Ms America and the Whoopsie in Winona (27 page)

“Sleep on it,” she tells me, “so you’ll be nice and fresh in the morning.”

I don’t know about “nice and fresh” but maybe I can manage “slightly rested.” I’m back in my room about to set my cell phone’s alarm when I notice a voicemail I missed. It’s from Detective Dembek and includes two interesting pieces of information.

One is that she wants to go ahead with my “smoke out Lillian” plan. I find that gratifying. The other is that Peter Svendsen professed astonishment when the detective told him that his mother spent the last week in Winona, incognito. He produced a fresh email from his mother in which she asked if she might visit after Barbara delivered the baby. Apparently the tone was of a woman pleading to see her grandchild despite years of estrangement from her son.

Detective Dembek had the same reaction I do: maybe the estrangement continued and maybe it didn’t. If those two were in league to murder Ingrid, they could well want to maintain the fiction that they’d had nothing to do with each other for years.

This time when I crawl into bed, I’m able to sleep. I can’t clear Mario completely from my mind but at least he’s pushed to the back. Front and center in flashing red neon is a major distraction: How to Lure Lillian.

It turns out I don’t need my alarm to wake up. Maybe some people can sleep through heartache, but this beauty queen isn’t one of them.

I shower, put on my caramel-colored corduroy bootcut jeans and black stretch cotton short-sleeve tee with mock turtleneck, and march downstairs to make coffee and an egg-white and tomato omelet. It’s past seven thirty before the sun deigns to rise and by then the whole household is awake.

I make omelets for everybody. I’m in a mode that’ll work for me today, I think: I’ll be busy at all times. I won’t let myself think about anything except solving Ingrid’s murder. And whether I solve it or not, I’ll fly home tomorrow.

That brings me to the lie I tell Maggie, Shanelle, Trixie, and my mom. “I heard from Peter Svendsen last night,” I say after everybody’s slurped their coffee and scarfed their eggs and should be able to take the “news.” “He wants all of us out of Damsgard first thing this morning.”

This declaration is greeted with howls of protest and a few quizzical looks, notably from my mother and Shanelle.

“Mom,” I go on, “you and I will have to move into a hotel for our last few nights.”

Trixie is philosophical. “Me, too, I guess. Well, we have been here a week, which is a lot longer than I thought we’d be staying. But boy, I hate to leave this beautiful house. And all of you, too!”

We spend a few minutes hugging each other, nothing new for us. I hug Maggie, too, because I don’t want her to feel left out.

“That Peter Svendsen just can’t wait to get his greedy hands on this place,” she says, an accusation that could easily have been lobbed in her direction a few days back.

I grunt in false agreement. “So Maggie,” I go on, “I guess you’ll have to call Priscilla and let her know that you won’t be able to get together after all because we’ve all got to clear out of Damsgard.”

“But her name’s not—” Trixie starts to say, until I quiet her with a warning touch.

Maggie doesn’t know that so-called Priscilla is actually Lillian Borger Svendsen, the first Mrs. Erik Svendsen. Maggie didn’t get back to Damsgard from the hospital until we were all in bed and so she missed our discussion of that eye-opening discovery.

“You’re right,” she sighs, “I will have to call and tell her. Because if your father weren’t in the hospital I might have time to see her, but as it is I’ve got to get over there right away.” Then, with a prideful note in her voice: “She called
me
yesterday, by the way. I was waiting at Anita’s office for Anita to get out of court and Priscilla wanted to tell me again how much she hoped we could get together.”

I’m curious what Anita the lawyer told Maggie but I don’t want to distract her with questions on that touchy subject. “Well,” I force myself to say, “what a shame you won’t be able to see her.” I, on the other hand, expect to get an eyeful of Lillian. Detective Dembek agreed to let me hide out in Damsgard in the likelihood that she does indeed try to break in to steal the Erskine. I have a few things to say to her, not to mention a few things to ask.

Maggie rises to clear her dishes from the table. “Your father was so smart to book our flights for tonight. I guess I’ll have to pack for both of us and go to the hospital with the suitcases in the car. And stop off at the funeral home on the way to drop off the check. I better get a move on.” She bustles out of the kitchen.

