Ms America and the Whoopsie in Winona (14 page)

Finally Maggie is able to expand her vocabulary. “There’s got to be a way to do something about this! This can’t be what my sister wanted.”

I hear Pop’s low tone. “Remember what the will said, Maggie. If you contest the probate, you don’t get anything at all.”

Anita pipes up. “I should mention that you’re the beneficiary of your sister’s insurance policy as well, Ms. Lindvig. It’s separate from the estate so I didn’t—”

“How much is it?” Maggie wants to know.

“Five thousand dollars.”

I gather Maggie is not impressed because I don’t hear another peep out of her. I also feel a tickle in my nose. I pinch my nostrils.
Not now
, I order myself.

“My son Donovan and I are my sister’s only blood relatives,” Maggie insists.

“No one’s disputing that,” Anita says.

“Then by rights this house should come to me. My sister’s money should, too. You can’t give your money to an animal shelter if there’s need in your own family.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” Walter pipes up to say.

“Who asked you?” Maggie says.

“None of this is relevant,” Peter says. “The bottom line is that my grandfather built Damsgard. It’s been in the Svendsen family for generations. Clearly it should stay in the Svendsen family.”

“But my sister
was
a Svendsen!” Maggie says.

“Only for four years,” Peter snaps. “And my father was more than generous to her. As a matter of fact—”

I miss what is said next—or should I say, yelled next—because now I’m pinching my nose and holding my breath and rocking back and forth desperately trying not to—

“A-
choo
!”

Trixie clutches my arm. I am aware that all argument in the library has ceased. Then—

“A-
choo
!”

I can’t help myself. My sinuses are rebelling something fierce.

“A-
choo
!”

The secret entry to our hideaway flies open. Peter stands at the threshold, backlit by the light in the library. I guess the secret room is no secret to him. “What the devil are you two doing in here?”

Trixie holds up
Tess of the D’Urbervilles
. “Reading?”

Trixie and I scramble to our feet, which is not easy to do in high-heeled booties. Behind Peter I see my father, shaking his head. It’s not only his lady friend who’s embarrassing herself this afternoon. It’s his daughter, too.

“Get out,” Peter orders.

There’s nothing to do but obey. By now Shanelle and my mom have joined us in the library. Peter strides into the secret room and surveys the shrine to Freyja. “What is this?”

“We’ve been told it’s a shrine,” I say.

“I always knew my stepmother was a lunatic. This only proves it.” Peter exits the secret room and closes it up. “I want all of you out of Damsgard tonight.”

“No!” Maggie shrieks. “I won’t go! And stop saying mean things about my sister!” She bursts into tears.

“Emotions are running high,” I say, “so let’s all please take a moment and calm down.” I hand Maggie a tissue from the stash I’ve been carrying around with me the last few days. “Peter, I apologize for eavesdropping.”

“There’s no excuse for it. But everything in this house has been crazy since the day Ingrid got her hooks into my father.”

“Well, that’s ancient history. And it has nothing to do with any of us anyway.”

He looks away. I watch a muscle twitch in his jaw.

“And I don’t mean to impose,” I go on, “but we are your stepmother’s guests and she did invite us to stay until Sunday.” He begins to protest but I keep going. “Please let us stay until then.” I add the
please
even though I’m not sure it’s up to him. I don’t want to become a squatter but I don’t see why I should flee in the dead of night, either.

He shakes his head. “I don’t know why I should.”

“Because it’s the right thing to do.”

He jabs his finger at my face. “If so much as a spoon disappears from this house, you’ll have me to answer to.” He stomps out of the library, Walter Chapman at his heels. The front door slams with such force I’m surprised the newly replaced window doesn’t break all over again.

Maggie swipes her tears then approaches brunette, business-suited Anita. “I want to fight this. I want a copy of that paper that says this house belongs to that jerk. I don’t believe it.”

“I’ll get you a copy,” Anita promises, though she doesn’t look pleased with this turn of events.

“I also think I should get more of my sister’s money,” Maggie goes on. “Family is family.”

Anita lowers her voice. “Ms. Lindvig, it’s not appropriate to go into all the particulars but be aware there is not that much money in your sister’s estate.”

Maggie looks as surprised by that revelation as I am. “There isn’t?”

