Ms America and the Whoopsie in Winona (12 page)

His face flushes. “That’s none of your business.”

I pour water into the coffeepot. “When did they have that conversation?”

“I’m pleading the fifth.”

Meaning: either the night before Ingrid was shot or the morning of the very day.

“Ingrid should’ve had more sympathy for Maggie,” Pop goes on. “For Donovan, too. Ingrid never understood how hard it was for Maggie to raise Donovan all on her own. She didn’t understand anything about being a mother.”

I turn on the coffeepot then pivot to face my father. “Those sound like Maggie’s words, Pop. Not yours.”

He juts his chin. “It’s true all the same.”

“I know it can’t have been easy being Ingrid’s sister. I only knew her for a day but it was obvious that she could be hard to get along with. But Maggie’s attitude still bothers me.”

“You know what bothers me? How you look when you’re around Mario.”

“We’re not talking about Mario.”

“Maybe we should be. You’re a married woman, my girl.”

“I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Maybe not yet. But you’ve thought about it. And that’s a sin.”

Technically I don’t think it is but I’m not up on the nuances. I turn back around to watch the coffee percolate. It gives me something to do as I debate whether or not to confide in my father.

Even if Pop’s advice is sometimes a bit conservative for my taste, it’s still pretty solid. And I could use some wisdom. So I plunge ahead. “You’re right, Pop. There is something going on between Mario and me. And it’s not going away.” I see I’ve got his full attention. “I’m going to tell you something but I need you to keep it to yourself.”

“You don’t want me to tell your mother.”

“She’d go ballistic if she heard this.” My father is silent as I explain about Jason’s job offer. I pour us each a mug of java and join him at the table. The white lace angels on the Christmas tree listen to my predicament with impassive faces. “So the bottom line is Jason is trying to decide if he wants to take the job and I’m trying to decide if I’ll move with him to Charlotte if he does.”

My father looks stunned. “You mean you might not? A wife’s place is beside her husband.”

“Problem is that even though it’s ridiculous at my age, it scares me to move away from Cleveland. I’ve lived there all my life. You’re there, and Mom’s there, and all my friends except for Trixie and Shanelle. Plus my job is great and they give me so much flexibility. It is true that after Rachel graduates she won’t be in Cleveland anymore. She’ll be who knows where.” I have to collect myself after I say that so I don’t start bawling. “I mean, I love all the travel I do for Ms. America but I like being home, too. And home has always been only one place for me.”

“What does Mario have to do with all this?” my father wants to know. “Because he’s got nothing to do with Cleveland.”

“He’s just so darn handsome and sexy and successful and exciting! He’s sort of unreal. And he’s like the road not taken, Pop. Mario is all the boys I never dated and all the opportunities I never had because I got pregnant and got married at age seventeen.”

“And because of that you’ve got a wonderful daughter and a wonderful husband.”

“And I love both of them with all my heart. But all of a sudden my daughter is grown up and about to leave home and my husband isn’t the only man I have feelings for.”

There. I said it. And even though it makes me a terrible wife, I can’t help wanting to know what might happen with Mario. I don’t want to give him up. I’m far enough gone that I don’t even want to give up the fantasy of Mario.

“Mario has feelings for you, too, my beauty. I can see it.” My father’s eyes moisten. “Of course, how can he help himself?”

Now there’s no way I can stop the tears. “Oh, Pop! I’m just so confused.”

My father bundles me in a hug. It’s such a release just to have a good cry. Especially without makeup on so there’s no cosmetic repair I’ll have to do afterward.

Eventually I cry myself out. I blow my nose and wipe my eyes and down more coffee and even though I’m as deeply conflicted as ever, I do feel better. “I don’t want you to make any rash decisions either, Pop.”

“You mean where Maggie’s concerned.” He looks out the window at the rear garden, where weak sunlight is revealing a fresh layer of snow. “She is pretty traditional so I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me that she’s so fixed on getting married.”

“Even if
she
is,
you
don’t have to be.”

“I know that, my beauty.” He rubs my leg. “Your old pop didn’t live all these years without learning a thing or two.”

