Ms America and the Whoopsie in Winona

by Diana Dempsey

  “Let me take your coat, Mrs. Przybyszewski,” Shanelle says while Trixie shuts the front door and starts babbling about the masque.

  “You might want to try it, too, Mrs. P. It feels kind of tingly but that’s because it makes your skin look younger by accelerating cell turnover. Happy says the clay is mined from the Iberian Mountains, one of the purest clay resorts in the world.”

  My mother waves a dismissive hand. “I don’t need that crap. My skin is already radiant and as soft as a baby’s bottom. At least that’s what that Bennie tells me. Oh look, Happy! There’s your father.”

  “Hazel!” Pop could not look more astonished if it were Ingrid who just materialized in the foyer. And in contrast to my mom’s coiffed hairdo and zingy zebra-stripe top, he’s at quite a disadvantage appearance-wise with his uncombed hair and bedraggled striped pajamas.

  “I know it’s a shock to see me,” my mom says. “It’s a shock I could get off work.” She turns to me. “ ‘Indispensable,’ that’s what Bennie says I am now. And he doesn’t just mean in the office. Anyhow, I said to Bennie: Bennie, when my daughter needs me, what else can I do but go to her?”

  My mom is laying on the Bennie thing a little thick but she’s never been known for subtlety. And now that I see a certain gleam in her eye, I’m 100 percent sure I know why she showed up in Winona.

  She got wind from Rachel that Maggie is trying to finagle a marriage proposal from Pop. And the original Mrs. Lou Przybyszewski wants to do what she can to head off that abomination. My burgeoning congestion is just a convenient excuse.

  Sort of makes me wonder if she pulled some trick to get me sick. Like rub my coffee mug with used Kleenex she collected at bingo. I love my mom but I’m on to her.

  Maggie sashays into the foyer wearing a low-cut black negligee and leopard-print marabou slippers with 3-inch heels. My mother walks forward to grasp her hands. “Condolences on your loss. I’ve already lit a candle for your sister and I plan to say a novena.” My mother is positively purring. This is quite the performance, I’m sure for my father’s benefit. No one would ever guess she believes she’s talking to a sister killer. “If there’s anything I can do, please let me know.”

  Maggie blinks at my mother. “I can’t get over that you’re here in Winona.”

  “It’s a surprise to me, too,” Pop says. He seems a trifle wary. I don’t blame him.

  “I’m hoping you can find a little room for me somewhere in this big house,” my mother says. “Of course I could stay at a hotel—”

  Maggie’s eyes light up but I head her off. “Of course you’ll stay here, Mom. There’s a lovely bedroom on this floor with an en suite bath. I’ll go make sure the bed has clean sheets.”

  “How about some cocoa?” Trixie offers, and an hour later we all retire to our rooms with full bellies and the kitchen smelling of chocolate.

  I’m more relaxed than I’ve been all day but I text Jason anyway. These days, what with his job offer, our interactions are often a tad strained.

  I’m slammed, sweetie, he texts back. Made any decisions I should know about?

  Darn. That’s all he wants to talk about these days. Not yet. But you should know there’s been another murder.

  My cell rings. It’s Jason. “What the heck happened?” he wants to know and I give him the download. “You don’t seriously think Maggie did it, do you?” he asks.

  “She doesn’t seem the type but you never know. She had motive big time. And she went AWOL right when Ingrid got shot.”

  Jason looses a low whistle. “Your dad sure knows how to pick ‘em.”

  I know he’s not referring just to Maggie. “What’s Rachel been up to?”

  “Cramming for a physics test tomorrow.”

  “Another one?”

  “It’s an AP class, babe.”

  The only insight Jason and I have into advanced-placement classes is through our Einstein daughter. “By the way I saw the calendar. You look amazing, Jason.”

  He chuckles. “Kimberly told me it’s selling so fast they had to print more copies.”

  “That’s fantastic! But who’s Kimberly?”

  “The photographer. You’ve heard me mention her before.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure you have. She’s the one who predicted I’d land on the cover.”

  “Oh, you’re right, you did tell me it was the photographer who said that.” Somehow it never occurred to me the photographer was a woman.