“Erik Svendsen did not leave your sister as much money as she might have hoped. It was a source of some frustration to her.”

I wonder if Erik’s kids got to him about that, too. They didn’t want their father’s second wife to inherit the family home or much of the family money.

Anita has to repeat the same thing a few times before Maggie looks even the slightest bit convinced. She pretty much deflates after Anita leaves.

Trixie grabs her in a hug. “Look at it this way, Maggie. Damsgard has some weird things about it. It’s not all good.”

“The secret room might be weird,” Maggie says, “but it doesn’t ruin the whole house!”

“She doesn’t mean the secret room,” my mother says. “She means that prison cell on the third floor.”

“Say what?” my father bellows.

Shanelle is offering to escort them upstairs to see it when Maggie bursts into a fresh round of tears. “I can’t talk about this anymore!” She points her finger at my father. “And don’t you dare say I told you so!” Away she sprints.

“I won’t say it,” Pop mutters. “I won’t say a thing.”

“Maybe now would be a good time to have tea,” Trixie suggests. “Or cocoa like I made the other night.” She succeeds in ushering my parents out of the library.

“Any chance Damsgard doesn’t go to Peter?” Shanelle asks me.

“I don’t think so. It sounds like Anita and Walter talked about it earlier and that’s why Walter and Peter were at the reading of the will. If the claim were bogus, Anita would say something, wouldn’t she? As executor of Ingrid’s will, she’s obligated to protect Ingrid’s interests.”

“Poor Maggie.” Shanelle lowers her voice. “But it’s only poor Maggie if she didn’t kill her sister. Just goes to show a body needs to do her research beforehand.”

I shake my head. Maggie does strike me as the kind to act now and think later. What a tragic irony if she killed her sister hoping to claim her fortune when there was no fortune to be claimed.

“Maggie gets only ten thousand dollars in cash,” I tell Shanelle. “Plus five thousand from an insurance policy.”

“That’s hardly chump change, girl.”

“It is if you were expecting millions.”

In the few hours until dinner, I create a spreadsheet and input all the information I have on my suspects, every detail, no matter how small. The person about whom I know the least is Galena Lang. I have to remedy that tomorrow. I’m about to go downstairs for dinner when I get a text from Mario.

I’m running late but I’ll be there for the goddess ritual.

No problem. Any ghosts today?

None. Whew …

I have to smile. You’d think the host of
America’s Scariest Ghost Stories
would love to run across actual phantoms but I guess not.

We sit around the mahogany dining table and raise a glass to Ingrid. Maggie is beyond subdued; she seems drained. And my father—who’s doing his best to buck her up—looks exhausted as well.

But despite all that, everyone at the table has seconds of my mother’s walleye, which is crunchy on the outside, flaky on the inside, and fantastic all around. Not only that, my mom looks like she stepped off the set of a cooking show, with her red hair styled and her face made up. I note my father sending furtive glances in her direction.

“This walleye is fantastic, Mrs. P,” Trixie says.

“It’s the best I ever had,” Maggie admits.

“And you grew up in Minnesota!” my mother crows. “Well, it was simple as could be. Cracker crust, lemony tartar sauce, what could be easier?”

“And you made your garlic mashed potatoes, too, Hazel,” Pop mumbles, his mouth full, and for once my mother doesn’t reprimand him.

Maggie and Pop retire right after dinner. They look so thrashed I have no doubt we’ll see no sign of them again till morning. Trixie, Shanelle and I help my mom clean up. “What are we going to do tonight?” my mother wants to know.

I’m about to encourage her to spend the evening in front of the TV in her room when Trixie pipes up. “Oh, Mrs. P, you’re going to love it! We’re having a ritual for a heathen goddess in the secret room!”

That of course requires explanation. “If you want to participate, you have to keep your opinions to yourself,” I instruct my mother. “And you must follow my lead.”

“I’ll do everything you say,” she vows. “And I’ll be so quiet you won’t even know I’m there.”

And Pop is the third Earl of Spence.

Mario arrives in the nick of time, dressed in chestnut-colored cords and a spread-collar sport shirt in brown tonal stripes. “Sorry I’m late. After all yesterday’s excitement Jennifer and I are having trouble making anything good out of today’s shoot.”

