Ms America and the Whoopsie in Winona

by Diana Dempsey

  It’s pretty dark up here given the gloomy weather and time of day. And, I’ll admit, I have a vague sense that I’m not alone. I’m aware of a presence, somehow. Not that I see anything. Not that I even hear anything anymore.

  No fear, Ms. America …

  I force myself through the two normal rooms, which are as I left them, the second with boxes strewn everywhere. I take a deep breath and move closer to the room with the prison cell. This one always creeps me out the most. The door is partway open. I peer inside. The room looks the same as ever, if darker: deserted and bizarre, the door to the cell wide open.

  It’s only after I push the door slightly more open and step inside the room that I feel a surge of relief. There’s nothing here to frighten me. No ghouls of any description. And I should be used to that dang cell by now, weird as it is.

  None of that means I want to hang out. I spin around to leave. I don’t know what I heard but it must’ve been—

  “Galena.” I more croak the name than say it.

  She’s standing against the wall behind the door I just walked past, obviously trying to hide. Slowly she emerges from the shadows wearing that black Goth overcoat I so admired. She looks like a grownup urchin, with that ivory skin of hers and those big charcoal-shadowed eyes.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask. I don’t add: standing in the dark. Hiding behind a door.

  “I could ask you the same question. When Maggie came to the funeral home this morning, she told me that Peter Svendsen ordered all of you to clear out.”

  I stare at her. If one thing is perfectly clear, it’s that Galena Lang has zero business sneaking around Damsgard’s third floor. It’s the sort of thing Lillian would do.

  “So that’s what you did,” I murmur. “You snuck in through the broken window.”

  She doesn’t bother to deny it. She takes a step forward. I see her glance at my right hand, where I’m clutching my cell phone and pepper spray. I take a step back. A sort of chess game has begun.

  It’s so funny how the brain works. At least, how my brain works. I can stare at my suspects spreadsheet for hours and make no sense of anything. Or, all the little bits of information I’ve collected can organize themselves into a coherent whole and suddenly I can make perfect sense of everything.

  That’s what’s happening now.

  And it’s really too bad it’s happening now because survival instinct takes over. I lurch for the door. Galena grabs my arm. We get into a tussle. It’s immediately clear that she’s fairly strong. I guess you can build muscle in the mortician business. She swipes at my hand and my cell phone and pepper spray go flying. I spin around to go after my spray and she pushes me, hard. Into the cell I lurch, landing hard on my hands and knees. I get up fast but even still I’m too slow. Galena slams the cell door shut and pulls out the big metal key. She stumbles backward but rights herself, panting but holding the key in her hand.

  I’m panting, too, but I’m panting inside the cell. With no key in my hand. Big difference.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  “Maggie mentioned this room,” Galena tells me. “I had to see it.”

  I nod. I can understand that. “You had to see where Ingrid kept your brother.”

  “I thought nobody would be here. She told me you’d all be gone.”

  “No such luck.” That’s when my legs give out. I drop onto the cot. I bet nobody’s been on it since Galena’s brother Joe. Who’s dead, thanks to Ingrid. And now I know that Ingrid is dead thanks to Galena. “What are you going to do?” I ask her.

  “I don’t know. I panicked, okay? I thought nobody would be here,” she repeats.

  I can hear her clearly but I can’t see her all that well. She’s across the room with her back against the opposite wall. By now it’s dark outside. No moonlight is streaming in through the lone window. And no lights are on inside the house on this floor.

  Okay, I order myself, don’t you panic. Sure, I’m alone with a killer. But I won’t be for long. Everyone will be back soon—Shanelle, Trixie, my parents, Maggie. Of course I don’t want them tangling with Galena any more than I want to tangle with her myself. But there’s strength in numbers. And I don’t think Galena is armed.

  As stealthily as possible I reach forward to pick up my pepper spray. I stash it in my waistband. The stream can’t reach Galena across the room but it may come in handy at some point. I just wish I knew where my cell phone landed. That I don’t see.

  I clear my throat. “So your maiden name is Fuchs.”

