Ms America and the Whoopsie in Winona (30 page)

“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 extinguishers 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.

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.”

“I think I’ve solved
that
mystery,” Shanelle turns around to say, “but I’ll keep it to myself so I don’t spoil the surprise.”

Rita leans forward to speak across me to my mom. “I hear you deserve almost as much praise as your daughter does for figuring out who murdered Ingrid Svendsen.”

“I did some quick thinking a few times,” my mother allows. “But my big contribution was putting out those fires.”

“No kidding,” I say. “After she put out that blaze in the foyer during the candlelight tour, she raced out the next day and not only got the fire extinguisher recharged but bought a second one.”

“Just in case,” my mother says. “And boy, did I need it today. At least that Galena started the curtains on fire instead of the Christmas tree.”

I wonder why. Maybe on some level Galena didn’t want to fry me to a crisp. Even so, it makes me really sad that Damsgard’s gorgeous living room is seriously burned. It’s only because of my parents’ excellent timing that the damage isn’t far worse. And that I’m here to enjoy this sleigh ride. As it is, the fire department is probably tempted to park a truck outside Damsgard until they’re a hundred percent sure we’ve all left town.

“Mr. P deserves a big pat on the back, too,” Trixie says. “I don’t know what it means to hogtie someone but I guess that’s what he did to Galena.”

I am so proud of my parents for coming through in the clutch. I gather Maggie wasn’t feigning helplessness this time; it sounds like she was too terrified to be of any help. I hope Pop keeps that in mind as he weighs his future romantic options.

“All of you made it very easy for me and for the department,” Rita says. “I’m going to look into citizen commendations. You deserve them, in my opinion.”

“Peter Svendsen might not agree with you,” I murmur.

“You’d be surprised,” Rita replies. “He’s certainly not happy about everything that happened at Damsgard but he understands justice must be served. And we all know that often comes at a price.”

“Well, he can renovate Damsgard any way he wants to now,” Shanelle points out.

“I hope he makes some big changes to that third floor,” my mother adds.

“How soon do you think Galena will go on trial?” Trixie wants to know.

“On the murder charge, I would guess in a few months,” Rita says. “In terms of the trafficking allegations, I can’t tell you. That investigation is ongoing.”

The detective already told me she’s confident that prosecutors will build a strong murder case against Galena. Though she’s only begun to search the funeral home, she’s already found two pieces of circumstantial evidence tying Galena to the crime. One is the notepaper used to instruct the teenage Giant W worker to keep the lights down after the speeches—in exchange for a twenty. The other is a shredded copy of the schedule for the Giant W’s opening ceremony, with Kevin the teenager’s home address scribbled on the side.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” I say to Rita, “but I have to ask if Galena was right when she said the police did very little investigation of her brother’s death.”

“I’ve already checked that file. And I remember the case, because it was only last summer. All the patrol officers knew Joe Fuchs, just like they know all the longtime homeless. Unfortunately, in that situation it is very easy to be the victim of violence.”

I don’t doubt that for a second.

“But officers did investigate,” she goes on. “No vehicle turned up with the kind of damage we were looking for. We did make one mistake, though, and that was to conclude that the hit and run was a random tragedy. We knew that the vehicle that hit Joe Fuchs was maroon,” she adds, “and by the way that is the color of the car Ingrid Svendsen rented, and had repaired, in Minneapolis.”

I shake my head. Detective Dembek will be delving into Ingrid’s activities, too, as well as Galena’s. Though it hasn’t been confirmed yet, she believes as I do that the life insurance payments from Vigilanz will prove to be from a policy Ingrid took out in Joseph Fuchs’s name, listing herself as the beneficiary. Unfortunately for Maggie, since those monies were obtained via criminal means, they will be returned to Vigilanz.

But for now I’m going to push all that to the back of my mind. Our sleigh pulls up to a lodge that calls to mind a Swiss chalet. One driver leaps out to tend to the horses while the other leads us to a fire pit that provides all the warmth we need. We sit in a circle and soon a mug of hot apple cider is pressed into my gloved hands. I look around at the glowing faces of my parents, Rita Dembek, Trixie, Shanelle, and Maggie. I even feel fondly toward her tonight, though I still hope she doesn’t find an engagement ring from Pop under her Christmas tree. The only thing that could make tonight better were if Rachel were here, and Jason, too.

I’ll try not to think about who else I miss.

“Shall we make some s’mores?” Trixie wants to know.

There’s only one right answer to that question.

We toast marshmallows and layer them over chocolate and graham crackers and it’s pretty much the best campfire I’ve ever been around. I’m about to indulge in my third when Rita claps her hands.

“Ready for your surprise?” she calls.

We whoop and holler, and who comes out of nowhere but Peter Svendsen and five other men, all dressed in pretty wild outfits: white shirts and breeches, clogs, leather strips around the knees that have bells dangling from them, red suspenders, and straw hats decorated with berries. They’re also carrying large sticks and handkerchiefs.

