Ms America and the Whoopsie in Winona

by Diana Dempsey

  The third box I delve into is more entertaining. It’s full of treasures from those too-short years when Erik’s children were growing up. I smile at handmade cards with crooked printing in bright crayon colors, like the kind Rachel drew for Jason and me, in this case Nora and Peter scrawling World’s Best Dad next to renderings of picnics and baseball games and swimming pools.

  I take a break to stretch my legs and turn on all the Christmas lights. Since it’s already close to 7 p.m., I should have done it hours ago. I’m surprised Shanelle and Trixie aren’t back yet with my mom. Maybe they got caught in commuting traffic. And where’s Maggie?

  I’m elbow deep in the next box—which contains papers having to do with the family’s stained-glass company—when Mario texts asking if he can come over. You will not be surprised that I reply in the affirmative. I’m about to move on to the fifth and final box when he shows up. Of course, he’s fresh from shooting while I’m a dusty mess. Apparently I’ve even got a streak of dirt on my cheek, which Mario carefully wipes off.

  I explain my mission. “I’m not going to wash up until I go through the last box in this room. There are probably more in the other room, which is just as well because I haven’t found anything yet.” I turn to head back up the stairs. “You game to help?”

  “Absolutely.” He bounds up the stairs behind me. “How’s your dad?”

  Mario already knows about the ice-fishing fiasco. On my drive back to Winona, I left him a voicemail.

  “I am delighted to be able to tell you that Pop’s fine.” Mario joins me on the floor and we pry open the last box. “It turns out the hospital is keeping him overnight.” I found that out from a text from Trixie. “Since he went ice fishing by himself, maybe they’ve decided he needs his head examined. Oh, look what’s in here. Photo albums.”

  Judging from this, the Svendsens are a lot more organized than the Przybyszewskis. Our family photos aren’t carefully organized in albums. They’re tossed haphazardly in the credenza in the living room.

  I pull the top album out and realize that the next one down is a wedding album. I’m enough of a girly girl that of course it captures my attention. It’s reminiscent of my parents’: the cover is white pearly embossed vinyl with gold lettering that spells out Our Wedding in stylized calligraphy. I open to the information page, where a feminine hand has listed the bride as Lillian Marie Borger and the groom as Erik Noris Svendsen.

  “Fun! This is the album from Ingrid’s husband’s first marriage. I’ve never seen a picture of his ex-wife.” I turn to the first photo page, whose corner is trimmed in gold filigree. There before me is a large black-and-white of a beaming bride and groom. “They look so young, don’t they? And Erik Svendsen must have had a favorite type because this Lillian looks a lot like Ingrid.” I’m about to make another observation when it stalls on my lips. I peer more intently at the photo.

  “What is it?” Mario wants to know.

  Now I’m too stunned to speak. I flip through a few more photos.

  Yes, it is a fact that I’ve never before seen a photo of Erik’s first wife. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t seen an older version of this woman in the flesh.

  The only thing is, I know her as Priscilla Pembroke.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  I fall back on my heels. “No wonder so-called Priscilla knows Damsgard so well! She lived here for years!”

  Mario takes the album out of my hands and scans the photos. “We knew she was lying about who she was but I never guessed this.”

  “You’ve never met Peter Svendsen. I have and I still didn’t figure this out.” There’s not much resemblance between mother and son but still I’m embarrassed that I didn’t make the connection. This explains why so-called Priscilla bolted the first time I met her, when Peter suddenly showed up at Damsgard. She didn’t want him to know she was in town. I rise and start pacing. “I’m trying to remember what Peter told me about his mother. He did say that one day she just up and left—”

  “She abandoned her husband and kids? When was that?”

  “I don’t know. To this day, though, Peter has no photos of his mother hanging in his house because he’s so resentful that she walked out.” I must say I can’t blame him. “He also says he doesn’t keep in touch with her.”

  “He could be lying about that,” Mario points out. “The two of them could’ve murdered Ingrid together. They might both have had motive.”

  That stops me in place. “You’re right.”

