Ms America and the Whoopsie in Winona

by Diana Dempsey

  Maybe it’s the glow from the candlelight but I believe I detect a gleam in Priscilla’s eyes. “Excellent suggestion,” she says. Then, in a portentous tone, she resumes the ceremony. “As I was the night before your beginnings, I am the light that will shine for you at the end.”

  “Geez Louise,” my mother mumbles.

  I knock her in the arm. As I predicted, she isn’t trying too hard to keep her vow of silence.

  “I wait as a seed within the earth,” Priscilla goes on, “as the egg within the womb, as the spirit within the body. Let us close our eyes and ponder Freyja’s wisdom.”

  As Priscilla’s voice trails off, I obediently close my eyes. I’m not doing much pondering, though. I’m mostly straining to hear what’s going on around me. We are all five of us so quiet that I swear I can make out every breath we take. Then somehow I perceive something else. Movement. The faintest whisper of air on my skin as someone creeps away from our group.

  Priscilla! I made sure I was next to her and I know she’s the one who moved.

  I let her get all the way to the threshold of the library. I am not the least surprised when our cheeky visitor from the East starts shutting the bookshelf entry to the secret room. That is exactly what I expected her to do! This is why she wanted everybody in the house in the secret room, and all of Damsgard plunged into darkness. She was just waiting for her opportunity to lock us all in there so she could have free rein to do whatever the heck she’s been angling to do. I scamper toward the bookshelf wall and apply the tiniest bit of resistance to keep it from clicking shut without alerting Priscilla that I’m on to her.

  “What!” my mother yowls behind me. “Are we locked in here? Help!”

  “Shh!” I hiss. “We’re not locked in. Put a sock in it.”

  Only with Trixie and Shanelle’s help am I able to get my mom to hush up. Then, when she’s been reduced to muttering, I cautiously push open the bookshelf wall, just a smidge, barely enough to peer into the dim library, which now is illuminated only by the moonlight streaming through the paned windows.

  And what do I see? Priscilla standing on a chair she hauled over from the dining room, lifting the painting of the sailboats away from the wall above the mantel.

  I push open the bookshelf wall just as Mario switches on a table lamp. Priscilla freezes in place, the painting in her arms.

  “So that’s what you’re after!” I cry.

  “Put the painting back,” Mario says in a warning tone.

  “Or what?” Priscilla demands. The woman is a case study in impudence. Instead of rehanging the oil she stands it on the carpet beside the fireplace and carefully steps down from the chair. She brushes her skirt and straightens. “It’s rightfully mine and I’m taking it with me and there’s nothing you can do about it,” she declares, and again she takes it in her arms and makes a move to exit the library.

  Mario blocks her way. “You’re not going anywhere, Priscilla.”

  “I’ll call Detective Dembek,” I say.

  “Don’t you dare!” Again Priscilla sets down the painting. She throws a nasty glance at Mario. “I should’ve known you’d be here.” Then to me: “Don’t fool yourself that you’re anything like Freyja. The goddess would never need a man to defend her.”

  That stings. “You can insult me all you like but the fact is that you’re a thief. I know it was you who tried to break into Damsgard earlier today.”

  “You know nothing of the kind.”

  “Ever since you came to Winona you’ve been using every trick in the book to insinuate yourself into this house. And now we all know why. You want that painting.”

  She steps closer to me. “I have far more right to be at Damsgard than you do.”

  “Because of your supposed friendship with Ingrid?”

  She raises her chin. “There is nothing supposed about it.”

  “Then why didn’t you go to her funeral?”

  “Because I’m not bound by convention like the rest of you. I had a private ceremony for the dear soul to pay her tribute.”

  “If that was all you wanted to do, you could’ve done it in New York. Why did you bother flying all the way out to Minnesota?”

  Priscilla ignores me and throws out her right arm.

  “Here we go again,” I say. “What’s it going to be this time? Macbeth?”

  Yes, as it happens.

  “ ‘Give sorrow words!’ ” Priscilla cries. “ ‘The grief that does not speak knits up the o’er wrought heart and bids it break.’ ”

  “What’s up with this broad?” my mother wants to know. “And why is she so all fired up to have that painting?”

  “I have an even better question,” I say. “How can she claim it’s rightfully hers?”

  “Because Ingrid was going to give it to me.” Priscilla juts her chin defiantly. “She told me so a million times.”

  Shanelle pipes up. “Her will was read today and your name never came up.”

  “As if that means anything,” Priscilla sniffs.

  “Apparently you’re not bound by the convention of wills, either,” I say.

  “I say we wrap this thing up and have the wine and chocolate,” my mother says.

  “In a minute,” I say. “I have another question for Priscilla. When did you arrive in Winona?”

  This time I get the idea she’s weighing her words. Then, “I already told you. The day after poor Ingrid slipped the surly bonds of earth.”

  “How did you find out so fast that she had died?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business but one of her neighbors told me. I maintain a great number of connections in Winona. I called the airline the second I heard.”

  “Well, then, you must be psychic. Because I have photographic proof that you were in Winona the night that Ingrid died.”

  She looks away. This time she’s not so quick with a comeback.

  “And not only were you in Winona,” I go on, “you were at the opening of the Giant W.”

  “That’s preposterous! You’re confusing me with someone else.” She brushes her blond hair back from her face. “Not that many women can boast my bone structure.”

  I step closer to Priscilla. “Why are you lying about when you came into town?”

  “I’m leaving,” she sniffs. “I didn’t come here to answer pointless questions.” She pushes past Mario.

  “I’ll make sure she doesn’t lift anything on the way out,” Shanelle says, and follows in Priscilla’s tracks.

  “Can’t we have her arrested?” Trixie wants to know. “She tried to steal that painting. And I bet trying to lock people in secret rooms is a crime, too.”

  “If it’s not, it should be,” my mother says.

  “Attempted robbery is a felony,” Mario says. “But I think we’re better served by Priscilla Pembroke being on the loose.”

  “I agree,” I say. “I want to see what she does next. Plus I have her cell phone number so I bet Detective Dembek would be able to track her down that way.” I bend down to examine the painting at closer range. “What is so special about this, I wonder?”

  “Beats me,” my mother says. “Look how uneven the paint is. It’s thick in some places and thin in others. That Priscilla must like it that way but if you ask me she’s got a screw loose.”

  I squint at the signature on the painting. “The artist’s name is Erskine.”

  Mario already has his cell phone out. “It doesn’t ring a bell. I’ll look it up.”

  “I’ve had enough of an art lesson for one day,” my mother declares. “I’m going to crack open the raspberry wine.”

  “I’ll get some ice for it, Mrs. P,” Trixie offers.

  “There’s a Claude Erskine who’s a painter,” Mario says a few minutes later.

  I look over his shoulder at his phone’s screen. “His other paintings are the same style as this one. It must be him.”

  “Listen to this,” Mario says, and he begins to read. “ ‘Last year Erskine’s works sold at auction for a
total of sixty million dollars, according to auction tracker Artnet. At Erskine’s gallery in New York, the waiting list for one of his works, which can sell for upwards of a million dollars, is dozens of names long.’ ”

  “Wow.” I eye the oil with new appreciation as Trixie hands me a glass of raspberry wine. Talk about a study in contrasts. “So this painting is worth a lot. And Priscilla is savvy enough to know that.”

  “Priscilla sounded like a professor when she was describing it,” Trixie says. “How does an actress know so much about art?”

  “That I can’t answer.” Mario also accepts a glass. “But if she understood the value of this painting, she had a motive for murder. People have killed for less.”

  “To me, it doesn’t add up.” Shanelle passes around the chocolate caramels, which feature a sprinkling of sea salt. “Why not just steal it? Why commit murder?”

  “That’s easy,” my mother pronounces as finally we indulge in dessert. “She hated Ingrid.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “She couldn’t have hated her!” Trixie cries. “They were best friends!”

