Ms America and the Whoopsie in Winona

by Diana Dempsey

  We shake on it. I don’t admit it to Hubble but I could use the help. “Would you like to stay for dinner? My mother’s meat pie is about to come out of the oven.” Made with ground beef and pork, cinnamon, nutmeg, and allspice, it is winter comfort food at its finest.

  Hubble declines and heaves himself to his feet. “The boss is waiting for me at home. I’ll be in touch.”

  We’ve done some cleanup in the foyer and have moved on to setting the mahogany dining table for dinner when Mario shows up wearing chinos and a burgundy crewneck sweater beneath his cashmere overcoat. Naturally the incinerated state of the foyer requires explanation.

  He shakes his head when our story is told. “Tomorrow I’ll be shooting at a place where a man burned to death but there was no other sign of fire.”

  “That sounds like a ghost story,” Trixie breathes.

  “Pour me a drink and I’ll tell you about it.” Primed with a mimosa and a plate of meat pie, Mario begins. “Heffron Hall is a dorm on the campus of Saint Mary’s University. In ‘89 USA Today named it ‘Minnesota’s Most Legendary Haunted Place.’ ”

  “Here we go again,” my mother says.

  “Let him tell the story,” I say. “Go on, Mario.”

  “It was back in 1931,” Mario continues, speaking in his somber America’s Scariest Ghost Stories style, “that the body of the Reverend Edward Lynch was found sprawled across his bed. He was burned almost beyond recognition. But nothing around him showed any sign of fire; not the sheets, not the bed.”

  “I’m not liking the sound of this,” Shanelle mutters.

  “Not only that,” Mario continues, “but the priest’s Bible is reported to have been burned, too, except for a single passage that has to do with the Lord returning to earth on the last day to the sound of trumpets.”

  “Thessalonians,” my mom says.

  She is positively dazzling today. “I’m guessing there’s special significance to that passage,” I say.

  Mario nods. “There’s another priest who died in 1943 who spent the last decades of his life in a mental institution after being found not guilty of murder due to reason of insanity. That second priest shot and nearly killed a beloved bishop while the bishop was saying Mass. The priest was known for screaming that particular passage at Reverend Lynch and it is his ghost who’s said to haunt the third floor of Heffron Hall.”

  We eat in silence for a while, partly because the meat pie is so delectable and partly because it’s hard to chow down while the hair is rising on the back of your neck.

  Then Shanelle pipes up. “Maybe Father Lynch died of spontaneous combustion. It’s rare but it happens.”

  “Maybe,” Mario says. “The coroner concluded that he was electrocuted when he turned off his reading lamp while also touching a steam radiator. But would a 110-volt current be enough to kill him? And burn him beyond recognition?”

  “I don’t know anything about electrical currents but I don’t think so,” Trixie opines. “I can’t believe you have to shoot there tomorrow. I wouldn’t go within a mile of the place.”

  “I was hoping you’d come with me.” Mario issues the invitation to all of us but gives me a wink. “For moral support.”

  “It’d be really fun to see a shoot for your show,” I say, “but I’m not sure I’m up to tangling with ghosts.”

  “What, you prefer murderers?” my mother bellows. “I can’t believe my own daughter thinks something so crazy.”

  We’ve cleared the table by the time Pop and Maggie return from their prolonged excursion. Once again we have to explain the singed foyer. I ignore my mom’s bogus instruction not to tell my father she was the one to douse the flames. “She had the whole thing extinguished in a matter of seconds. I didn’t even have time to react.”

  Pop gazes at his ex with such admiration I almost feel bad for Maggie.

  Almost.

  “Well, it’s Peter Svendsen’s problem now, isn’t it?” She whips off her pea coat to reveal a sweater that’s so tight and low-cut it might’ve given even Dolly Parton pause. But not Maggie Lindvig. She brightens. “We had a terrific time today, didn’t we, Lou? Lunch, shopping, dinner, a movie, the whole nine yards.”

  Pop tears his eyes away from my mom, who’s pretending not to notice. “We blew off a lot of steam, all right. Probably could’ve done without the movie.”

