Ms America and the Whoopsie in Winona (10 page)

We three queens leave my mother alone in the kitchen and huddle in the dining room as I bring Trixie up to speed on our search. We’re debating whether we should try to break into the locked room while my mother’s occupied with her baking when the doorbell rings. This time it’s Peter Svendsen.

We relieve him of his black wool coat. Again he’s wearing cords, which today he’s paired with a cable-knit sweater. As I close the front door I note that the sun is already low in the sky and snowflakes have begun to fall. Night is not far off.

He passes on our offer of coffee. “I can’t stay. But I wanted to ask about the house tour on Saturday. I’m hoping you’ll go ahead with it despite the circumstances.”

Peter tells us that Damsgard always participates in Winona’s holiday tour of Victorian homes, all specially decorated for Christmas.

“Traditionally it’s a candlelight tour from 4 to 7. A number of homes are open to the public but Damsgard is always the showstopper,” he assures us.

“The house is so beautifully decorated,” Trixie says. “It would be a shame if people didn’t get to enjoy it the way we have.”

“I see no reason not to go ahead with it,” I say. To me it sounds like a good opportunity to meet more locals, which could be useful. “Maybe we could put up a photo of Ingrid and have visitors sign a guest book with their memories.”

Peter looks less than thrilled with that idea but is too gracious to pooh pooh it. “One other thing. By any chance have you run across the plans for Ingrid’s renovation?”

Shanelle and I glance at each other. In fact we did come upon them when we were scouring Ingrid’s bedroom. They were rolled up on top of an overstuffed chair next to the hearth, as if she’d been studying them while enjoying a fire. “I think I
may
have seen them,” I say.

“I’d like to take them with me, if you don’t mind,” Peter says.

Since I can’t think of a reason to say no, I run upstairs and bring them back down.

Peter can’t resist rolling them open then and there. Within seconds he begins shaking his head as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing. “So the rumors were right!”

“Rumors?” Shanelle repeats.

Peter sets his jaw as his dark eyes scan the architectural drawings. “I heard what she was planning but now to see it with my own eyes—” He rolls the plans back up, his movements jerky and fast.

“Are the renovations more extensive than you imagined?” I guess.

“It’s absurd what she was planning,” Peter spits. “As if Damsgard could be improved in any way. And as if
she
had the right to make any changes at all, let alone changes on this scale.”

“Did you discuss it with her?” Trixie wants to know.

“Talking to that woman was like talking to a wall. She was going to do what she was going to do.” He lowers his voice. “Unless I took legal action.”

“I’m no lawyer but I’d guess you could make a good case,” I say. “Especially if she wasn’t really the owner of the house.” I’m still not sure that’s true but now is not the time to challenge Peter on that point.

“Ingrid was nothing more than a tenant,” Peter snaps, “a glorified tenant.” He turns away and bites his lip as if attempting to gain control of his emotions. Then, “Sorry. I shouldn’t be getting into this with you. I better go.” He grabs his coat and out he goes, slamming the front door shut behind him.

“Boy, he and his stepmother did not get along,” Shanelle observes.

“I’m surprised Ingrid would make renovations to a house she didn’t own,” Trixie says. “Maybe she was in denial.”

“Or maybe she figured she’d be in the house for the rest of her life,” I say, “and so she wanted the house the way she wanted it.”

“And maybe she had deeper pockets than Peter,” Shanelle suggests. “So his threat of legal action didn’t faze her.”

Trixie shakes her head. “That makes me sad, family members saying they’re going to sue one another.”

“What makes me even sadder is family members killing one another,” I mutter.

“Do you mean Peter?” Shanelle wants to know. “Or Maggie?”

“They’re both on my list,” I whisper. We’re still in the foyer but I glance toward the kitchen. My mother’s hearing is fantastic when she wants it to be. “And when I look at it from Peter’s point-of-view, he had a strong motive to want Ingrid dead. She was only in her late sixties. She could have stayed in this house for decades. And maybe she would’ve gotten away with making those big renovations she wanted.”

“Then he would have had to watch this house get changed,” Trixie breathes, “and he thinks it’s perfect the way it is.” She looks around. “I have to say I agree with him.”

We’re silent. My phone beeps with a text. It’s Mario.
Can I come over?