  “Anyway, I really am slammed. How about we talk tomorrow? And remember I have to give my decision to Zach next week.”

  “I know. I love you.”

  “Love you, too, babe,” and then he’s gone.

  The next morning my cell wakens me when it’s still dark and I would much rather remain comatose. But this call I have to take. It’s from Sebastian Cantwell: Ms. America pageant owner, besmirched tycoon, and, I soon learn, Giant W stockholder.

  “The shares are down seven percent in two days, Ohio.” His British accent gets even more pronounced when he’s mad. Sometimes I can barely make head or tails of what he’s saying. “Apparently investors take a dim view of a murder happening on the store premises.”

  “I think we’d all rather the murder hadn’t happened, sir. But I am investigating. I think it’ll help that the homicide detective is cooperating with me.” Not that I’ve spoken with Detective Dembek since the night of the murder. My bad.

  “Wrap this thing up ASAP. I want those shares to recover. Then you can do something else for me.”

  “Do you need a favor?” I try to be obliging to the man who wrote me a check for a quarter of a million dollars.

  “You can testify on my behalf. My trial’s coming up fast.”

  Sebastian Cantwell has been charged with creating false losses in the pageant to avoid taxes. It never sounded all that bad to me but Mario assures me it’s a felony. And since on the QT Mario helped the feds with the investigation, he’s sure Mr. Cantwell is guilty. I’m more inclined to give my pageant owner the benefit of the doubt, though I admit I always prefer to be on Mario’s side.

  “I’m happy to testify but I doubt I would be of any help,” I say.

  “You’d do great, Ohio.” The call disconnects. Sebastian Cantwell is never one for prolonged goodbyes.

  I’m in the kitchen making coffee when Pop and Maggie come in through the side door bearing a wide flat white box that emits an extremely tantalizing aroma.

  “Donuts,” Pop says.

  “From Bloedow’s.” Maggie pronounces it BLAY-doughs. “They were voted best donuts in Minnesota last year.”

  “Yum.” I select a long frosted one that’s got to be a thousand calories. Guess I’ll be doing a long run today, snow or no snow.

  “That’s one of their bestsellers,” Pop says. “The maple long john.”

  One bite makes me think it was made in heaven, not Winona.

  “They still fry them in lard,” Maggie assures me, “like they did ninety years ago.”

  Make that an extra long run.

  Trixie and Shanelle join us in short order. Shanelle goes for a traditional glazed and Trixie a chocolate-cake donut. “I’m getting a head start on my holiday weight gain this year,” she mumbles, her mouth half full.

  When my mother appears, she’s already made up and dressed in navy slacks and a cute blue paisley blouse with turned-up cuffs.

  “I hope you slept well in the maid’s room,” Maggie says.

  My mother produces a beatific smile as she selects her usual jelly donut. “I always sleep like a baby, don’t I, Lou? Nothing on my conscience.”

  Meow. “So what’s on the docket for everybody today?” I ask.

  “Well, the funeral’s not till tomorrow,” Trixie murmurs, and Maggie spins toward my father. “I think they should read the will here at the house.”

  I get a brainstorm. “Excellent idea! How about in the library?”

  From behind Maggie, Shanelle winks at me. She knows about the secret room righ
t off the library so she can guess what I’m up to.

  “That should work,” Maggie agrees. “I’ll call the lawyer.”

  Since I’m on a roll, I keep going. “You two are thinking of driving to Minneapolis today, right?” As I say that, I realize that with my mom here it will be difficult to search the house. I know from experience that I can’t count on her to keep her mouth shut.

  “Can she do that?” my mom asks me, gesturing toward Maggie. “The cops will let her leave town?”

  Maggie frowns at my mother. “Why wouldn’t they?” She turns to my father. “What have you been saying, Lou?”

  Interesting. Maybe Pop has been pestering her to explain her whereabouts when Ingrid was gunned down.

  Before Pop can answer Maggie bursts into tears. “I had nothing to do with Ingrid getting shot!”

  “So where were you when it happened?” I ask. As soon as the words pop out of my mouth, I realize they sound pretty accusatory. Still, I do want that question answered.