  “Lang is my married name.”

  Galena married into the Lang family mortuary business, as I recall. And then took it over when her husband died. She did better than her brother Joe, the sibling with the simple name, who served in Vietnam and came back to the States a broken man.

  “Did anybody else know that Ingrid and your brother were married?” I ask.

  “Nobody knew. She didn’t want anybody to know.”

  That’s what I guessed, though I didn’t understand why. Now I do. Ingrid Svendsen wouldn’t want anybody to know she married a man who was both alcoholic and homeless. But she had her reasons. She wanted to buy life insurance in his name, kill him in a hit and run, and enjoy the financial windfall. It was a malevolent way to make up for the money Erik Svendsen did not leave her.

  Galena pipes up. “There were times I lost track of Joe but I always figured he was in a shelter or trying out a different locale or something. I’d keep an eye on his hangouts and if I found him I’d give him a few bucks. Help him buy some food. Or a bottle.” She pauses, then, “I should’ve known something was up. Suddenly he always had a bottle.”

  No doubt Ingrid fed Joe’s addiction to keep him docile. “Some of those times you couldn’t find him, he was probably here.” Where I’m sitting right now. I wonder how often Ingrid locked him up here. I wonder if he was frightened. We’ll never know. “Did he tell you about Ingrid?”

  “You mean, did he ever tell me he married some rich woman? He sure did. Then in the next breath he’d tell me he had a dragon on his shoulder. Maybe if I’d believed him, he’d be alive today. But no!” Her voice takes on a hysterical note. She throws out her arm in a gesture reminiscent of Lillian. “It wasn’t until after he was dead that I found out about all this. When I got the idea to call the VA to ask about survivor benefits and they told me his wife already called. His wife!”

  “That’s how you found out about Ingrid.”

  “Nobody said the name Ingrid Svendsen. I had to figure that out on my own. But it’s real easy online. You pay a fee and you can find out anything about anybody. And I knew Joe’s social so it was a piece of cake.”

  I can picture the scene once Galena knew her brother had become Mr. Ingrid Svendsen. “I bet you marched right over here to Damsgard.”

  “You bet your skinny ass I did. And all Ingrid Svendsen wanted to know was how much it would take to shut me up.”

  So that was the source of Galena’s sudden money. Not veteran’s benefits but payoffs extorted from her brother’s killer. Then something else clicks in my mind. “Ingrid wasn’t going to keep paying you off forever.”

  Galena is silent for a while. Then, “She finally told me the jig was up.”

  After she hired Hubble. I bet Ingrid told Galena she hired a P.I. and he’d find something nasty on her if he looked long enough. Except for the fact that it got her killed, Ingrid’s bluff worked. Because Galena knew there was something to be found.

  I shiver. This probably means those trafficking allegations are true. Galena may have had no compunction blackmailing Ingrid because she was already flouting the law, in a truly vile way.

  It’s getting pretty late. I’m surprised nobody’s come back to Damsgard yet. But talking seems to keep Galena calm. So I’ll talk.

  “There’s something else I don’t understand,” I say. “Didn’t the cops figure out your brother was married when they investigated his death?”

  “Are you kidding me?” Galena hollers.<
br />
  I guess that was the wrong question. Galena’s not so calm anymore.

  “You must be a moron,” she yells, “if you think they investigate when a homeless drunk dies in a hit and run! Sure, the coroner did an autopsy. And he finds out Joe had alcohol in his system. Big surprise. So what do the cops do? Wipe their hands and release the body to me. Case closed.”

  I’m sure she’s right that Winona P.D. didn’t call body shops in Minneapolis to find out if any cars had been brought in with damage consistent with a hit and run. “So there were no witnesses? No surveillance video?”

  “He was hit in an alley,” she spits. “Left for dead. Nobody saw a thing, exactly how Ingrid Svendsen planned it.”

  Now I remember what Lillian said about why Ingrid might’ve gotten into heathen worship. Seems to me she took the concepts of warriorship and bold action way too far.

