Ms America and the Whoopsie in Winona

by Diana Dempsey

  “No. You and I need to talk about it first. I figure that tomorrow when you get home—”

  Uh oh. “I may not get home tomorrow, Jason. I still haven’t solved this murder.”

  Silence. Jason no longer objects to my sleuthing—he’s come to understand how important it is to me—but that doesn’t mean he takes kindly to it impinging on our lives. Finally he speaks up. “Well, you still have to make a decision. I told Zach I’d call him Monday with my answer.”

  “Okay. I am thinking about it.” I cringe because that’s not entirely true. What I’m mostly doing is shoving this to the back of my mind where I put things I don’t want to think about. How mature of me. I see the white domes of Saint Stan’s rising in the distance and think of my father’s advice. Do what I do when I need to talk something out. Go talk to a priest.

  “Let me warn you about something else,” Jason says. “Rachel and I may go out tomorrow and get the tree.”

  “Without me?” I screech.

  “You’re not here, Happy. And from the sound of it you don’t know when you will be. And it’s only ten days till Christmas.”

  “Eleven.”

  He sighs. “I love you, sweetie.”

  “I love you, too, Jason.”

  Then the call is over. Minutes later I arrive at Saint Stan’s. It’s a spectacular redbrick edifice with one huge white dome and several smaller ones. It even has round stained-glass windows that remind me of the famous rose window on the façade of Notre Dame in Paris. Not that I’ve ever seen that for real but I hope to someday.

  I’m pretty freaked out by the reality of Jason’s decision but a few moments standing in that hushed nave calm my nerves. I look for my mother among the scattered worshippers and find her near the front, her preferred location, praying so fervently she doesn’t even see me until I kneel down next to her.

  “Isn’t this a gorgeous church?” I whisper. We slide back onto the pew.

  “Romanesque style,” she informs me. “Did you see out front on that plaque it’s the oldest Catholic parish in Winona?”

  “Yes. Since 1871.”

  “That’s even before my time.” We both have a chuckle. “A couple years ago they made it a minor basilica.”

  “How do you know so much?”

  “That lady and I got to talking.” My mother cocks her chin at a Slavic-looking female about her age praying the rosary in the pew ahead of us. “It was built by Polish immigrants, I’ll have you know. They donated nickels and dimes back when they made only a dollar a day.”

  “Impressive.”

  My mother hits me in the arm. “Those are your people.” Then she resumes the kneeling position. “I got to get back to it.”

  “Are you saying a novena for Ingrid?”

  She frowns. “You’re right. I said I’d do that. That’s next.”

  “So what have you been praying for?”

  Her face assumes a cagey expression. “Maybe I have a special intention.”

  “Like what?”

  “None of your beeswax, young lady.”

  I bet it has something to do with love and lust. Needless to say my mother wouldn’t appeal to Freyja for help in those areas. As Pop would say, she’d go straight to the man upstairs.

  I watch her pray, a maternal impediment to any plan to sell my house and relocate five hundred miles south to Charlotte. It would be hard enough if she and Pop were still married. But with them divorced and Mom living alone while Pop gallivants around with Maggie Lindvig? How could I do that to her? Or am I using her as a convenient excuse to avoid doing something I don’t want to do anyway?

  I could ask her to move with us. She might be game. Then again she’s got her new job and her budding romance with car salesman extraordinaire Bennie Hana. I can’t tell if she’s really interested in Bennie or just using him to make Pop jealous. I know it’s mean of me but I hope it’s the latter.

  I need to go to confession something fierce.

  I enter the confessional and kneel. The priest slides open the screen over the grille that separates us and I mouth the familiar words. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been, oh, I don’t even know how long since my last confession.”

  “That’s all right,” he murmurs, “I’m glad you’re here now.” He sounds paternal and understanding.

  I run through my litany of transgressions. He listens and nods and assigns me several prayers to recite for my penance. He’s about to give me the final blessing but I interrupt him. “Before I go, do you mind if I bring up something that’s bothering me?”

  “I’ll help if I can.”

  I give him the full download: Jason, Mario, Jason’s new job in Charlotte, my deeply conflicted feelings. I hope there aren’t too many other sinners in line for confession because it takes quite a while. Finally I run out of things to say.