As if I would ever say no.
Sure! How did your shoot go?

I’ll be right over.

“Mario’s on his way.” I make for the stairs. “I have to shower something fierce.” I’m still wearing the clothes I went running in.

I decide that the evening’s outfit will be my slim-cut charcoal gray heathered-cotton dress, which features an elegant bateau neckline and shirred side seams. I pair it with black opaque tights and my trendy new suede booties with faux snake-embossed trim. No one will be surprised to see the boots sport 4-inch heels. After I medicate myself with yet another round of cold remedies, I apply a light makeup and leave my hair loose. I’ve been ready only a minute or two when Mario arrives. He brushes past me to halt in the foyer. Somehow he doesn’t seem his usual calm self.

I take his soft camel-colored overcoat. “You okay?”

He smiles but it’s a wan effort. “It was kind of a”—he hesitates as if he’s trying to find the right word—“surprising afternoon.”

“I’m excited to hear about it.” I lead him toward the kitchen. He may be upset but he still looks dreamy in jeans, a plaid shirt, and a lightweight navy sweater with a quarter-zip and mock turtleneck. “Trixie’s making Bocce Balls,” I tell him. “Have you ever had one?”

“Whatever it is, I’ll try it.”

He must’ve had some afternoon. We amble into the kitchen to watch Trixie pour amaretto and OJ over ice then top the concoctions with maraschino cherries. Trixie’s changed, too, into a sporty knit dress with three-quarter sleeves and color-blocked stripes in dark blues and grays. My mom fusses with the knobs on the oven then joins us.

“Whatever you’re baking smells delicious,” Mario tells her.

“Maybe you can judge the fruitcake bakeoff,” she replies coyly.

“I’ll tell you about that later,” I say to his questioning look then suggest we all repair to the living room. “First I want to hear about your shoot.”

Shanelle joins us looking adorable in tight black jeans and an ivory floral chiffon top with a smocked bodice, bloused elbow sleeves, and a billowy peplum hem. We settle on the velvet sofas and spend a few minutes admiring all the garlands and poinsettias and especially the tree, its fairy lights and ornaments glittering.

“So the shoot was at a house on Cummings Street,” Mario begins. “Over the years quite a few people have claimed the place is haunted.”

“No offense to you but who believes that crap?” my mother wants to know.

“Mom—”

“No, it’s okay, Happy. I’m not insulted. Your view is shared by many people,” Mario assures my mom.

She preens but I cringe. Sometimes I’d prefer my mother keep her opinions to herself, particularly those regarding my marriage to Jason and her romantic aspirations for me where Mario is concerned.

“I do believe in ghosts,” Trixie says. “And I want to know what kind of spirit haunts that house.”

“One that likes to make a racket.” Mario gulps his drink. “A couple of students from the university lived there for a while but eventually couldn’t take it anymore. They said it was total pandemonium. Banging on the air ducts and crashing noises from the furnace room down in the basement—”

He falls silent. A log tumbles in the fireplace, sending sparks shooting up the chimney like winter fireflies.

“You”—Shanelle clears her throat—“
you
didn’t hear anything, did you?”

It takes him a few seconds to respond. Then, “Not only did I hear things”—his dark eyes gaze into mine—“I saw them.”

Trixie squeals, Shanelle gasps, and my mother slaps her thigh. “What kind of cockamamie story is this?”

“Let Mario tell it!” I cry. Even though the fire is blazing, I will admit that I feel a chill. “What exactly happened, Mario?”

He swallows. Then, “We heard sounds like china breaking. Even though I’m positive my crew and I were alone in the house.”

“Where were the sounds coming from?” Trixie asks.

“The basement.”

Everyone who’s ever watched a horror movie knows that’s the worst possible place for inexplicable sounds to be coming from. “I hope you didn’t go down there to investigate.”

“I had to. It was unbelievably cold.” He gives me a meaningful look.

I guess what he’s getting at. “You mean … deathly cold?”

“Like a tomb?” Trixie whispers.

“Cold like Minnesota!” my mother yowls. “Have you people forgotten we’re in Minnesota? And it’s the middle of December?”

My mother’s outburst kills the eerie mood, at least briefly. “Those sounds must’ve come from an audiotape playing somewhere,” Shanelle says. “Somebody must’ve been playing a trick on you.”