Peter steps forward and executes an elaborate bow. “Most often we do this on May Day but in your honor we will perform for you on this December night. May I introduce our squire”—one man steps forward—“our foreman”—another takes a bow—“and our bagman!” A third man steps to the front, laughing heartily.

“We,” Peter goes on, “are Morris Dancers,” and they launch into a complicated jig that involves hopping, stomping, waving of handkerchiefs, and banging of sticks. The music is country simple, produced by something called a melodeon, which I learn is a type of accordion.

“It’s an English folk tradition,” Peter tells me afterward, when he and his fellow dancers have joined us around the fire pit. “I got into it when I was in school over there.” He chuckles. “Barbara’s not too keen on it but I should tell her it’s better than being in the Mob.”

I feel like an idiot. “Detective Dembek told you about that.”

“I can see why you were suspicious of me. Obviously I’ve never been Ingrid’s biggest fan.”

“Well, now more than ever, I understand why.” I hesitate, then, “I’m so sorry about all the damage to Damsgard. And I’m really sorry about your mother, too. It can’t be easy for you that she’s been arrested.”

He shakes his head. “Damsgard I can fix. My mother, I don’t know. She’s got a lot of explaining to do. Maybe she’ll wise up after paying her debt to society.”

Here’s hoping.

I accept a warm-up of my apple cider and wander away from the group to look at the moon and stars. They’re all out now, shining bright; the clouds have passed.

I hope that happens soon in my own life.

Earlier this evening after the danger had passed, Mario showed up at Damsgard. By then Galena was in custody and the fire trucks were gone. Even the smoke had cleared, and the front window had been patched over with plywood, courtesy of the firefighters.

“It’s old habit,” Mario told me.

We were standing on the porch. I was trying to ignore the mistletoe dangling over our heads and he was looking as handsome as ever, if maybe a little subdued. Sad, even, and I don’t think I was imagining it.

“I keep an eye on you,” he said. “I just can’t help myself. I always get a little worried when your investigations heat up.”

I forgave him. He has a professional interest, too, I told myself, since he’s secretly on the F.B.I.’s payroll. “So you heard about my 911 call?”

“I did hear about it, and I came right over. By the time I arrived here at Damsgard, though, everything was under control.”

So he came by Damsgard twice today. I found a certain satisfaction in that, and it was as hard to ignore as the mistletoe.

“How are you doing?” he wanted to know.

I had the funniest feeling he wasn’t just asking about the aftermath of being locked in the cell. “I’m not great. But I’m okay.”

“You are great, Happy. I’ll dispute you on that as long as you’ll let me.”

Then we had one of those moments, one of those stare at each other moments, that might’ve gone on a short time, it might’ve gone on a long time, I’ll never know. All I know is I don’t like when they end.

But end it did. “I’ll see you around,” he said. “You’ve got my word on that.”

My reverie is interrupted when Trixie rubs my arm. Shanelle is standing right beside her. “You okay, Happy?” Trixie wants to know.

“We’re here,” Shanelle adds. “We’ll always be here, girl.”

“That’s good.” To my credit, I sniffle only the tiniest bit. “I’m pretty sure I’m going to need you.”

“Just remember what I always say,” Trixie murmurs.

“Here we go again,” Shanelle mutters.

“Things work out the way they’re supposed to,” Trixie finishes. “I really do believe that.”

I glance back at the fire pit, where my father, mother, and Maggie are all sitting in a companionable row. Now there’s a tableau I never would have expected. I guess it just goes to show that you never know what’ll happen next.

You just have to wait and see.

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Continue past the two holiday recipes for an excerpt from
Ms America and the Brouhaha on Broadway
, the exciting fifth installment in the Beauty Queen Mysteries series
….

(From JoyOfBaking.com)

“This Fruit Cake recipe is adapted from Nigel Slater's
The Kitchen Diaries
and it is by far the best one I have ever made. It is jammed with raisins, currants, dried cranberries, dried figs and prunes, dried apricots, and candied fruit and peel (candied fruit is preserved fruit that has been dipped several times in a concentrated sugar syrup). Nuts are also included as is ground almonds. Do try to make your fruitcake about three to four weeks before Christmas so you can brush it with alcohol several times and allow the flavors to mingle and age. This cake can be frozen so it might be a good idea to make two and then you can freeze one for later in the year.

“Each person has their own list of 'must have' foods for Christmas. For me, it is this Fruit Cake; that wonderful combination of nuts and dried fruits with barely enough cake batter to hold it all together. If you have ever made a British Fruit Cake you know that what really sets this cake apart is how we repeatedly feed the cake, over time, with alcohol (usually brandy, sometimes rum). This gives the Fruit Cake a subtle brandy flavor and a moist texture, plus it also allows the cake to be stored for ages and ages. Of course, the step of repeatedly brushing alcohol on the cake means we have to make it well in advance of Christmas. But is that so bad? With all the hustle and bustle of the Christmas season, doing our baking several weeks in advance can only be a good thing.”