Something occurred to me first thing this morning. “You know, Pop, Maggie might find out this afternoon that she’ll inherit Damsgard. If that happens, won’t she want to move here to Winona? It’s where she grew up, it’s a lovely community, this house is gorgeous—”

“And she has a business in Cleveland. And a son there, too.”

“But if she had the money to retire from her business, she would. And Donovan would probably go where she goes.” Since he lives with her now and “works” at her salon. “And she would want you to move with her, I know she would.” Pop would be tempted, too, especially if Rachel, Jason, and I all move. Pop’s condo doesn’t compare to Damsgard. And moving to Winona would be a fresh start for him, which might look pretty darn attractive.

That would leave Mom with no family in Cleveland. Though I suppose after their divorce, Pop doesn’t really qualify as “family” for her anymore.

My father shakes his head. “Don’t do what your mother does. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

I do make that mistake. I take a deep breath and try to tamp down my anxiety. “And of course there’s the whole other thing. I really am worried that Maggie—”

He raises a hand to forestall me. “I don’t want to hear another word about that. Maggie might not be grieving like you want her to but she had nothing to do with what happened to her sister. Are we clear on that?”

“Fine. Okay.” Not that this erases Maggie from my suspects list.

“You want a piece of advice from your old pop? Do what I do when I need to talk something out. Go talk to a priest.”

My skepticism must show on my face.

He goes on. “I know your mother always says priests have no business counseling people about marriage because they’ve never been married themselves. But sometimes they know more than you think they do.” He points to the ceiling. “Because they’re getting inspiration from the man upstairs.”

“I’ll think about it.” Unlike my parents I’m a lapsed Catholic, but it’s true that I always find comfort when I step inside a church.

A short while later as I’m donning the same charcoal-gray dress I wore the prior night—it’s the only funeral-appropriate outfit I brought here to Winona—I get a call from Detective Dembek.

“Good morning, dear,” she says. “I thought you might be interested in seeing the photos the
Winona Post
photographer took at the Giant W opening.”

“Oh, I am! Is there anybody in the photos that your department didn’t test for gunshot residue?”

“A few people. There are still some we can’t identify, both in the photos and in the surveillance video from outside the store.”

We agree to meet before Ingrid’s service. I finish dressing and make for the Lutheran church, which turns out to be a lovely, simple structure of beige stone with exceptionally gorgeous stained-glass windows.

“Winona is the stained-glass capital of the country, you know.” Detective Dembek is wearing the same camel-colored walker coat she sported at the crime scene. She escorts me through snow flurries to her black-and-white, parked a few blocks away so we’re not seen together by anyone arriving early for the funeral. We both judge it better that no one know we’re in cahoots. “As a matter of fact,” she goes on, “stained glass is how the Svendsen family made their money. Some years ago the son Peter took over the business from his father.”

I didn’t know that. We settle in the rear of the police car and the detective turns on her tablet to access the file with the photos. There are quite a few of them. I pay careful attention to the shots of the crowd, all taken before Ingrid was gunned down. On one shot I catch my breath. “So Galena Lang was there.” She’s partially hidden behind a hefty male but I spy her.

“Yes. From Lang Funeral Home.”

Lots of people attended the opening so Galena’s presence might not mean anything. But it gives her opportunity. And it’s possible she had motive, too. I return my eyes to the photos. One face I seek but don’t find is that of Peter Svendsen.

“I know you’re suspicious of him,” Detective Dembek says, “and I am, too, even though I have no evidence he was at the opening.”

“Where does he say he was?”

“At a Lamaze class with his wife. Which checks out, though he arrived nearly half an hour late.”

“What time was the class?”

“Six p.m.”

That’s
interesting. That’s the same time as the Giant W opening. So Peter’s so-called alibi has a big fat hole in it.

The detective and I stare at each other. I know she’s thinking the same thing I am. “I’ve been examining his finances,” she goes on, “and he’s seriously upside down on his home. He and his wife own a large property up on Garvin Heights Road.”

“That would only make him want Damsgard more.”