  “Do you know,” Galena hisses, “how hard it was for me to prepare that woman for burial? If it were up to me, I would’ve just stuck her in the ground. She couldn’t rot fast enough for me.”

  I try to clear that image from my mind. “You know, Galena”—I make my voice as gentle and reassuring as possible—“a jury would understand why you did what you did. I’m not saying they’d think it was okay but they would understand why you’d want Ingrid to pay for what she did to your brother. What she did was—”

  Galena steps closer to the cell. “What do you care about any of this? And how do you know so much about it?”

  “It’s true I barely knew Ingrid but I was a guest in her house. I wanted to know what happened to her.”

  “Well, now I bet you wish you didn’t.” She’s sounding more hostile. She starts looking around as if she might find a weapon close at hand. I get hopeful because I know she won’t find anything. Then she stands still. “You had a fire downstairs.”

  I get a hollow feeling in my gut.

  “You could have another one,” she goes on.

  I can’t let myself imagine that or I’ll freak. I stay silent.

  She steps even closer to the bars. I move my hand slowly toward my pepper spray but don’t budge from the cot.

  “Galena”—my voice comes out kind of strangled—“a jury would understand why you’d want to avenge your brother’s death. But there’s no way they’d let you get away with doing something to me.”

  “They wouldn’t let me get away with any of it.” Her voice is flat. “I already know that. I’d be a goner one way or the other.”

  “That’s not true. They might—”

  “Shut up!” She’s close enough now that I can see her fairly well. I let my hand close over the pepper spray and slowly stand up. I’m so scared that it’s a struggle to stay steady in my stiletto booties.

  I think she’s got the key in her right hand. If she gets close enough to the bars, maybe if I can spray her and grab the key before she has a chance to react. But she’s got to get closer. I can’t reach her where she is now.

  “How’d that fire start?” she wants to know.

  I move closer to the bars. “Galena, don’t do it. Let’s talk it out. Don’t—”

  “It doesn’t matter how it started.” Now she sounds businesslike, in control. And finished with conversation. “I can start another one.” She moves toward the door.

  “Galena, no!” I shriek. “Don’t do it! Please! Believe me, it’ll make your situation a whole lot worse! Galena! Please!”

  But she’s gone. She’s out the door. She’s down the stairs. She’s gone. And she’s taken the key to the cell with her.

  “Oh no. Oh no.” Now I’m a whimpering fool. I force myself to remain semi-calm. I force myself not to think how quickly Damsgard would burn, Damsgard which might have shredded paper for insulation, Damsgard which has a Christmas tree in every room, Damsgard which might as well be a torch.

  Think! Think!

  My cell phone. Where’s my cell phone?

  I wish there were some light in this room! There’s nothing. How can I find my phone with no light? Where the heck is it?

  I hear Galena doing something downstairs. I refuse to listen. It does me no good to listen.

  I get down on my hands and knees and scour the floor of the cell as fast as I can. Eventually I have to conclude that my phone is not in the cell, as much as I wish it were.

  So, okay, I have to look outside the cell. It might be close to the bars. In fact, it can’t be too far from the bars. It went flying toward the bars when Galena pushed me.

  I’m crawling along the bars peering into the darkness when I see it. I actually see it. There it is.

  I sit back on my haunches and gulp some air. Okay. This is good. I can call for help.

  That is, if I can reach my cell.

  I reach for it. I can’t quite get it.

  Come on, come on …

  I reach, I reach, I reach … but I can’t quite get it. I’m forcing my arm as far as it’ll go, my shoulder is screaming, but I can’t reach it. It’s so close! But it’s out of reach.

  Then—oh no, oh no—I think I smell smoke. I’m not absolutely positive but I think I do. Did Galena start a fire? She might have. She really might have.

  What can I use to reach the phone?

  Of course. What any beauty queen would use. Her stiletto bootie.

  I yank off one of my booties, hold it by the front, and try to get the heel behind the phone. I can inch the phone forward that way.

  It’s coming. I moved it closer that time. Careful, careful …

  The smoke alarm starts to wail at the very instant I grab my cell phone. I pull it into the cell with me. I’m almost crying from relief.