“That’s certainly what I would think. But then”—Mario hesitates—“then we
saw
something we couldn’t explain. It was in one of the bedrooms.”

“What was it?” I’m almost afraid to ask.

“A shadow on the wall.” Mario gazes into the distance as if he’s remembering the spectral form. “The shadow of a man.”

“And it didn’t come from you or your crew?” Trixie breathes.

“It couldn’t have. None of us were in that room. We were in the hallway outside, looking in. Believe it or not we were able to catch the shadow on tape. That is, until—”

We wait. I for one am breathless.

“Until it disappeared under the closet door,” he finishes.

“You mean,” I say, “it slithered underneath?”

He nods. “Pretty much.”

Shanelle frowns. “Slithering is not good.”

I shiver. I might have to sleep with my mom tonight. “I bet you opened that closet door.” Mario is so brave!

“I tried to. It was locked. I couldn’t get it open.”

Shanelle and I glance at each other. I can’t help but think about that locked room right here at Damsgard. I’ll wait until morning light to try to get in there. I return my eyes to Mario. He seems truly shaken. “Is this the first time anything like this has happened on one of your shoots?”

“This is a first,” he confirms.

He and I have never discussed it but I’ve always had the idea that even though Mario hosts
America’s Scariest Ghost Stories
, he is himself a skeptic where the supernatural is concerned. Somehow carrying an FBI badge and believing in ghosts don’t go together in my mind.

“Well,” my mother chortles, “you’ll get your best ratings ever with that show!”

“I’ll tell you one thing.” Mario manages a chuckle. “When Jennifer showed the suits back in L.A. our tape from today’s shoot, they stopped giving me flak about coming out here to Minnesota.”

“They’ll want you to shoot here all week,” my mother predicts.

If that happens I’ll send those ghosts on Cummings Street a thank-you card.

We’re recovering from the ghost story by debating where to go for dinner when Ingrid’s land line rings. “I’ll get it,” I offer. It is my turn. Shanelle and Trixie have been fielding almost all the incoming calls. “Hello?”

The caller immediately piques my interest. “That you, Mrs. Svendsen?” He booms so loudly I have to hold the phone away from my ear. “I got something you’ll want to hear about Galena Lang.”

I may be doped up with cold meds but I immediately grasp that this is more intriguing than your typical phone call. “I’m so sorry but I’ve got a head cold and I didn’t quite catch what you said?”

“You can’t hear me? I’ll talk louder.”

As if that were possible.

“It’s Hubble,” he hollers. “And I got some confidential info on Galena Lang. Just like you wanted.”

Now I grant you, if I were a totally upfront beauty queen who didn’t have a secret investigative agenda, I would confess to this Hubble person that I am not Ingrid Svendsen. In fact, I’d probably go so far as to inform him that Mrs. Svendsen can no longer be found at Damsgard but is holed up at the Lang Funeral Home on Frontenac Street and not in a position to take phone calls, either. Instead I say: “That’s good news. What can you tell me?”

Then he gets cagey. “Not over the phone. Plus I’m owed my payment.”

“Your payment. Right. How much do I owe you?”

“Three hundred dollars. Just like we talked about.”

“That sounds right,” I lie.

“Cash. Like last time.”

“Yes, of course.” I try to think fast, not always my strong suit. “Will this be the last payment I’ll be making?”

He roars with laughter. “I doubt it! You’ll want me to dig more when you get a load of this.”

I am now dying to hear this dirt on Galena the Goth Mortician. “Where do you suggest we meet?”

“How about where we met last time?”

Darn! “Maybe you could jog my memory. I just can’t bring things to mind the way I used to.”

“At the lake, remember? By the boat landing.”

“Right, right.”

“How’s about nine tonight? Shouldn’t be too many people out there at that hour.”

“Nine tonight is good.” Then it dawns on me there’s another problem with this scheme. “You know, since my congestion is so bad—”

“It is bad,” he says. “You really sound different.”

“It’s very bad,” I assert, “and it might get even worse if I’m out in the cold. So I wonder if I might send my niece to meet you. She’ll have the cash.”

“I suppose that’s okay. How much does she know about all this?”

“You can share all the details with her,” I assure him. “She’s one of my closest confidantes.”