  Maggie keeps sobbing. “I can’t believe you’re asking me that! What do you have against me? I got you this opportunity here in Winona, didn’t I?”

  She makes it sound like she lined me up at Carnegie Hall. “It’s a perfectly reasonable question. One you should have no trouble answering.”

  She keeps crying for a while, and I note with interest that Pop doesn’t try to comfort her. Eventually, since I don’t let her off the hook, she comes out with it. “Fine! You’re so desperate to know? I wanted one of those inflatable fruitcakes.”

  “Why didn’t you just say so?” Pop hollers.

  My mother throws out her arms. “What in tarnation is an inflatable fruitcake?”

  “Hey, hold on a minute.” Pop frowns at Maggie. “Are you saying you stole it? While we were all standing there in the dark?”

  She starts crying harder and I start wondering if her tears are a ploy to make us back off. Finally, “They were expensive!” she wails. “I don’t have the kind of money the rest of you people have.”

  Boy, will my mom make hay with this! Suspected sister killer and tchotchke thief. I see the triumphant glint in my mom’s eye. “What in the world would anybody want with an inflatable fruitcake?” she wants to know.

  Maggie struggles to explain. “It’s so you can put fruitcake on the holiday table but nobody has to eat it. Because nobody ever wants to eat fruitcake.”

  Pop and I meet each other’s eyes. That is so not true.

  “People only eat it to be polite,” Maggie insists. “Everybody knows that.”

  Pop shuffles his feet. “Well, truth be told, Hazel here has been known to bake a darn good fruitcake.”

  My mother bows her head in a false show of modesty. I know her heart is soaring.

  I chime in. “In fact, Mom’s fruitcake is so good that we have neighbors call us in early December just to make sure their names are still on her gift list.”

  “I don’t believe it.” Maggie sets her jaw. “There’s no such thing as good fruitcake. You’re both making this up.”

  “There’s only one way to prove it.” My mother produces such a sweet smile I nearly go into insulin shock. “How about you and I have a fruitcake bake-off?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Now that’s the way to get the season started!” Pop bellows. “Hazel’s fruitcake!”

  Maggie throws out her arms. “Seriously? You expect me to bake a fruitcake? Well, fine. I’ll do it. But not until after the funeral. Some of us are in mourning.”

  Only a honker of a sneeze keeps me from disputing that assertion.

  The doorbell rings. “I’ll get it,” I offer, and without thinking twice I run to the front door in my ancient PJs with my hair in a pile on top of my head and my nose red from non-stop blowing and half of a maple long john donut in one hand and a snot-filled Kleenex in the other and who is standing there but Mario Suave.

  “Happy,” he says, “just the woman I’ve been looking for,” and he cracks that trademark dimple-flashing smile that appears on his America’s Scariest Ghost Stories posters and you know what? It doesn’t matter that I look like hell on wheels.

  He looks fantastic, of course, his skin tanned from L.A. sun and his dark hair perfectly imperfect and his musky cologne breaking through my congestion to assail my nostrils. He’s dressed in sleek black trousers and a camel-colored overcoat that must have cashmere in it because it feels so darn soft. I know how soft it is because I’m hugging him. I’m hugging him for a little too long, I realize.

  I back away and tell a lie. “I can’t believe you came to Winona!”

  He winks at me. “Didn’t I tell you there are ghosts in Minnesota?”

  I hear commotion behind me. Everyone is coming into the foyer from the kitchen. Delighted shouts and cries are ringing out.

  Mario lowers his voice. “Ghosts … and angels.”

  I get a few minutes to collect myself as Mario is greeted and hugged and backslapped and escorted to the kitchen for coffee and a Bloedow’s donut. We have a moment of solemnity when he offers Maggie his condolences. She seems so undone by his celebrity that she can’t speak, no matter the topic. All she can do is stare.

  “Maybe you can share some local knowledge with me,” Mario suggests to her at one point. I can tell he’s trying to cheer her up, which goes to show how considerate he is. “That’s always a great way to improve the show.”

  She clears her throat. “So you’ll be working on your show here in Winona?”