  “We don’t know that for a fact,” I point out. “That’s what Priscilla told us but she told us lots of things that are turning out not to be true.”

  “And maybe they were best friends,” my mother says. “Friends kill each other. Look at that straight-A student down in West Virginia. Her two best friends killed her and buried her body in the woods and kept quiet about it for six months. Don’t look at me like that,” she says to me. “I like to keep up with that true crime.”

  “Well,” I say, “I have wondered how those two could’ve gotten so close when Ingrid lived here in Winona and Priscilla is in Manhattan.”

  “We’re close,” Shanelle says, “and we’ve never lived in the same place.”

  Mario pipes up. “People can form strong bonds very quickly. Usually when they share some intense experience.”

  Like Trixie, Shanelle and I did on Oahu. We were all three competing in Ms. America only to have one contestant murdered on pageant night and another—yours truly—suspected of the crime. That qualifies as intense in my book.

  “My point is this,” my mother says. “Why would one woman kill another? She hates her because she has something the other one wants. A guy, usually.”

  “Or lots of money,” Shanelle says.

  “So the motive is jealousy,” Trixie breathes.

  We end the evening mulling murder, as happens so often for me these days.

  The next morning, a bright December Saturday, I continue my investigation by showing up unannounced at the Garvin Heights home of Peter Svendsen and his pregnant wife. I’m not so rude as to appear empty-handed. I’m bearing a lovely bouquet of stargazer lilies accented with laurel and eucalyptus.

  I gather Peter and his wife are planning a big family because they live in a huge two-story brick house that boasts a three-car garage and expansive acreage. It’s a very different setting than Windom Park, with its century-old Victorians and mature trees. Here the occasional house dots the rolling hills, some more glitzy than others. I’m sure in the autumn the leaves are breathtaking but this time of year the main color you see is white, from all the snow. As I ring the doorbell and shiver in the wind, I remember Detective Dembek telling me that Peter is seriously upside down on the property. Inheriting Damsgard would certainly help with that situation.

  He looks less than thrilled to find me on his stoop.

  “I want to apologize again for my behavior yesterday,” I lie. My real reason for the visit is that I like to stop by my suspects’ homes if possible. Almost always it proves illuminating.

  Peter relieves me of the bouquet. Since I don’t immediately turn to go, he’s forced to invite me inside so I don’t turn into an ice sculpture. “My wife and I are just about to leave for a Lamaze class,” he informs me.

  I restrain myself from asking if he’ll be late to this class like he was late to the last one. Instead I burble with excitement. “How thrilling! First baby?” I step into the high-ceilinged foyer and ascertain that the house is short on color, furnishings, and holiday décor, none of which can be said about Peter’s childhood home. I meander into the adjacent living room, where family photos—many old-time black and whites—decorate an otherwise blank wall.

  “First of many, we hope.” He calls upstairs. “We should be going, Barbara!”

  That’s a broad hint that I should absent myself but I decide to be willfully obtuse and ignore it. I’m too interested in the photos and this first chance I’ve had to put faces to names. I point to a close-up of a movie star-handsome older man with a thick mane of white hair. “This must be your dad.” I don’t say it but even later in life he and Ingrid must have made a remarkably attractive couple. “I don’t see any photos of your mom.”

  “That’s because there aren’t any.” Then again upstairs: “Barbara, we’ll be late!”

  “You don’t have any photos of your mother?”

  He grabs a coat from the hall closet and shrugs it on. “When you have a mother who up and leaves, you don’t want to be reminded of her every day of the week.”

  I can understand that. “Well, in the long run your father found happiness again. I hope your mom did, too.”

  “I don’t go out of my way to see her so I wouldn’t know.” He loops a scarf around his neck. “Barbara!”

