Ms America and the Whoopsie in Winona (9 page)

Mario returns to Damsgard perfectly outfitted for a cold-weather run in a flash all-black outfit. He cocks his head at the statue holding pride of place in Windom Park, across the street from Damsgard. “Let’s stretch there,” he suggests.

Our running shoes crunch on the icy snow sparkling in the December sunshine as we approach the fountain—of course shut down for winter—over which the statue presides. She is We-No-Nah, the Dakota Indian girl for whom the town is named. She’s depicted shielding her eyes as she gazes into the distance, pelicans and turtles at her feet.

Mario reads from the plaque. “ ‘Legend tells of her love for a simple hunter instead of the warrior chosen by her father. Rather than marry a man she didn’t love, We-No-Nah climbed to the top of a bluff overlooking the river, proclaimed her true love and jumped to her death.’ ”

He falls silent. I feel his eyes on my face. Finally he speaks again. “Most of us don’t have to go to such extraordinary lengths for love.”

This is a little heavy for me. The L word has no place in any conversation I have with Mario, even if we’re talking about a headstrong Indian girl who died centuries ago.

I make my voice light. “Those pelicans fell down on the job. They should’ve caught her before she hit the ground.” I jog in place a few times. “Come on, let’s go,” I say, and off I tear. Mario follows, as I knew he would.

One of these days he and I are going to have to talk about what the heck we’re doing. That’ll be a serious discussion. But I’m far from ready to have it.

“Who’s that on your porch?” Mario wants to know when we finish our circuit and come to a panting stop in Windom Park.

I double over, my hands on my thighs, and squint in the direction of Damsgard. Indeed there is a woman on the porch. I know immediately who she is. I recognize her chic gray parka with real shearling at the collar and cuffs. “That’s Priscilla Pembroke! She’s come back.” I pull Mario behind the gazebo so Priscilla won’t see us and explain who she is. “She’s looking for something,” I add.

“No doubt about it.”

We watch as she bends over and feels around the base of the topiary. We’ve already seen her lift the holiday welcome mat and peer underneath.

I grab Mario’s arm. “She must be looking for a key! She wants to break into the house.” Boy, was I right to peg Priscilla as nervy. I wonder what she’s after? Obviously she came back for something. It’s safe to say this behavior doesn’t remove her from my suspects list. I gesture for Mario to follow me and we make our way toward the house.

Priscilla sees us as we mount the steps to the porch. “Hello!” She makes a good show of appearing delighted that we’ve returned, which I doubt is true. She gives Mario an approving once-over. “Who’s your handsome friend?” she asks me.

“This is Mario Suave, the host of
America’s Scariest Ghost Stories
. Mario, Priscilla Pembroke.”

“I
knew
I’d seen you before!” Priscilla bats her lashes coquettishly. “I’m an actor, you know.” She throws out her right arm in a gesture I’m quickly getting familiar with. “ ‘The crown and comfort of my life, your favor, I do give lost; for I do feel it gone, but know not how it went!’ ” She regards Mario with the same expectant look she gave me a few times yesterday.

“Shakespeare?” he guesses.

“Hermione in
The Winter’s Tale
. A role I love. Such a majestic character, isn’t she? So dignified. Possessing such serenity in the face of such rage and insults. I played her here in Winona, you know. At the Shakespeare festival.”

“I’m sure you were marvelous,” Mario says, and Priscilla beams. “Do you find many opportunities to act here in Winona?”

“Oh, I don’t live
here
. I live in Manhattan. I flew in yesterday for poor Ingrid’s funeral.”

“I’m amazed you heard so quickly about her death,” I say.

“Oh”—Priscilla’s gaze flutters about—“I have friends here. From my festival days.” She steps aside so I can unlock the front door to the house.

I make no move to do so. “I have to say I’m surprised to see you. You left so suddenly yesterday.”

“Oh”—more fluttering—“I had a call I just had to deal with. You know how it goes. There is something I’d love to chat about with you, though.” She steps closer to the front door.

I glance at my sport watch as if I’m terribly busy. “Now isn’t the best time. How about I call you later? Why don’t you give me your cell number?”

Again she glances at the door. Clearly I’m thwarting her. It’s sort of enjoyable. She plasters on a fake smile and leans forward confidentially. “You know tomorrow is Friday the 13
th
.”