  “What are you talking about? You love staying out late. I’m going upstairs to soak in the tub.” Maggie flounces upstairs while my mom smiles into her sleeve. We all know my father likes late nights like he likes visits to the gastroenterologist.

  Pop lingers in the foyer sniffing the air like a bloodhound. But it’s not the smell of smoke that gets his attention. “That your meat pie, Hazel?” he wants to know.

  “Everybody had seconds, but there might be a little left,” she allows.

  “I already had dinner, but maybe I could find room for seconds, too,” he says.

  My mother throws a triumphant glance in my direction as she leads my father into the kitchen.

  I’ve got to give her credit. She scored a lot of points today.

  And I bet it wasn’t Mario’s heart she was aiming at with that meat pie of hers.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Even though it’s twelve degrees and pitch dark out, Mario suggests a walk around Windom Park. This queen is all over it.

  We walk side by side with our hands in our pockets like schoolkids. I’m bundled in my plum-colored coat and matching bouclé knit cloche with accent bow. My high-heeled booties crunch on the pavement, sprinkled with salt to melt the ice and snow. The streets are deliciously deserted. Our only companion is the moon, almost full, pouring buckets of silver light on our heads.

  I feel Mario’s eyes on my face. “I bet your dad is a lot more attached to your mom than he lets on,” he says.

  “Really? You think so?” If that were true, my heart would be as full as the moon.

  “I do. Even though he’s trying to hide it.”

  “Don’t tell my mom. She wouldn’t be able to resist lording it over him.” We enjoy a chuckle. “I’m starting to wonder if the age difference with Maggie is getting to Pop, even though it’s only a few years. He told me once that one of the things he liked best about her was how energetic she is. But he can have trouble keeping up.”

  “Like tonight.”

  “Maggie might be oblivious but my mom sure isn’t.”

  “After all those years of marriage, I’m not surprised.” Mario pauses and I get the feeling he’s turned his thoughts from my parents’ marriage to mine. “So how are you, Happy? Is everything okay with you? You’ve seemed preoccupied the whole time you’ve been here in Winona. And I don’t just mean by the murder.”

  I hesitate, then, “I’m okay.”

  “I hope I haven’t done something to upset you.”

  “No, it’s not that.” I fall silent. Then, “I don’t think I should talk about it.”

  This is the problem when you get close to a man who’s not your husband. It doesn’t feel right to talk about your husband with him. It feels like a betrayal. It’s one thing to talk about Jason and my private business with a priest or Pop or even my BFFs. It’s another to discuss it with Mario, who’s pretty much said flat out that he’d like to be in the more-than-friends category where I’m concerned.

  “All right. I won’t press it.” Mario sighs. I can tell he’s disappointed that I’ve put up this wall between us. “So what’s the latest with Rachel?” he wants to know. “She must be up to her eyeballs in college applications by now.”

  “I wish. You know that overseas program she interviewed for in Miami? She got accepted.” Which doesn’t surprise me in the least. My daughter is a star.

  “You don’t think that’s good?”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I’m really proud of her. It’s a competitive program and it’s very impressive that she got picked. But I’m just so afraid that if she doesn’t go to college now she never will. She’ll make the same mist
ake I did, for different reasons.”

  “She’s a wonderful girl, Happy. You and Jason did a tremendous job with her.” Mario raises his head to look at the moon. As moonbeams illuminate his face, I notice a line creasing his forehead and a few more fanning out from his eyes. For the first time I imagine what he’ll look like as an older man. Then, too, he’ll make my heart stop.

  I force myself to return to the matter at hand. “You’re saying I shouldn’t worry about Rachel. That she’ll make good choices.”

  “Not only that. I’ve heard you say many times that you try not to push her the way your mom pushed you.”

  “I think about that all the time. The irony is that when my mom pushed me into pageants, she had my best interests at heart. Just like I do now when I’m pushing Rachel toward college.”

  “Look at it this way. Your daughter is doing a much better job making choices than mine is. Although I get the idea the setbacks Mariela’s had lately are making her take stock a little bit.”