  The priest sighs. Then, “Maybe you and your husband could take a break. Like Rachel and Ross did on Friends.”

  I must admit, that is not what I was expecting. “Really? The Church would be okay with that?” Then I think of a hitch. “I don’t think Rachel and Ross were married when they took a break, Father.”

  “Oh, you’re right. Too bad.” Then he chuckles. “By the way, I was joking. Trying to lighten the moment. Something told me you have a sense of humor.”

  I laugh weakly. “Wow. You really threw me.”

  “Got your hopes up, didn’t I? Sorry. No, I’d be in trouble if I gave advice like that. Here’s what I really think,” and he explains the Catholic view of marriage, which I already knew: that it is a gift from God and a lifelong union that allows no other.

  “So the bottom line is, make it work,” I conclude.

  “To quote Tim Gunn from Project Runway.”

  “You’re good with the TV references, Father.”

  “I try to keep up. God be with you, my child.”

  I exit the confessional thinking Pop was right. I do feel better. I still don’t know what I’m going to do but talking it through helped.

  After I finish my penance, I find my mom deep in murmured conversation with the lady in the neighboring pew. My mother introduces her as Florence Rubinski then motions me to lean in close.

  “Florence here,” she says, “has told me some sad stories about that Galena Lang.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “So you know Galena?” I ask Florence.

  “My friend’s daughter is one of her best friends,” Florence explains.

  “They’re tight,” my mother adds for good measure.

  “Galena has had a great deal of tragedy in her life,” Florence informs us. “She lost her husband and she lost her brother.”

  “I knew about her husband,” I say. “It was his family who started the mortuary business, right?”

  Florence nods. “Her husband was barely fifty years old and one day he had a heart attack and that was it.”

  “That’s how it goes sometimes,” my mother says. “My friend’s husband Frank, same thing.” My mom slaps my arm. “Then just this last year that Galena’s brother got killed in a hit and run.”

  “That was a sad case, too.” Florence shakes her head. “He was in Viet Nam and got that PSTD.”

  “You mean PTSD,” I say. “Post-traumatic stress disorder.”

  “He was homeless.” Florence lowers her voice as if this is an especially shameful thing to discuss. “Drinking problem. Galena and her husband even tried to have him live with them but he didn’t want to do it.”

  “Maybe he didn’t want to live on top of the funeral home,” my mother suggests. Then to me: “That’s where that Galena lives. I’m not sure I’d like that, either.”

  “I don’t think that was it,” Florence says. “He wasn’t right in the head. Of course Galena didn’t talk about him because she thought it would be bad for business if people knew she had a brother who was in that situation.”

  “That’s how it goes,” my mother says. “But you can’t hide these things. People find out.�
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  This information is rounding out my picture of Galena but otherwise isn’t very helpful. “Florence, do you know if Galena ever ran into trouble with the law?”

  My mother and Florence both gasp and a woman a few pews ahead of us spins around to tell us to hush up. “Why would you think that?” Florence whispers.

  “I’m just asking.” After all, I paid Hubble three hundred smackers to learn that Galena “may” have done something illegal. If I get confirmation, that money might go from wasted to well spent.

  “I never heard anything like that,” Florence says. “Galena’s a little funny with the way she does herself up but I never heard she’s a hooligan.”

  “Let me ask you something else. Do you know of any connection between Galena and Ingrid Svendsen?”

  “That rich woman who got herself murdered at the new Giant W?” Florence shakes her head. “Why would Galena know her?”

  This isn’t getting me very far. “Would you do me a favor and ask your friend’s daughter if she knows of a connection between them? Of if she knows whether Galena ever got in trouble with the police?” I have another thought. “And one last thing. Galena may have come into money recently. Please find out if your friend’s daughter knows anything about that.”

  “You can tell me tomorrow at Mass what she said,” my mother says to Florence. Then to me: “8 a.m. Mass, like I go to at home. Florence here likes to meet her obligation first thing, too.”

  “I’ll bring those coupons we talked about,” Florence promises my mother, who might have met a kindred soul.

  Back in the rental car my mother slaps my thigh. “You think you’re the only one who can do this investigating business. But I’m the one who found Florence Rubinski.”

  “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 4th 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.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN