Ms America and the Whoopsie in Winona

by Diana Dempsey

  “I remember when you and Mom made me do the exact same thing. That time when I was about eight and stole the headband from Claire’s.” To this day I recall the humiliation of confessing my shoplifting to the store manager. That was the last time I ever did that.

  “I’m just asking you to have a little compassion here, a little understanding. Maggie’s going through a very hard time, whether you believe it or not. And I’m not even talking about what happened to her sister. All her confidence just disappeared when she came back to this town! And it’s because of everything that happened to her here. She got pregnant, the boy wouldn’t marry her, and so she felt she had to leave. She’s never gotten over any of that.”

  I think of what the Shakespeare woman said during the candlelight tour. The first thing she remembered about Maggie Lindvig was how she “had a baby out of wedlock.” That comes darn close to describing somebody else I know. Me.

  Pop goes on. “So what I want to know is when are you going to start giving Maggie the benefit of the doubt?”

  “I’ll try, Pop. But you have to admit that sometimes she does things that make me suspicious of her.”

  “She could behave like Mother Teresa and you’d be suspicious of her!” He slurps his java and smacks his mug noisily into the sink. “I’m going to go shovel.”

  “Wouldn’t it make more sense to wait till it stops snowing?”

  He ignores me. It’s safe to say that didn’t go well. And darn it all, now Maggie is back in Pop’s good graces.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Shanelle, Trixie, and I run the nearly five-mile loop around Lake Winona. It’s a gently sloping path that this morning is only lightly dusted with snow. Bright yellow signs caution us about the DEEP WATER, though to my eye the lake looks safe as can be. I guess even here in Winona appearances can be deceiving.

  I’m reminded of that an hour later when I’m online conducting another search on my suspects. This time I discover something astonishing about Priscilla Pembroke. I pull Shanelle into my room, where my laptop is perched atop the bed. “Look at this.”

  I haven’t showered yet but Shanelle is good to go in distressed straight-leg jeans and a sleeveless black peplum top with a cream-colored lace overlay. Her dark eyes scan the screen. “What’s this web site called? Official London Theatre?”

  “And look who’s currently in rehearsals for a play called Ghosts.”

  She squints at the screen. Then, “Whoa! Are you kidding me?”

  “Even as we speak an actress named Priscilla Pembroke is rehearsing in London.”

  “But that’s not our Priscilla Pembroke. It looks like her but—”

  “It’s not her. This is not the woman we know as Priscilla Pembroke.”

  Shanelle sets her hands on her hips. “How many actresses of that name can there be?”

  “I bet there’s only one.” I point at the screen. “This one here. Meaning we don’t have a clue who our Priscilla Pembroke really is. We know she lied to us about all sorts of things and now we can add another lie to the list.” I pause for effect. “She lied to us about her own name.”

  Shanelle shakes her head. “Let me get this straight. You think the woman we know as Priscilla, who looks almost exactly like the real Priscilla Pembroke, is using that name as an alias?”

  “Yes. For some reason, she’s not using her real name. I can’t believe I’m just figuring this out now.” I hit the side of my head with the palm of my hand. “I searched the name before but I did it kind of fast and this London stuff didn’t come up. I did see photos of the real Priscilla Pembroke but she looks so much like ours, and she’s an actress, too, that I didn’t realize they’re two different women.”

  “So we have no idea who our Priscilla Pembroke is.”

  “None.”

  Shanelle shakes her head. “Girl, this case is getting weirder and weirder.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “What are you gonna do?”

  “First, call Detective Dembek and tell her about this. We promised we’d compare notes this morning anyway. Then I have to see Peter Svendsen to tell him about the fire. I am absolutely dreading it. Will you come with me?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it. He’s going to try to kick our behinds out of Damsgard again, you know.”

  “Who could blame him? Not only are we overstaying our welcome, we’re destroying his ancestral home.”

  Since I don’t reach the detective and am once again forced to leave a message, I shower and dress. I’ve just decided to pair my crimson skinny jeans with a sleeveless black silk georgette faux-wrap top when my mother knocks on my bedroom door to deliver her report from Mass. I don’t know if she wanted to show up Florence or Maggie or both but she is once again wearing her stylish zebra-print top and black pants.

  “So here’s what that Florence Rubinski told me.” She ticks off the details on her fingers. “Her friend’s daughter doesn’t think Galena Lang even knew that woman who got shot, what’s her name, Ingrid.”

  I think my mother has a mental block about Ingrid because she’s Maggie’s sister.

  “Number two,” she goes on. “She never heard anything about Galena getting in trouble with the law. But”—she raises her finger in the air—“there is an explanation for the sudden money. Veteran’s benefits.”

  I frown. “Who was the veteran?”

  “Her brother. You remember, the one who was homeless on the streets after he came back from Viet Nam. Galena was his only living relative so she’d get the benefits.”

  “I guess she would. And the timing works.” I meander over to the mirror to attach my drop earrings—onyx cabochons in highly polished sterling silver.

  “You don’t look happy,” my mother observes.

  “I’m a little disappointed. None of this helps me figure out what was going on between Galena and Ingrid. Something was, or Ingrid wouldn’t have hired Hubble to investigate Galena.”

  “Well, that Hubble said he’d keep digging around for free. Maybe he’ll come up with something.” She shrugs. “I wouldn’t bet on it, though. You ask me, he’s a few clowns short of a circus.”

  Shanelle and I are in the foyer putting on our coats when Trixie finds us. “I’m sorry I’m not coming with you but I want to help your mom prepare lunch. She got a good head start, though. Last night she put a strata in the fridge that she made with goat cheese, artichokes, and smoked ham.”

  I throw out my arms. “I don’t even know what a strata is!”

  “It’s like a casserole,” Trixie informs me. “Actually it’s kind of like an egg custard, too. And I guess some people think it’s like French toast because you put day-old bread on the bottom that the custard soaks into.”

  I lower my voice. “Last week my mom didn’t know what goat cheese was but all of a sudden she’s cooking with it. That woman is concocting meals like she wants a slot on Top Chef. You know what she’s up to.”

  “Girlfriend’s got a plan,” Shanelle whispers. “And we best not get in her way because maybe it’ll work.”

  Shanelle and I make our way to the windblown Svendsen manse, where this time Barbara answers the doorbell. The good news is that she’s dressed in an adorable outfit: teal-colored ballet flats, slim-cut jeans, and an ivory pointelle sweater with a scoop neck and scalloped hem. The bad news is that in the privacy of her own home she’s wearing no makeup and it is glaringly apparent that the poor thing is suffering from chloasma, the skin discoloration that sometimes accompanies pregnancy.

  I introduce Shanelle then plunge right in with my confession that something happened at Damsgard and I came by to tell Peter about it.

  Barbara sighs heavily as if she can’t take another piece of bad news. “All right then.” She waves us inside. “He should be back soon but with him you never know.”

  It sure sounds like Peter being late is a perpetual problem between them.

  Shanelle and I settle on two upholstered chairs in the living room. Barbara is about to make a
break for it when I pipe up. “Maternity clothes are so much cuter now than they were years ago. I love your sweater. Is it from the Heidi Klum line?”

  She brightens. “Jessica Simpson. I love the jeans but I can’t wait to get back into my regular ones. Probably by New Year’s, right?”

  Shanelle and I exchange a look. “Well …” Shanelle says.

  I spit out the truth. “It’ll take longer than that. But you look really fit and that’ll speed things up.”

  “Breastfeeding helps a lot, too,” Shanelle adds. “Plus that’s good for the baby.”

  “Your figure is the last thing you should be worrying about, though,” I say. “Once the baby’s born just enjoy your little one and try to relax.”

  Barbara nods, eyeing us. Then, “Did either of you have this?” She gestures to her face.

  “I did, a little bit,” Shanelle says. “That’s from your hormones going crazy. You know what helped me? Tretonin.”

  Barbara lowers herself onto the couch. “I think my doctor told me about that. That’s the Vitamin A that’s supposed to speed up cell regeneration, right?”

  “You have to be careful you don’t get too much Vitamin A, though,” Shanelle says, and she launches into an explanation that Barbara interrupts to offer us herbal tea. She disappears into the kitchen.

  “Thank you for warming her up,” I whisper to Shanelle. That’s good for me because as usual I have a secret agenda.

  “What do you know about color-corrective concealers?” Barbara wants to know when she returns.

  “Girl,” Shanelle says, “we are experts. I used a blue-violet shade because my patches were brown. Yours are more on the gray side so you’ll want lavender.”

  “Put it on after moisturizer and sunscreen,” I say, “but before foundation.”

  “And blend,” Shanelle says. “That’s the mistake most women make.”

  We’ve exhausted the topic of pressed-powder versus matte-finish liquid foundation when Barbara glances at her watch, a trendy bangle style in bronze. “I’m sorry to keep you so long. I thought Peter would be back half an hour ago.”

  Here’s my opportunity. I lower my voice and lean confidentially close. “Maybe he’s having another problem with the bagman.”

  “He told you about that?” Barbara yelps.

  “It just kind of popped out once,” I lie.

  “It’s been one problem after another with that bagman!” she cries. “Everybody gets everything organized just the way they want to do it and then at the last minute the bagman has a bunch of ideas how they should change things. Of course that screws the entire thing up.”

  “You sound pretty matter of fact about it,” I observe.

  “I have to be. Doesn’t your husband have a habit or two you’ve had to get used to?”

  Not like this, I’m thinking. “So there’s a whole group involved?”

  Barbara looks taken aback. “Of course! It’s not the sort of thing you do alone.”

  True enough. I suppose it’s called “the Mob” for a reason. “Has Peter been involved for a long time?”

  “As long as I’ve known him. He just can’t get away from it. He tried a few times but it never lasts.”

  “I guess once they get your hooks into you,” Shanelle murmurs.

  “The truth is it’s in his blood.” Barbara shakes her head. “He gets a real kick out of it.”

  Shanelle and I exchange a glance. That’s kind of sick.

  “He’s loved it ever since he lived in England,” Barbara goes on.

  I find that detail surprising and apparently Shanelle does, too. After all, she’s seen all three Godfather movies and was a diehard fan of The Sopranos. “Not Italy?” she says. “I would’ve thought Italy. Or maybe Jersey.”

  “There are certainly groups in Jersey,” Barbara agrees. “From what I can tell they’re pretty much everywhere.”

  Even here in homespun Minnesota. I never would’ve thought that. I’m so naive.

  “To be honest with you,” Barbara goes on, “it’s been a real problem between us. I don’t like it at all. I try not to think about it.”

  If Jason were in the Mob, that would be a problem for me, too. But I don’t think turning a blind eye is a good approach.

  “By any chance,” I say, “was Ingrid Svendsen involved?”

  Barbara looks shocked at the question. “No! Women are never involved. Except when they watch.”

  Now I’m shocked. “Sometimes they watch?”

  “Some women love to watch. I’m certainly not one of them,” Barbara is assuring us when I hear a door open in the adjacent kitchen. Peter Svendsen calls for his wife.

  The Minnesota mobster has returned home. Not only is Barbara’s confession of her husband’s illicit activity now over, the time has come that I must tell him his beloved ancestral home almost burned down on my watch.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  It doesn’t go particularly well. Fortunately Barbara is now on our side.

  “Peter, let it go!” She stomps her foot in its cute teal-colored ballet flat. “You told me you hated the way Ingrid redecorated the foyer anyway. This gives you a good excuse to re-do it.”

  “The damage really is minimal,” I add.

  “There shouldn’t be any damage,” Peter insists. He tosses his overcoat toward the couch but misses. It puddles messily on the carpet. He stomps over to pick it up, his shoes leaving angry smudges on the carpet. “At least this’ll be the end of it. Today’s the day the pack of you head home, right?”

  Now comes the next hard part. “There are still a few things we need to clear up so I was hoping we could stay a little longer—”

  “Of course you can stay,” Barbara says before her husband can again erupt. “Everybody in town knows that Ingrid is gone and it’s better that the house be occupied.”

  “We could occupy it,” Peter says.

  “You cannot expect a woman who’s about to give birth to move houses,” Barbara says. “I’m not going anywhere until the baby is born.”

  “Maybe it’s time we get out of your hair,” Shanelle suggests, and as usual her timing is spot-on. We say our goodbyes and make our escape. “Do you think Ingrid’s murder might’ve been a Mob hit?” she asks once we’re back in the rental car.

  “It’s a possibility, wouldn’t you think?” In the deepening gloom I ease the car onto the road from the shoulder, where the snow is already piled high. The sky is full of fat gray clouds that echo Peter Svendsen’s mood. I’m a little shaky from the encounter with Peter, even though it was relatively mild. Knowing what I know now, from here on I want to avoid making him mad. I am not optimistic that my pepper spray would hold up well against a Mob contract. “Even though Barbara says that women aren’t involved in these activities,” I go on, “we all know they get whacked sometimes.”

  It is on that somber note that Shanelle and I return to Damsgard. Thanks to Maggie concocting her fruitcake, the kitchen is a hotbed of activity. While a mess has overtaken every horizontal surface, she does look like she’s having a good time. Despite the fact that she’s got flour all over her skintight red sweater, her skin is flushed from exertion, and her hair is askew, she’s whistling a happy tune.

  My perfectly put-together mother—who is standing beside her golden-brown strata placidly brushing her fruitcake with yet more brandy—greets us with a beatific smile. “Glad you’re back, girls. Lunch is ready. Happy, go get your father.”

  I pull her aside. “Mom, shouldn’t you be helping Maggie? She looks like she could use a hand.”

  My mother looks appalled at the suggestion. “Help her? This is a competition!”

  “She wouldn’t let me help her, either,” Trixie murmurs. “Even though I told her we sometimes help each other even on pageant night.”

  It’s when we’re all around the mahogany dining table inhaling my mother’s strata, hot scalloped apples, and homemade biscuits that Maggie pipes up with a story that grabs my attention. “I made a new friend at th
e grocery store,” she says.

  “I love making new friends!” Trixie chirps.

  “She came up to me in the baking aisle,” Maggie goes on, “and said ‘Aren’t you Maggie Lindvig?’ and I said ‘Yes, I am,’ and she said ‘I thought I recognized you,’ and at first I was embarrassed because I didn’t recognize her but some people you remember more than others.”

  I glance at my mother, who somehow manages to bite back the comment I know she’s dying to let rip. “What was her name?” I inquire.

  “Priscilla Pembroke,” Maggie says, and I almost choke on my strata.

  “Priscilla Pembroke!” Trixie, Shanelle, and I cry in unison.

  “That hoodlum who tried to steal the painting of the boats?” my mother says.

  “What painting of the boats?” my father wants to know.

  “She’s not a hoodlum!” Maggie cries. “She’s the nicest woman you’d ever want to meet. She remembers me from back in the day here in Winona and told me I haven’t changed one bit. She wanted to know how long we’ll be staying at Damsgard because she wants to get together with me for lunch.”

  “That’s not why she wants to know how long we’ll be staying,” I say. “She wants to know when we’ll be out of the house so she can try to break in again to make off with the Claude Erskine painting. Did she tell you where she’s staying?”

  “No.” Maggie frowns at me. “Why would I ask her that? That’s a weird question to ask. And I can’t believe you think she’s a thief.” Maggie spears her strata as if it’s a beast she’s trying to kill. “I hate to say it but you’re suspicious of everybody, Happy. That’s your problem.”

  “Well, in this case I have reason to be suspicious.” Then I see Maggie’s crestfallen expression and feel bad. I also note my father glaring at me across the table and remember our conversation earlier in which he reminded me how sensitive Maggie is to how she’s regarded in Winona. “I’m sorry, Maggie, I really am. I know she seemed nice to you but it’s just that I’ve had a few run-ins with this so-called Priscilla so I know her better than you do.”