  Mariela Machado Suave is one lucky teenager if the worst disappointments she suffers are coming in fifth in a beauty pageant and failing to nail a callback for a role on TV. “You’ll make sure her head is on straight, Mario. Plus she adores you. What you think really matters to her.”

  “Some of the time, anyway. By the way, she’s totally focused on L.A. for college. And not just because I’m there.”

  I giggle. “Because Hollywood is there.”

  “Celebrity awaits. No matter how much I caution her, Mariela is sure of it. It’s so annoying how they have minds of their own, isn’t it?”

  “You’d think we raised them that way.”

  We share another chuckle. Across the street at a cheerful berry-colored Victorian with yellow accents, the white lights strung through the trees click off, a sign that the sidewalks are officially rolling up. In the distance a train’s horn cuts through the night quiet. We’re almost back at Damsgard.

  “So it’s Jason then,” Mario says. “That you don’t want to talk about.”

  Since I don’t know what to say, my silence serves as an answer.

  “Do you know how much I envy him?” Mario says.

  “He wouldn’t believe that in a million years.”

  Damsgard is the next house. Its outside lights are off, too. Only one upstairs window glows in the dark.

  “Jason has something I don’t,” Mario says.

  He doesn’t have to say what he means. “Mario—”

  He stops walking and takes my gloved hands in his. “Don’t get me wrong, Happy. I’m very proud of how far I’ve come. Ten years ago I never would’ve believed it. But as thrilled as I am with all of that, the career, the houses, the cars, there’s something missing. Something that Jason has and I don’t.”

  We gaze at each other. Again Mario speaks. “He has you.”

  Around us Winona sleeps, overhead stars twinkle, and somehow time finds a way to stop, the way it so often does when Mario and I are alone together. I’m propelled back to Oahu, to those days when Mario Suave seemed light years away from me. Then he was a stunningly handsome man, smart and charming and successful to boot, who moved in a whole different universe than Happy Pennington. Now he’s here on an empty winter street, holding my hands, telling me in no uncertain terms that I’m the one he wants.

  I find my voice. “I’m not sure you should be saying that, Mario.” And I’m not sure I should be hearing it.

  “It’d still be true even if I didn’t say it.”

  He glances down the street, still holding my hands. Again I see those faint lines on his face. Mario isn’t the youngest man. He’s seen enough to know disappointment. He’s lived enough to know that things don’t always work out in the end.

  “For what it’s worth,” he goes on, “I have tried to get you out of my mind.” He laughs softly. “I haven’t tried too hard, though. The truth is I don’t want you gone.”

  “Well, if we’re being completely honest, I don’t want you gone, either.”

  We’re all alone, or we might as well be. No one in the century-old houses that surround us is watching. This is the time for the lovers to kiss. If only they could be lovers. If only they didn’t have husbands and children and vows they hold dear.

  That’s what stops me. That’s what propels my hand onto Mario’s chest, where it’s been before when I’ve found the strength to stop him from bundling me into his arms. Because I know he would. And if I were the teensiest bit less stalwart, I would let him.

  Would I ever.

  Instead Mario kisses my hand, glove and all. “I can dream, can’t I?”

  “You shouldn’t be dreaming. You should be living your life.”

  “I’m doing that, too.” He lets go of my hands and with a gentle finger traces the curve of my cheek. “If I find someone like you, I’ll let you know. But don’t hold your breath.”

  I couldn’t anyway. After that conversation, I’m breathless.

  Arm in arm we stroll up the path to Damsgard’s front door. “So you want to join me for my shoot at Heffron Hall tomorrow?” he asks.

  “I’d love to. Even though I’m terrified a ghost will show up.”

  “Not much chance of that.”

  “The thing is I really do have to focus on the murder. I think about it constantly but it’s been four days since Ingrid died and it’s still all a muddle in my head. And I was supposed to fly home tomorrow.”

  We mount the steps to the porch. “You’ll be staying on instead?” he asks.

  I’m guessing it’s not a casual question. “For a while. I can’t stay forever, though. I have to figure this out soon.”