“I believe it is.”

She lowers her voice. “And the honor rituals are always on Friday the 13
th
.” She glances at Mario as if reluctant to elaborate in his earshot.

I arch my brows and say nothing.

She’s forced to go on. “I propose that we hold an honor ritual tomorrow. No offense to
you
,” she winks at Mario, “but just for us girls. I’m sure you’d find it quite worthwhile, Happy.”

“It does sound interesting.” That’s no lie. “But tomorrow is Ingrid’s funeral. I’m not sure it’s appropriate—”

“Oh, the timing couldn’t be more perfect. Not only is Freyja the goddess of sexual pleasure, eroticism and desire”—she flicks a glance in Mario’s direction—“she is also known for selecting the heroic dead and transporting them to the realm of the gods.”

This Freyja sounds like quite a piece of work. “Well, then why don’t you give me your cell number,” I repeat, because I really do want a way to track Priscilla down if need be. “That way I can call you later to set it up.”

Her eyes brighten and she claps her hands. “Splendid! I’ll bring everything we need. You won’t have to worry about a thing.” She gives me her number then blows a kiss our way as she walks down the stairs. “ ‘Parting is such sweet sorrow that I shall say good night till it be morrow!’ ”

Even
I
know that one. “
Romeo and Juliet
,” I mutter as Mario and I enter the house. As we head to the kitchen for water, I tell him more about my initial encounter with this mysterious thespian from the Big Apple, who by the way isn’t exhibiting much grief over her supposed best friend’s demise.

“Why did you agree to this honor ritual thing?” he wants to know.

“It will give me a chance to observe her.” We sit at the table in the nook and I jot down Priscilla’s number so I don’t forget it. “Maybe I can let her think she’s on her own in the house for a while when actually I’m watching her. Then I might be able to find out what she’s after.”

“I don’t like it. Remember, you know nothing about this woman. She might be dangerous.”

“She’s certainly up to something.” I swig my water. “But don’t worry. There’ll be lots of people in the house.”

“That won’t help if she’s got a gun. And I don’t like that she didn’t want me to be here.”

“She knows you could take her down.” I flex my biceps. “She should know I could, too. Even though I’m sick with a cold.”

He doesn’t smile. “You’ve been lucky so far, Happy. But some day your luck will run out.”

“I’ve got my trusty pepper spray.” Jason wanted me to get a gun and that was my compromise. It even helped me fend off a crocodile.

Shanelle joins us, wearing jeans and a berry-colored pointelle-knit sweater with batwing sleeves. She gestures to her watch.

“I know. The search.” I rise to my feet. “But get a load of this, Shanelle. We just caught Priscilla Pembroke ferreting around on the porch trying to find the key to the front door.”

Shanelle’s eyes fly open. “We best change the locks! So even if she does get her hands on some spare key or other, she still won’t get inside.”

“That’s a good idea. I’m sure Pop’ll help.” Nothing makes my father feel more useful than a list of Honey Do’s.

Mario downs the last of his water. “I have to get going myself. Jennifer will kill me if I’m late for the shoot.”

I’ve met his producer Jennifer Maddox. By now, with all of Mario’s sudden trips around the country following me, she’s probably not my biggest booster.

“And I
am
going to be here tomorrow night,” he adds. “Whether Priscilla Pembroke wants me to or not.”

That’s certainly good news from my point-of-view. And even better, I bet Mario will be packing heat. Unbeknownst to almost everybody, including Shanelle, Mario does some work for the F.B.I., most of it having to do with the entertainment industry. He confided that secret job to me while we were on Oahu. I am very gratified he trusted me with it.

“I’ll call you after the shoot,” he says as I let him out the front door. “Wish me luck with the ghosts and goblins.”

It’s amazing, I think as I push the door closed. Mario has been around only a few hours but already it feels totally normal to have him here.

And I’m already anticipating the sadness of having him gone.

Worrisome.

Shanelle comes out to the foyer. “We got to talk about that, girl.”

“Not now. Now we search.” The cops have combed the entire house but nevertheless I view this as a useful exercise.

“Don’t think you can put me off forever,” Shanelle warns.

I ignore her. “So where do we start?”

“I don’t even know what we’re looking for.”