  They both could have wanted Damsgard for themselves. Or wanted Ingrid out of Damsgard. If so-called Priscilla understands the value of the Erskine, she no doubt understands the value of the entire property. I could easily imagine her not wanting her husband’s second wife, whose tenure as Mrs. Erik Svendsen lasted only four years, to play Lady of the Manor, even if she lost that role herself.

  A second motive comes to mind. I recall what my mother said about why one woman would kill another. She hates her because she has something the other one wants. A guy, usually. That would be Erik Svendsen. True: if I’m to believe Peter, it was his mom who left his dad. Hence so-called Priscilla had already rejected the man in question. But her ego would still suffer when he found a replacement.

  Commotion breaks out downstairs. “Hallo!” I hear Trixie yodel.

  “They’re home.” I am excellent at stating the obvious. “We’ll be right down!” I call. Then I turn to Mario. “We’ll have to take a break for dinner. I wonder if there are more boxes to search through in the other room on this floor.”

  There aren’t. That’s okay, I decide. Figuring out the true identity of so-called Priscilla qualifies as a major discovery.

  I race downstairs to hear the latest on Pop. Once I am assured that he continues to improve and will be released in the morning, I share the latest 411 with Trixie, Shanelle, and my mom. “I wonder if anything that broad Priscilla told us is true,” my mother says.

  “What did you find out about her when you googled her real name?” Shanelle wants to know.

  When I admit I haven’t done that yet, I am shooed upstairs to get my laptop. By the time I return, Shanelle has gotten to work on the cocktail of the evening and Trixie is helping my mother prepare dinner. “Chicken Surprise,” Trixie says.

  “The real surprise is that your father isn’t here to eat it,” my mother says. “Mario, don’t just stand there. Set the table.”

  It appears my mother has gotten used to having Mario among us. She’s bossing him around as if he were no one special.

  I am sitting at the small table in the kitchen nook conducting an online search on Lillian Marie Borger Svendsen when Shanelle hands around tall berry-colored drinks garnished with lime wedges. “I present to you the Jolly Gin Fizz,” she says. “Made with gin, ginger ale, lime juice, and pomegranate juice.”

  “Pomegranate juice!” Trixie chirps. “Healthy.”

  I raise my glass. “To Pop. May the next ice he encounters be in his glass and not above his head.”

  “To Pop!” we all cheer.

  “By the way, does anybody know where Maggie is?” I inquire.

  “She showed up at the hospital,” Shanelle reports.

  “Despite supposedly being terrified,” my mother sniffs.

  “What did she say about her meeting with Anita the lawyer?” I ask.

  “She didn’t want to talk about it,” Trixie says.

  “Meaning it didn’t go well,” Shanelle adds.

  I return my attention to my computer screen and soon am able to report that Lillian Borger is indeed a Manhattan-based actress. But her résumé isn’t nearly as impressive as Priscilla Pembroke’s. “She does small-time community theater. And she doesn’t get the starring roles, either.”

  “I understand why she used a fake name when she came to Winona,” Trixie says, shredding smoked Gouda so my mother can stuff it into the pockets she’s cut into the chicken breasts. “Even if she didn’t murder Ingrid, she did want to steal that painting so she wouldn’t
want anybody to know she was here. But why didn’t she just use some random name? Why did she use the name of another actress?”

  “Probably because she gets a kick out of being Priscilla Pembroke,” Mario says, returning to the kitchen to fetch cutlery. “And they resemble each other enough that Lillian can get away with it.”

  “She certainly had me fooled,” I say. “Okay, here we go. I just found something that explains why she knows how valuable that Claude Erskine painting is.” I click through to another link to read more. “She works at an art gallery.”

  Shanelle pipes up. She’s helping with the cooking, too, coating the stuffed chicken breasts with flour, egg, and bread crumbs. “Maybe she and Peter were in cahoots. They might’ve had a deal that if they joined forces to get rid of Ingrid, he’d let her live here at Damsgard. Or he’d give her a share of the value.”