  But not too much relief because now I’m positive that I smell smoke. And I’m still locked in this cell.

  I punch in 911. I’m hyperventilating so it’s hard to talk. “Yes! My house is on fire!” I give the address, very carefully. I hear commotion downstairs but I can’t think about that. “Yes! Quickly! I’m locked on the third floor, in a cell. Yes! You heard me right! I’m in a prison cell, with actual bars, and there’s a door but the key is gone. So the firefighters have to be able to get me out of this cell or I’ll burn up.”

  I don’t think I’ve ever sounded so loony in my life. But the dispatcher keeps talking to me in an amazingly calm manner, which is a huge help since I am hysterical. And getting more hysterical by the second because now when I look up I think I see smoke wisping into the room.

  I’m still on the phone with the dispatcher when I hear even more of a ruckus downstairs. “Help! Help!” I cry.

  “Keep her down, Lou! Keep her down!”

  Oh my God. I can’t believe it. That’s my mother’s voice.

  “I’m working on that fire!” she bellows. “Maggie, get your behind over here and help me!”

  I hear a siren in the distance. It better be on a fire truck and it better be headed this way.

  “My parents are downstairs,” I tell the dispatcher. “They’re trying to put out the fire. And I think they have the woman who set the fire. Galena Lang, from the funeral home.”

  That elicits some surprise from the dispatcher.

  “She killed Ingrid Svendsen,” I add. “You have to get the cops here, too, or the firefighters will have to arrest her.”

  By now the dispatcher has probably put in a side call to the mental ward. But she pretends she believes me.

  “Keep her down, Lou!” I hear my mother yell again. “I don’t give a hoot that she’s in the snow!” Then I hear clomping on the stairs. “Happy! Happy! I’m coming!”

  “Mom! Up here! On the third floor! The room with the cell! I’m locked in!”

  “I’m coming!” she bellows.

  More clomping. Then the hallway light switches on. My mom has made it to the third floor. A second later I see her in the doorway, silhouetted against the light, panting and wheezing and holding a fire extinguisher in each hand.

  Who would’ve thunk it? My mother is a two-fisted gunslinger, wielding fire exti
nguishers instead of pistols.

  “Here I am, Happy!” she cries. “So what’s up with all the stairs in this place?”

  I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more wonderful sight in my life. I burst into tears.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  What do you do when it’s your last night in Minnesota and it’s a week before Christmas and you want to celebrate that you’ve just solved a murder? Why, you take a sleigh ride, of course.

  The whole gang is piled into a sleek black sleigh, complete with three red leather bench seats and jingle bells, drawn by a team of stately Belgian Draft Horses. When I say “the whole gang,” I’m including Detective Dembek but omitting Mario. That’s the way it is now; that’s the way it must be.

  Although I will tell you, dear reader, I did see Mario before we left Damsgard for the evening’s festivities, when he appeared at the front door. And both the fact that he showed up, and the look in those dark soulful eyes of his, made me think he’s having as much trouble forgetting me as I am forgetting him …

  “This is so much fun!” Trixie trills from the seat in front of me. She’s riding next to Shanelle while Pop’s up front with Maggie, chatting with the driver. I’m in the rear with my mom on one side and Detective Dembek on the other. Even though it’s well into the evening and subfreezing, we’re all toasty in coats, hats, scarves, and gloves, and bundled under beautifully woven lap robes in rich red hues. I don’t know where in the countryside we are but it’s a perfect winter wonderland: fresh snow under the sleigh’s steel runners and deep forest all around. I love hearing the sleigh bells jingle and the horses’ hooves clip clop. If this doesn’t get me in the Christmas spirit, nothing will.

  I pipe up, my breath puffing in the frigid night air. “Detective Dembek, you’re really not going to tell us what surprise you’ve got lined up at the lodge?” I know that I’ll be more than satisfied with the hot apple cider and s’mores that I’m told await us.

  “Call me Rita,” she says for the third time.

  I’m having trouble with that.

  “And all I’ll tell you,” she goes on, “is that it involves a bagman.”