“And it doesn’t mean much that he’s not in these photos. The killer might well have taken care to avoid the camera.”

That would’ve been smart. I digest this information about Peter Svendsen and swipe to the next photo. It’s another crowd shot and who do I see but—

“Priscilla Pembroke!” I’d recognize that nipped-waist parka with genuine shearling trim anywhere. “Look how she’s got her hood up even though she’s indoors. I bet she’s trying to hide her face. She told me flat out that she didn’t fly in from New York until the day after Ingrid was murdered. But that’s a lie. Not only was Priscilla in town, she was at the opening.”

Detective Dembek pushes her granny glasses up her nose and squints at the photo. “With her hood up it’s hard to see her face. But she looks vaguely familiar to me.”

“She’s an actress. Maybe you’ve seen her in something. She also looks a lot like Ingrid. That could be what you’re picking up on.”

“Possibly.”

“There’s another thing. I think Priscilla was trying to break into Damsgard when she thought nobody was home.” I share the clues that led me to that conclusion. “Priscilla is supposed to come over to Damsgard tonight,” I go on, disclosing Ingrid’s history as a Freyja worshipper and the honor ritual we’re holding in honor of the heathen goddess. Then I divulge that Ingrid hired a P.I. to investigate Galena Lang, who according to him suddenly seems to have lots more money at her disposal.

Detective Dembek jots notes in her spidery hand. “So many surprising things going on in people’s lives. That was certainly true for Ingrid Svendsen. We’re reviewing her financial transactions now but so far nothing stands out there.”

I watch the detective. She looks unperturbed but I doubt she feels that way. “You must be under a lot of pressure to solve this murder. I feel some urgency, too, but nobody’s breathing down my neck.”

“Our chief understands these things take time.” The detective pats my knee. “You’re helping, dear, and I appreciate that.” She glances out the window. “I would say the last mourners are arriving.”

The church’s parking lot must be full because in the next block people are emerging from parked cars with the doleful clothing and expressions that signal they’re about to attend a funeral. Detective Dembek and I say our goodbyes and I exit the black-and-white to make for the church. En route I find myself following Peter Svendsen and a heavily pregnant blonde I presume to be his wife. I’d say with a baby on the way, this is a particularly bad time to be upside down on his home. But it’s interesting that despite Peter’s open disdain for his stepmother, nevertheless he wants to pay his respects. Then again, it could just be for show.

I arrive at the church to find it so packed that it’s standing room only. There’s one person I see no sign of and she supposedly flew in from New York for this very event. I go so far as to walk up one aisle and down another but nowhere do I see Priscilla Pembroke. It is possible she’s late.

I’m back outside the church, snowflakes dusting the shoulders of my coat, when the hearse arrives, driven by Galena. She looks her usual Goth self. Maggie and Pop walk solemnly behind the casket, carried by pallbearers. Her head bent, Maggie clings to my father’s arm. He and I exchange a nod. Regardless how fraught her relationship with her sister, I know Maggie must be feeling terrible sorrow today. She had one sibling in the world and that sibling is gone.

The service begins. Still no Priscilla.

Twenty minutes later my cell buzzes with a text. It’s Shanelle.

If you don’t need to be there come back.

I skedaddle. When I arrive back at Damsgard I see immediately why Shanelle summoned me. Together we survey the shards of glass on the porch floor from the newly broken dining room window.

“I’m glad some of us stayed home,” Shanelle says.

“What happened?”

“I was in my room and all of a sudden I heard glass breaking. Trixie and I raced downstairs screaming at the top of our lungs. We must’ve scared off whoever it was.”

“This is the window I’d break if I was trying to get in.” The double-hung window is easily accessible from the porch and has a traditional sash lock. The would-be burglar simply broke the upper part of the window then reached inside to twist open the lock. Were it not for the screaming, one lift later they would’ve been able to clamber inside and go about their nefarious business. In a big city this house would have an alarm system with every window wired but that’s not the case here. “It’s too bad there are so many footprints in the snow,” I say. “We can’t tell which ones the perp left.”

“At first I thought it must be Priscilla but she was at the service, right?”