  “You will. I have confidence in you.” He glances up at the porch ceiling. “Still no mistletoe. I really do have to remedy that.” He gives me a devilish wink as he turns to go. I can’t help laughing. “Hey, it’s the perfect excuse!” He trips lightly down the stairs back to the path, waving his arm in the air as he goes.

  I watch him walk all the way to his car, because I can’t help it. And when I go inside and upstairs and collapse on my bed, still wearing my coat and cloche, I replay every word of our conversation in my mind. It consumes me as I put on my PJs and wash off my makeup and moisturize as if my life depended on it. And when I stop thinking about Mario I start thinking about Jason. Because later this very day—it’s after midnight now—I have to give him my answer about moving to Charlotte.

  The next morning I awaken to snow flurries and the smell of something heavenly in the oven. Maybe the aroma succeeds in breaking through my congestion because it carries me back to winter Sunday mornings when I was growing up. I pad downstairs in my jammies, my hair in a messy ponytail, to find my mother putting round baking pans on cooling racks.

  She’s not alone. Trixie and Shanelle are in the kitchen, too, perched at the island nursing mugs of coffee and watching the action. Like me, they’re in their jammies. My mother is so ready to depart for Mass that she’s got her trendy funnel-neck coat on.

  “Who can stay in bed once they smell this?” Trixie wants to know.

  I position myself over the steaming pans and smile at my mom. “You made your maple butter twists.”

  She slaps my hand, anticipating my next move. “Don’t touch. Not until I get the frosting on.”

  I can’t resist slipping a finger beneath the drizzling flow of frosting. Of course Trixie and Shanelle do the same thing. My mother’s reprimand is halfhearted. I bet she’s imagining what our house would’ve been like if she’d raised three girls instead of one.

  “Do you want me to go with you to Mass, Mom?” I ask.

  “You’ll make me late. And I promised I’d sit with that Florence Rubinski. Save me one of these.”

  As my mother departs and I join in the coffee klatch, I hope Florence was able to got in touch with her friend’s daughter to scout out information about Galena Lang. But as Mario would advise, I’m not holding my breath.

  “I’ll go running with you today,” Shanelle says as we i
ndulge in the sweet rolls. “Even though it’s snowing. Otherwise I’ll have to stick my skinny jeans in the back of the closet and girl, I hate when I have to do that.”

  Trixie wipes her lips. “I know what you mean. So I’ll go running, too.”

  Pop and Maggie join us in short order. They down two rolls each, Maggie complaining all the while about how many calories she’s ingesting. That’s another count against her in my book—as far as I’m concerned, if you’re going to eat it, enjoy it—though it’s no news flash that I’m disinclined to be charitable where she’s concerned. After Trixie and Shanelle go upstairs to prep for running, and Maggie races off to the grocery store to buy ingredients for tonight’s fruitcake bake-off, I get Pop alone. I show him the crumpled slip of paper on which Ingrid’s signature is reproduced a dozen times.

  He squints at it then turns away to freshen his coffee. “Where’d you find that?”

  I explain though I leave my mom out of it. I don’t want anything to impede a potential rapprochement between her and Pop. “Do you know if Maggie wrote this?”

  “It’s her sister’s signature.” He turns back around to glare at me. “Why would she be writing it?”

  “I can think of a few reasons.”

  He sets his jaw and says nothing.

  “So can you,” I go on.

  That gets a rise out of him. “And you wonder why I don’t like your so-called investigating? It’s because you don’t have a head for it. This just proves me right.”

  That stings but I try not to let it upset me. “Pop, Ingrid did not write this and you and I both know it. The only person who would have is Maggie. Do you know why she’d be practicing Ingrid’s signature?”

  “Maybe she’s imagining that she’s the sister who lived in this big house. Or that she’s the sister who has the Mrs. in front of her name. Did you ever think of that?”

  That shuts me up. Then I admit that I didn’t.

  “Okay, then, young lady,” my father goes on, “let me tell you something else. You know what Maggie did the other day? She went back to the Giant W to return that inflatable fruitcake she took. She admitted to them what she did. Now, how easy do you think that was for her to do?”