It’s only after I hear Maggie’s door close upstairs that I lower my voice and confess the truth. “The more I thought about it, the more I realized I just don’t trust Maggie to keep to herself that this is a ploy to entrap Lillian.”

“She might be better at entrapment than you give her credit for,” my mother points out.

“I’m not even going to let Pop know the real story until later,” I go on.

“So we don’t really have to leave Damsgard today?” Trixie murmurs.

“We have to make a show of leaving,” Shanelle says. “Roll our suitcases out to the car and everything.”

“Exactly,” I say. “After she hears from Maggie, Lillian might well watch the house to see when we’ve all cleared out.”

“But you’re going to come back later,” my mother says to me, “right? Because you haven’t figured out who killed that Ingrid yet.”

“Whatever happens today, I’m flying home tomorrow.” I feel everyone’s eyes on me as I carry my dishes to the sink. “It’s time. I tried. Maybe something will click for me today but I’m not holding my breath.” I turn around to face a trio of disappointed faces. “It just hasn’t come together this time. I guess I can’t expect a one hundred percent success rate.”

Part of me wonders if I’ve been ineffective at solving this murder because I know that once the case is closed, I’ll have to fly back to Ohio to face the challenging reality of my life. I don’t really think that’s the case but I might be fooling myself.

Trixie grabs me in another hug. “You really, really tried, Happy, and that’s all any of us can do. Remember”—and she backs away to raise an index finger in the air—“it’s always better to reach for success and fall short than not to try at all.”

That’s beauty-queen wisdom if ever I heard it.

“So when is Mario leaving?” Shanelle wants to know.

I hang my head. Somehow I can’t make myself answer that question.

Shanelle edges closer. Now she and Trixie are both standing right in front of me. I know my mother is still at the table in the nook, watching. “Happy?” Shanelle rubs my arm. “What aren’t you telling us?”

There goes my vow that I would cry no more tears for Mario Suave. I recover quickly, though, and manage to get through an explanation. It doesn’t help put a stop to the waterworks that Trixie’s hazel eyes grow misty, and Shanelle’s dark brown eyes, too.

Trixie sniffles a few times then squares her shoulders. “ ‘I shall be telling this with a sigh,’ ” she orates. “ ‘Somewhere ages and ages hence.’ ”

Shanelle takes it up. “ ‘Two roads diverged in a wood, and I, I took the one less traveled by.’ ”

“ ‘And that,’ ” I finish, “ ‘has made all the difference.’ ”

We have a moment of respectful silence for Robert Frost, American poet extraordinaire, and his 1920 wonder,
The Road Not Taken
.

“Did we all do poetry for our talent at some point?” Shanelle wants to know.

“I usually did tap,” Trixie says, “but once after I twisted my ankle I did poetry.”

“Happy never did poetry for her talent,” my mother says, joining us and handing me a tissue. “But she had to learn that poem in school.”

I blow my nose and square my own shoulders. “You know what, ladies? We can’t talk about Mario now. And we shouldn’t, anyway. Let’s do what we have to do to make it look like we’re clearing out of Damsgard. Mom, give me your ticket information so I can call the airline and book the two of us on the same flight home.”

“I best call the airline, too,” Shanelle says.

“Me, three.” Then Trixie’s expression grows worried. “I know I shouldn’t ask this but do you think Mario might not want to invest in my bridal salon now? I mean, I wouldn’t blame him—”

“If you come up with a good business plan, he will absolutely want to invest,” I tell Trixie, and I mean it. “He’s not the kind of guy who would back out of a promise.”

“I agree,” Shanelle says. “So here’s what we do today, girl,” she tells Trixie. “We take ourselves to the public library and sit down our behinds and write up that business plan of yours.”

Trixie’s face lights up. “Oh, that’s a good idea. We talked about it when we were driving around yesterday but didn’t actually write anything down.”

“Then we all meet back here in the late afternoon,” I say, “and enjoy our last night at Damsgard.” I take my mother by the arm and lead her to her bedroom. “And here’s what you and I will do this morning, Mom.”

We spend the next two hours flawlessly executing our plan. After confirming that Maggie did indeed speak to the woman she knows as Priscilla—which is essential to our scheme—I usher her out to her car. Ten minutes later, Shanelle and Trixie drive away as well, in the direction of the highway that would carry them to Minneapolis if that were where they were going. Then my mother and I showily load our suitcases into the rental car and even go so far as to pose for one last selfie in front of Damsgard. I drive us several blocks away to a quiet side street and park.