  “I don’t think so,” Trixie protests as she and my mother begin to sauté the chicken. The aroma is mouth-watering. “Remember what Peter said the day we met him? ‘God save me from actresses,’ he said. It stuck in my mind because it was so weird. But now I think he was talking about his mother.”

  “If he said that about his mother, I don’t like him,” my mother says. “No man should talk that way about the woman who gave him life.”

  “Remember what else happened that day?” I say. “So-called Priscilla left all of a sudden by escaping out the kitchen door.”

  “Yes!” Trixie cries. “Without any goodbyes to anybody. At the exact moment Peter showed up.”

  “It may be she didn’t want him to see her,” Shanelle says, “or it may be they were in cahoots. Anyway, one thing is for sure. Peter doesn’t have to like his mother to conspire with her to commit murder. Remember that old adage: The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

  Half an hour later when we’ve sat down to dinner—the chicken dish with sides of sautéed spinach and steamed string beans—I bring up something that’s puzzling me. “If so-called Priscilla murdered Ingrid—”

  “You should start calling her Lillian,” Trixie points out.

  “True. It’s hard to get used to, though. So if Lillian murdered Ingrid, with or without Peter, why would she stick around in Winona after the deed was done? You think she’d want to get out of Dodge.”

  “She wants that painting,” my mother says, “even though it’s only got boats on it and no people.”

  “If she and Peter were in league together,” Shanelle says, “she could get the painting after he moved into Damsgard.”

  “But Peter might want the painting for himself,” Mario says. “If he knew what it was worth, he certainly would. Then his mother would have to steal it before he moved into Damsgard.”

  After dinner, while Mario takes over Pop’s shoveling duties and we three queens help my mom clean up the kitchen, Detective Dembek returns my multiple calls. Now I have fresh information to share.

  “No wonder Priscilla Pembroke looked familiar to me,” the detective says.

  “Did you know Lillian Svendsen when she lived here?”

  “I knew of her. The Svendsens have always been so prominent in town.”

  “Is it true what Peter says, that one day she up and left her husband and kids?” That’s the sort of gossip that would make the rounds for sure.

  “That’s how the story went. And it had to be, oh, twenty years ago.” She pauses, then, “This is another valuable discovery you’ve made, Happy. Now I can justify getting a warrant to go after the mobile carrier.”

  To require them to pinpoint Lillian’s location.

  “It’ll take time,” Detective Dembek goes on.

  “I had an idea that would be quicker. How about we smoke Lillian out? We have Maggie tell Lillian we’re all flying home. Then you have a squad car secretly watch Damsgard. Because I guarantee you Lillian will come back to steal the Erskine.”

  Detective Dembek agrees that’s not a bad strategy. “It’s odd to use one suspect to smoke out another but I’ve seen nothing to tie Maggie Lindvig to her sister’s murder.”

  “I agree.” By now I’ve pretty much abandoned the Killer Sister theory myself.

  The detective wants to think on my scheme. I hope she gives it the go-ahead.

  I expect Mario to be back inside the house by the time my call is done. Instead I find the best-looking snow remover in the state of Minnesota still out in the cold, staring at a streetlight, his shovel abandoned and fresh snow making mock of all his hard work. I join him on the sidewalk.

  “Mariela just called,” he tells me. “Boy problems. You remember Theo?”

  “Do I ever.” He’s a teenage Adonis I found scampering around outside Mariela’s bedroom in his skivvies.

  “There’s some new girl he’s paying more attention to than Mariela likes.”

  I know how she feels. Jason’s altogether too chummy with Kimberly the Photographer for my taste. “What did you tell her?”

  “Well, between you and me I don’t know that Theo’s such a great catch. But I told her to be the warm, funny, sweet girl I know she is. And if she does that, it won’t take Theo long to remember why he likes her.”

  “That sounds like good advice.”

  He shakes his head. “That’s not the only thing that’s bothering her. Her mother asked her the other day what she thinks of her new flame.”

  “So Consuela is seeing someone new?”

  “Some guy named Manny del Rio. He’s a developer. It’s gotten hot and heavy fast. Mariela thinks they’re pretty serious.”

  I bet Consuela would move at the speed of light if she found a marriage-worthy man on her horizon. “You seem less than thrilled about it.”

  Mario looks away. The streetlight shines full on his face. As usual I find him mesmerizing. I could watch him for a shockingly long time and never get bored.

  “Consuela’s not the type to be alone,” he says. “And she’s been divorced for a few years now. But she can be impetuous. She doesn’t really know this Manny guy. And I hate that Mariela gets pulled into all her romantic drama.”

  “It’s good that Mariela talks to you about this stuff.”

  “I just wish I were there more. I don’t like these prolonged separations from her. Sure, we text, we talk on the phone, we Skype, but nothing is like being there.”

  “Nothing is. I agree.” I turn away.

  He shovels a bit more. Then, “So what are you thinking about?”

  I turn back around. “What you said made me think about Rachel.” I pause. “And about Jason, too.”

  He stops shoveling.

  I keep talking. “Something happened that makes me worry about being away from Rachel. Jason got offered a job on a pit crew. It’s in Charlotte. He’s taking it. And I’m going with him.”

  It all requires some explanation. I didn’t expect to get into this but now that I’ve started I can’t seem to stop. Mario stands the shovel in a snow bank and listens. Finally, “I’m happy for you,” he says. “If you’re happy, I’m happy.”

  “I am happy.” Then I make a confession for the second time this week. “It wasn’t the easiest decision in the world to make.”

  We stare at each other. I know he understands what I mean even though I haven’t spelled it out. I don’t have that kind of wordless communication with a lot of people but I have it with Mario.

  “Any other decision would’ve been really hard to make, too,” he says. “I get that.” He retrieves the shovel from the snow bank and in silence we meander up the driveway to the garage.

  It’s only after he stows the shovel and we’re standing there mindlessly watching the garage door close that Mario speaks again. “Maybe you were right, what you said the other night. That I shouldn’t be waiting for you.”

  A car drives by. Out of the corner of my eye I see the upstairs lights in the house behind Damsgard switch off for the night.

  “You shouldn’t be waiting for me,” I force myself to say. “It’s not good for you and really it’s not good for me, eit
her.”

  He shakes his head. “You know, it’s funny. Most of the time I just don’t think about Jason. I just don’t think about him. It’s the sort of thing Mariela would do.”

  I smile even though by now I’m feeling pretty sad. I can see what’s coming and I know I shouldn’t stop it no matter how much I might want to. “Sorry to remind you.”

  Mario reaches for my hand. I let him take it. I came outside so abruptly I didn’t even bother to put my gloves on. “Let’s go sit on the porch,” he says.

  “Now? It’s like twelve degrees out.”

  “Now.”

  He leads me down the driveway and up the path he just shoveled, up the stairs, past the railing decorated with white fairy lights that twinkle like earthbound stars. They reflect in his dark eyes. Something tells me I’ll never forget those eyes of his. We stand in front of Damsgard’s cheerful red door adorned with its gorgeous holiday wreath.

  “Hey, what do you know?” Mario points heavenward. “Mistletoe.”

  He doesn’t lurch forward to take me by surprise. He stands absolutely still and watches me, giving me every chance to pull away, make a joke, kill the moment.

  That’s not what I do, though. This time, for the first time, I move the teensiest bit closer. So it’s not just Mario kissing me. It’s me kissing Mario. Like I’ve dreamt of forever. And unlike a lot of those things you dream of, that could never live up to your fevered imaginings, this kiss does. It really does. This kiss is magic.

  And then, too soon, it’s over.

  Mario pulls back but we keep standing nose to nose. “So … I know you’ll solve Ingrid’s murder,” he whispers. “And after that I hope you have a wonderful Christmas. And a really, really great new year.”

  He won’t follow me around the country anymore. I got used to that but I shouldn’t have because those days are over. I won’t see him again until I don’t know when.