“Not a single bump in the night?”

“There are supposedly headless Dakota Indian children who roam the Historical Society downtown but they didn’t show up for us. Nor did the janitor who reportedly haunts the YMCA.”

“If I were you, I’d be relieved.” I usher him to the second floor. “Well, I found out a few interesting things today. Namely that Priscilla lied when she said she came to Winona the day after Ingrid was shot. In fact we have picture proof she was at the Giant W opening.” I lead him to my room. “For now I think you should stay up here out of sight, at least until we’re all in the secret room.” The doorbell rings. “That must be Priscilla,” I say, and I’m about to spin away when Mario grabs my arm.

“Happy, be careful. And remember what we discussed.” He gives me a serious look, the kind he produces when he’s warning his viewers they’re about to witness paranormal activity they might find disturbing. “Keep Priscilla in the library and the secret room. I’ll come downstairs as soon as I’m sure you’re in there. Scream if even the slightest thing goes wrong. I’ll hear you.”

He doesn’t say
I’ll come running
but I know he will.

I like that.

Priscilla arrives looking fashionable in a slim black nubby skirt, mustard-colored cashmere sweater, and necklace of amber beads in honor of the goddess. She’s clearly displeased to discover that yet another female has taken up residence at Damsgard. “Delightful to meet you,” she lies to my mother. Then to me: “How fortunate that you found room for one more.”

“Isn’t it though? Let me take this,” and I relieve her of her black carryall. I lead our quintet to the library, where once again Priscilla pauses in front of the impressionistic painting of sailboats on a choppy sea. “You really seem to like that oil,” I say.

“It’s terribly special, can’t you see?” Her tone says: You’re an ignoramus if you can’t. “Just look at the asymmetrical balance, how recession into space is created by carefully measured intervals? How the artist made such wonderful use of pure, prismatic color? And how he crafted a microstructure of small strokes to create movement and depth as the eye moves about the canvas?”

“Whatever,” my mother says. “I like paintings of people. Boats I could take or leave.”

“It is nice and colorful, though,” Trixie says.

Priscilla sighs as if our bourgeois company is sure to make for a painfully long evening.

“What did you bring with you?” I ask as I allow her to open the secret room. I want Priscilla to feel as if she’s directing our activities, though in truth I have an agenda of my own. Earlier I also decided that I would wait before peppering her with questions about when she arrived in Winona and why she skipped Ingrid’s funeral.

We enter the secret room and Priscilla unpacks her carryall. “I brought several things to honor the goddess, all of her favorite treats. Raspberry wine, strawberries, and caramel chocolate truffles.”

“I’m liking this Freyja better every minute,” Shanelle says.

When Trixie and my mom disappear to find wineglasses, Priscilla issues her instructions. “Once they come back everyone in the house must remain in this room. We can’t have people randomly walking around. They might take the goddess by surprise.”

You’d think it would be harder than that to surprise a goddess but I’ll go with it. “Fine. Shall I light the candles?”

“Go ahead. And we must have complete darkness,” Priscilla insists, “throughout the entire house.”

“You’re sure the goddess won’t get lost?”

Priscilla narrows her eyes at me.

“Okay,” I say, “I’ll make sure all the lights are off,” and I make the rounds, giving Mario a silent thumb’s up when I pass through my room.

Soon we’re ready to proceed. The wine, berries, and chocolates are arrayed on the shrine beside the lit candles. My mother, Shanelle, Trixie, Priscilla, and I stand in a half circle, our faces illuminated by tiny flickering flames.

“The only thing that could make this more exciting,” Trixie whispers, “is if it were a full moon.”

“Silence!” Priscilla bellows. “Let us begin.”

“Goddess Freyja,” Priscilla intones, “in the circle of your moon do we now hail thee.” She bows her head. “Beautiful one, thrice burned and thrice reborn. From the deepest night awaken thy knowledge. Wisest of women, teacher of witchcraft—”

“Witchcraft!” my mother hollers. “I’m Catholic! How am I supposed to explain this in confession?”

“Be silent!” Priscilla cries. “Are you so foolish that you think the goddess has no magical powers? Particularly”—and for some reason she turns to me—“over love and lust. Are you willing to be honest about your desires and your primal nature?”