“You’re sure you left that kitchen door open?” my mother says as I exit the rental and she settles herself in the driver’s seat.

“Positive. I checked it three times. Now you be careful driving to the hospital. It’s starting to snow.”

“Me, be careful?” She glowers in my direction. “You, be careful. I won’t be the one sitting alone in that house waiting for a murderer to show up.”

I have to scamper across two properties to access Damsgard from the rear. I was smart enough to plan my route earlier by conducting a reconnaissance mission through the neighborhood, checking for fences and guard dogs. I let myself in through the side door that opens into the kitchen, re-lock the door, and text Detective Dembek that everyone is out of the house but me. She texts back that two plainclothes officers are keeping watch on Damsgard from an unmarked car.

I set my phone to silent mode and dash upstairs.

Our trap is set.

Now all I have to do is wait.

I can’t wait on the first floor because Lillian might spy me through a window. So I wait in my bedroom, a good distance from the windows. I boot up my laptop and stare at my suspects spreadsheet until my brain hurts. I resist napping and I resist checking my cell phone to see if Mario has called or texted. (He hasn’t.) I prepare for Lillian’s anticipated arrival by looking up Shakespearean quotes about time and decide that my favorite is: “Pleasure and action make the hours seem short.”

Which must mean boredom and inaction make them drag on. I’m getting ample proof of that today.

I’m starting to wonder how much longer I can bear it when I hear the satisfying sound of glass shattering downstairs. I bet it’s Lillian announcing her arrival by breaking the new window the hardware store put in on the day of Ingrid’s funeral. It sure seems to be the go-to window at Damsgard for those bent on burglary.

I allow myself a few seconds just to enjoy being right. I sure called this one! I have to say I’m not really frightened. If cops weren’t watching the house, and if I didn’t have my trusty pepper spray near at hand, I certainly would be. After all, Lillian may well be a killer. But as it is, I’m hyped up but not terrified.

I don’t move a muscle, though. I am under strict instructions to keep my distance from our perp. I am not to confront her until I’m sure the cops have her well in hand. And they won’t interfere with her activities until she’s had time to get the Erskine in her grasp. After all, they might as well add to her list of transgressions.

In short order I hear someone shuffling around on the first floor. It’s hard not to get nervous. Even though it doesn’t make sense for Lillian to come upstairs, especially given what she’s here for, I half expect her to appear at the threshold to my room, as if somehow her criminal radar will sense my presence. Or natural curiosity could propel her to mount the staircase, to tour the rooms of the home where she raised her children and conducted her married life.

I wonder what her plan is. That painting is pretty big. She can’t be planning to just meander up the street with it in the full light of day, can she? Then slide it into her rental car like it’s the sort of thing a person does every day?

I’m plotting how I myself would steal the Erskine given those constraints when I hear a commotion downstairs. Heavy footfalls pound across the hardwood floor. A man bellows:
Stop! Hold it right there!
A woman shrieks:
No! No!
A man orders:
Put down the painting!

That’s my cue. I race from my bedroom down to the first floor, past the dining room that’s once again boasting a shattered front window, to the library. And what do I see but two male officers squaring off against Lillian. As I would expect, she’s clutching the Erskine. Per usual she’s dolled up in her nipped-waist gunmetal gray parka with the shearling trim, her blond hair perfectly coiffed and her makeup tastefully applied. If you forget that she’s brandishing stolen property, you can easily imagine her as the doyenne of Damsgard.

“You!” she stammers when she sees me. “You drove away!”

“So I did. But now I’m back.”

“I can see that.” Her haughtiness seems to be returning so I guess she’s recovered from her initial shock. She stares at me with blue eyes as cold as the December air now coursing through Damsgard.

“Put down the painting, ma’am,” one officer says. “Then step away from it.”

“This is ridiculous,” she sniffs. “What an obvious set-up. This travesty will never hold up in a court of law.” She sets down the oil as ordered and brushes her hands as if her biggest problem were dust. The officer who spoke steps forward to move the Erskine further away from her; the other snaps handcuffs on her wrists and recites her Miranda rights.