  “Why else would I be here?” He gives me a sly wink and nobody says a word. Mario may have had a good cover in Vegas and Miami but we all know why he really came to Winona: Mom knows, and Trixie and Shanelle and me and even Pop.

  If Jason knew Mario had shown up here, he’d know why, too.

  “I’ve got a shoot this afternoon,” Mario goes on, “on Cummings Street on the west side of town. It’s said to be haunted by a very lively spirit.” He shivers dramatically and we all chuckle.

  “How is Mariela?” Trixie wants to know. “Mariela is Mario’s 16-year-old daughter, who lives in Miami,” she adds for Maggie’s benefit.

  “She’s just fine. Shopping constantly and trying to make me believe it’s for Christmas gifts.”

  “How did her audition go?” Shanelle asks. We all know Mario pulled a string or two so his drop-dead-gorgeous daughter could try out for a new teen TV drama.

  “She got a callback but then she flubbed her lines.” He meets my gaze. “She didn’t practice enough. Just like for the pageant.”

  Mariela was a shoo-in to win Teen Princess of the Everglades but then in the finale not only tripped over her evening gown but delivered a catastrophic answer to the final question. She placed fifth and was not happy about it.

  “It could’ve just been nerves,” Trixie suggests, charitable as ever.

  “Nerves aren’t her problem.” Mario finishes his coffee. “Failing to prepare is.”

  Pop pipes up. “And how is Consuela doing?” He’s much higher on Mariela’s mother than we three queens are.

  Mario chuckles and shakes his head. “Prepare yourselves, ladies! She’s talking about entering Ms. Florida.”

  “But she has to be married to compete!” Trixie cries.

  The Ms. America pageant of which I am the proud title-holder is the nation’s foremost pageant for married women.

  “I think she’s got that part well in hand,” Mario replies.

  I detect chagrin in his voice. “Do you mean, with Hector?” I’m referring to the married man with whom Consuela was catting around as recently as last month. Maybe she finally succeeded in prodding him to leave his wife.

  Mario shakes his head. I’ll have to get that story later.

  I take a deep breath. This is potentially big news, on a few levels. For one thing, Consuela getting married presumably means she’ll stop making a play for Mario. I shouldn’t care but I do.

  From a pageant point-of-view, this is potentially alarming. Consuela is a total bombshell. If
she becomes a contestant—and is smart enough to do one of her amazing pole-dancing routines as her talent—she could well win her state. Meaning I’d encounter her again at the national competition, where I will crown my successor.

  I know I’m getting way ahead of myself but my stomach drops when I imagine the horror of Consuela Machado winning the crown and succeeding me as Ms. America. How in the world could I relinquish my beloved tiara to her? And be forced to smile the entire time as if I were thrilled to do so?

  I can’t let myself think about that. It’s too appalling a scenario. With everything else going on in my life, I’m frazzled enough.

  Mario takes his leave vowing to return in an hour to go running with me. He claims he could use the exercise. The man is as well muscled as a Ford Mustang.

  “Normally I wouldn’t approve of you running around in these temperatures with a head cold,” my mother tells me. “But I’m for anything to get you closer to that Mario. You’re healthy. You’d get over the flu.”

  After Pop and Maggie leave for their day trip to Minneapolis, I place a call to Detective Dembek to inquire if the department found anything of interest at Damsgard. She tells me they’re still combing through Ingrid’s computer and desk files.

  “We’ll return Mrs. Svendsen’s Mercedes later today,” she says. “And I let her sister know that we released the body to the funeral home last night.”

  So the burial won’t be delayed, nor the reading of the will. Maggie will be pleased on that count. “Anything good from the surveillance cameras outside the Giant W?” I ask.

  “We’ve identified almost all the people who ran outside right after the shot was fired. Naturally we’re talking to them. We haven’t turned up anything of value yet. Nor were there any fingerprints on the note sent to that boy Kevin.”

  That’s no surprise. “Maybe the shots taken by the Winona Post photographer would be useful.” I remember Trixie swatting at the man with her elf cap when he attempted to photograph Ingrid’s bleeding corpse. “He was taking pictures of the crowd before the ceremony began.”