“Anything weird. Anything bizarre. Anything that doesn’t add up.”

She points at the front door through which Mario just exited. “That right there doesn’t add up.”

“Not now! I promise we’ll talk about Mario later.” I set my hands on my hips. “The cops still have Ingrid’s desk files and computer. I say we start in her bedroom.”

We take the stairs two at a time but are paralyzed at the threshold to Ingrid’s bedroom. It is glorious, like everything else at Damsgard, decorated from floor to ceiling in the palest of yellows. Filmy fabric drapes the windows and shades the four-poster bed, covered with a white matelassé spread and half a dozen sumptuous pillows. Spectacular orchids perch atop both graceful white dressers. And the Christmas tree beside the fireplace is adorned with yellow balls and beads and ribbons. The whole room has a golden glow.

“Snooping in here,” I whisper to Shanelle, “feels like more of an intrusion than snooping anywhere else in this house.”

“That’s because this is Ingrid’s most private place,” she whispers back. “But do you want to figure out who murdered her or not?”

“You start with that dresser and I’ll start with this one.”

There’s no way around it: much as I try, I can’t stop feeling darn ballsy pawing through Ingrid’s undergarments and nightgowns and scarves and jewelry. “She had some nice pieces,” I whisper across the room to Shanelle, holding up a floral brooch with aqua-colored enamel petals and pavé crystals on the keenly worked brass stem.

“That looks like Oscar de la Renta to me,” Shanelle whispers. “Why are we whispering?”

“I don’t know. Reverence for Ingrid’s spirit, I suppose. I’m moving on to the closet.” And it’s there, in the inner zipped pocket of a worn black tote in pebbled leather, that at last I find an item that seems weird to me.

Shanelle pads over to join me. “What’s that?”

“It’s the receipt from a body shop.” I flatten the crumpled slip of paper against the top of the nearest dresser. “What’s bizarre is that it’s in Minneapolis. Why would she go to a body shop a two-hour drive away?”

Shanelle shrugs. “Maybe that’s her favorite one. If I had a fancy car like hers I’d probably go to a special body shop myself.”

“True.” My cell beeps with a text. “Shoot, this is Trixie already. She’s warning us that she and my mom are on their way back.”

“Let’s make a quick pass through the third floor,” Shanelle suggests. “There could be some really good stuff up there.”

A rarely used third floor indeed would make a prime hiding place.

Shanelle and I race up the much less impressive staircase to the third level, which covers a small fraction of the footprint of the house. Here there are three rooms in a state of disrepair. The walls look like they were painted decades ago and the hardwood floors haven’t been varnished in ages. The rooms are relatively clean, though, and store items like suitcases and an ancient sewing machine and stacks of boxes filled with who knows what. Actually we don’t know what’s in the third room, because it’s locked.

I try twisting the doorknob one more time.

“It’s not going to open this time, either,” Shanelle tells me, “no matter how much we want to get in there.”

I hear a commotion below, then the sound of my mother’s voice. “I’ll be back,” I warn the stubborn doorknob in my best Arnold Schwarzenegger voice.

We find Trixie and my mom in the kitchen unpacking groceries. “How was the Polish museum?” I inquire.

“Very informative.” Trixie sets several bags of dried fruit on the granite counter, alongside light and dark brown sugar. “It had lots of documents and parish records and old newspapers.”

“Handcrafted items, too,” my mother says, “like embroideries. And cherished family heirlooms.” She glares at me to signal that in her judgment I don’t cherish our Przybyszewski heirlooms to the extent I should.

“It’s in a building that used to be the headquarters of a lumber company,” Trixie goes on. “Apparently that was a good business here until about a hundred years ago.”

“Then kaput!” My mother twists open a bottle of brandy and gives it a good sniff. Even though it looks like the cheap stuff, it appears to pass muster. “Where’s that Bundt pan we bought?” she asks Trixie.

“Don’t you and Maggie have to bake your fruitcakes at the same time?” I ask.

“Why?” my mother demands. “The two fruitcakes have to be tasted at the same time but nobody said they have to be baked at the same time.”

“You like to make yours early?” Shanelle asks.

“Never you mind the details.” My mother looks away then relents. “Let’s just say I like mine to steep.”

I glance at the brandy. I’m getting the picture.