. Galena emerges wearing a knee-length black coat that makes me wish I had a Goth side. It’s made of twill with faux leather buckle straps to cinch in the waist and stud ornamentation at the shoulders and cuffs. “Do you always drive the hearse?” I ask as I trail Galena to the front door.

“It doesn’t get tickets.” Her tone is as chilly as the weather. It’s clear that like Peter Svendsen, Galena Lang is less than thrilled to see me.

We enter the foyer and I spy a framed hand-embroidered saying I missed last time.
The really frightening thing about middle age is the knowledge that you’ll grow out of it – Doris Day.

“What can I do you for?” Galena whips off her coat to reveal another stylish piece: a knit tunic dress in a black and crimson stripe. “My pending came through so I’m kind of in a rush.”

“I was wondering if you could direct me to some of Ingrid Svendsen’s friends.” I watch Galena closely but she reveals no reaction. “Ingrid’s wardrobe is going to her sister but we thought it might be nice to give some of her pieces to her closest friends.”

Galena narrows her eyes at me. “How would I know who her friends are?”

Even though I’m fresh from confession, I tell a lie. “I thought maybe you two were friendly, both long-time residents and all.”

Galena turns away. “If there are things her sister doesn’t want to keep, she can take them to a consignment store.”

I boldly follow Galena into her office. “I’m getting the impression Ingrid Svendsen didn’t have that big a fan club here in town.”

Galena pulls open a file drawer. “I wouldn’t know.”

You’ve got to say this for Galena: she’s doing a bang-up job of pretending she and Ingrid had nothing to do with each other. Since Ingrid hired a P.I. to dig up dirt on Galena, I doubt that was the case.

I pick up a hat lying on Galena’s desk. “This is gorgeous,” I declare, and that’s no lie. The hat is a concoction of purple feathers, black velvet and white pearls that looks like something from a different era. “It reminds me of those hats aristocrats wear in England to go to royal parties. Is that where you got it?”

Galena snatches the hat from my hand. “Look, I don’t have time to bond over millinery. I can’t help you and I’ve got work to do.” She shepherds me out of the funeral home and, short of digging in my high-heeled booties, I can’t do anything to resist her.

For the second time in mere hours, I find myself pushed outside onto somebody’s stoop. Apparently I need to go back to charm school for a refresher course. I’ve been in Winona only a few days but already I’m pretty darn unpopular.

I’m one of those women who love the holiday season. I don’t go gaga but I do enjoy decking the halls. Sending out cards. Baking cookies. Making homemade gifts. Going around the block with a few neighbors and singing carols. So as I stand in Damsgard’s glorious candlelit living room surveying the fabulous Christmas tree and all the other Yuletide décor—the poinsettias, garlands, nutcrackers, Santas, and snowmen—I should be awash in delight. Instead it all falls a little flat for me this year.

I’m plagued by doubt and uncertainty, never good for the mood. Where will I celebrate Christmas next year? Will my family be around me? Change is supposed to be good but, boy, can it be scary, too.

The truth is I dread what the New Year will bring. For sure it will bring an empty nest. Rachel will graduate high school and go off somewhere, probably to parts foreign and unimaginable. My reign as Ms. America will end. Jason will be living in Charlotte. Most likely I will be, too. I’m excited about the international competition in my future, but that brings lots of pressure, too. I’ll have to work really hard to get back into competition shape, and into the competition mindset. This will be the first—and no doubt, only—time I represent the U.S. of A. on the international stage and this queen is determined to make her nation proud.

If by some miracle I win, then I’ll continue to be a beauty queen, something I know and love. But much more likely, I won’t win. And once my reign is over I’ll have to relinquish my Ms. America crown. So my title, tiara, and sash days will be over. Who’s Happy Pennington if she’s not a beauty queen? Talk about a big question to have to answer.

From out of nowhere Trixie appears to rub my back. She’s adorable in a sleeveless emerald-green sheath with a lace bodice and satin tulip skirt. We queens never need much of an excuse to get all dressed up so it took us but a nanosecond to decide that the candlelight Christmas tour required festive garb. “You know,” Trixie murmurs, “I really do believe things work out for the best.”

“How do you always know the exact right thing to say?”

“All you have to do is think about it a little bit more and you’ll know what you want to do about moving to Charlotte.”

When I got back to Damsgard from the funeral home, I pulled Trixie and Shanelle into my room and told them Jason had accepted the job offer. It felt good to talk about it but I’m as confused as ever.

“Charlotte’s really nice, you know,” Trixie adds.

“That’s what everybody says.”

“I’m going to be really sad to move, and it’s terrible timing with Jason’s new job and all, but I am pretty sure I’m going to love Savannah.” She grins. “Look at it this way. If you move to Charlotte, I’ll be only two hundred fifty miles away. That’s just a car ride.”

“I’ll be a lot closer to Shanelle, too in Biloxi.”

“See?” Trixie smiles and rubs my back again. “But first things first. Let’s have a good time with this house tour then keep trying to figure out who murdered poor Ingrid. I think the memorial book was a really good idea.”

We set it up on the foyer table next to a photo of Ingrid. I doubt anyone will write anything revealing in it but you never know. “Let’s all three of us do a lot of mingling,” I say. “See if we can find out something new about Ingrid.”

“All four of us will be mingling. Your mom wants in on this, too. You look very cute, by the way.” Trixie steps back to admire my dress, which features a navy lace overlay over a white sheath. “I love that scalloped hem. And lace is really trending this season.”

Shanelle joins us in a fuchsia fit-and-flare dress with a black floral motif that gives it a screen-printed quality. “Man, this house looks spectacular!”

“All the candles make it so magical, don’t they?” I say. Per the instructions we were given by the historical society, we’re using electricity only to light the Christmas trees. To replicate a Victorian-era atmosphere, our only other light source is candles. “It’s no wonder so many places burned down back in the day, though.”

“I think a lot of these old houses were built with shredded paper as insulation, too,” Shanelle says. “Can you imagine how fast that would go up?”

“We have to make sure we douse every last candle before we go to bed,” Trixie says.

I’m in the kitchen putting the White Christmas Dream Drop cookies my mother baked on serving platters when she calls to me from over by the sink. “Look what I found in the garbage,” she crows, and waves a slip of paper in the air.

“Mom, you’re too dressed up to be digging in the trash.” She’s sporting a blue paisley wrap dress, yet another fashion-forward acquisition.

“It was near the top. Look at this,” she repeats.

I pause in my task. My mother’s find is a small greasy piece of paper filled with Ingrid’s signature written over and over again in blue ink. “Well, I agree that’s weird, but it doesn’t mean anything.”

“What are you talking about? Your father has taken out the trash since that woman died. She didn’t write this,” my mother concludes.

“We don’t know that. The fact that it got thrown out recently doesn’t mean it was written recently.”

My mother throws out her arms. “Who practices writing their own signature?”

“Pretty much no one,” I admit. “No one who’s an adult, anyway.” I haven’t practiced a signature since I was seventeen years old and just found out I was pregnant and was anticipating my shotgun wedding by repeatedly scrawling Mrs. Jason Kilborn in my Chem notebook.

My mother flourishes the paper triumphantly. “Only one person would do this and that’s that Maggie. You dust that paper for prints, that’s what you’ll find.”

“It’s not a crime to practice writing somebody else’s signature.”

“Not on a piece of scrap paper, no. But you mark my words.” My mother folds the paper in half and stuffs it in her bra. “That’s not the only place she’s writing it.”

“You realize you’re pretty much accusing Maggie of fraud.”