  This time he gets a response. “All right, already, I’m coming! Boy, are you trying to make up for last time or what?” She sounds snarky, or maybe she’s just hormonal, which I certainly would be at her stage of pregnancy. She halts on the stairs when she spies me in her living room. She’s a cheerleader-type blonde in a cute plum-colored activewear outfit. Poor thing looks ready to pop. “I didn’t realize we had a guest,” she says.

  I walk forward with my hand outstretched. “I’m Happy Pennington. I apologize for barging in. I’m staying at Damsgard at the moment. Congratulations on the baby.”

  She nods as if she’s heard my name before. Probably with invective attached.

  “We really do have to go,” Peter says.

  “I’ll get out of your hair,” I say. “I just wanted to assure you that we’ll do a good job with the Christmas tour this afternoon. I’m excited to meet more of the locals.”

  It seems Peter couldn’t care less. He ushers me outside without further ado. I’m marooned on the stoop for what seems like forever fumbling in the recesses of my Hobo for the keys to the rental car when I hear the agitated voices of husband and wife soar to the heavens. Of course my ears prick up.

  “Why did you have to say I was trying to make up for last time?” Peter says.

  “I didn’t know anybody was here! Besides, who cares?”

  “I care. I don’t want her to know anything about us. She’s snoopy.”

  He’s got that right. In fact I’m snooping right now.

  “You’re paranoid,” Barbara says. “You’re just worried she’ll find out your dirty little secret.”

  I clutch my Hobo. This is getting good!

  “Hardly,” Peter snorts. “Besides, you know I had a problem with the bagman. I couldn’t just ignore it.”

  I frown. What the heck is a bagman? I have no idea but it sounds sinister.

  “I don’t want to hear about any of that!” Barbara shrieks. “I don’t like it!”

  “I told you before and I’ll tell you again. I’ll stop when the baby comes.”

  “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

  Darn! Their voices are fading. They’re probably on their way to the garage. Even though I still haven’t got my hands on my keys I sprint to the rental I left parked on the street so Peter doesn’t realize I was eavesdropping yet again. He would think that’s all I do and he wouldn’t be far off. I’m in the car when I see their gold Volvo SUV back down their driveway and screech onto the road. They’re jawing so much I’m not sure they even notice me.

  Wow, was I right to come here! That was darn informative. Pet
er is certainly sensitive about being late to Tuesday’s Lamaze class. Maybe that’s because he was busy shooting his stepmother while he was supposed to be helping his wife practice focused breathing techniques. And what was all that about his “dirty little secret” and the “bagman”? I consult my cell phone on the latter and learn that a bagman is somebody who collects and transports dirty money, like for the Mafia.

  This puts a whole new spin on things. Could it be that Peter is mixed up with the Mob? Might that have played a role in Ingrid’s death? Maybe this explains the prison cell on Damsgard’s third floor: it could be to incarcerate people who refuse to pay up.

  It’s news to me that the Mob operates in Minnesota. Who would think that? This seems like such a wholesome state. Then again, maybe Mafiosi like the Upper Midwest because Canada is just to the north and hence available for spiriting contraband in and out of the country.

  Since I’m eager to share these bombshell revelations, I give Detective Dembek a call. Unfortunately I reach only her voicemail so am forced to leave a message.

  I’m en route to meet my mother at the Basilica of Saint Stanislaus Kostka, more popularly known as Saint Stan’s, when my cell rings with a call from Jason. “I just got off the phone with Zach,” he tells me. “He must think I’m holding out for more money because he upped his offer by five grand.”

  “Wow. He really wants you, Jason.”

  “This is a good opportunity for us, Happy.”

  I detect a different tone in his voice. It’s a new degree of seriousness or something. I stop at a red light and hold my breath.

  “I’ve made my decision,” he says. “I want to take the job.”

  I let out the breath. “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure. This isn’t going to come around again. It’s now or never.”

  “You’re worried you’ll regret it if you pass it up.”

  “There’s no reason to pass it up.”

  I hear the warning. He’s letting me know he will not be pleased if I continue to balk. “Did you tell Zach you’ve decided?”