$3.99
(Beauty Queen Mysteries,
No. 4)
Beauty queen Happy Pennington loves Christmas, but this year
murder gets in the way of the tinsel and the candy canes …
In snowy small-town Minnesota—where Happy and her beauty-queen
BFFs are cutting the ribbon at a new big-box store—Happy discovers
that nothing, and no one, is what it seems. Society matrons worship
Norse goddesses. Victorian mansions hide salacious secrets. And
prominent families feud in the strangest ways. Maybe that’s why
Happy’s host ends up dead.
Just in time, heartthrob Mario Suave swoops in to help Happy any
way he can—especially under the mistletoe. And that Christmas
mystery is Happy’s to unwrap …
CHAPTER ONE
Sadly, many people
labor under the misapprehension that a beauty queen’s life is
nothing but glamour from dawn till dusk. Yet here I stand, Ms.
America Happy Pennington, dressed as a sexy Santa in a red velveteen
monstrosity, preparing to preside over the opening ceremony for the
new Giant W big box store in Winona, Minnesota.
If that doesn’t
disabuse you of the all-glamour all-the-time fantasy, I don’t know
what will.
The teenage girl
manning the public-address system cranks it once again into life.
“Sale on bloat-free suppository laxatives, aisle seven!”
My beauty queen BFF
Shanelle Walker sets her hands on her hips. Like our partner in
crime Trixie Barnett—the reigning Ms. Congeniality—she’s done
up as a hot-to-trot elf in an emerald-green minidress complete with
capelet and lace-up high-heel boots. I will say the color looks
fantastic against Shanelle’s cocoa-colored skin. Their hats—green
versions of my red Santa cap—perch awkwardly atop both Shanelle’s
tumble of black waves and Trixie’s chin-length copper-colored bob.
“I swear,”
Shanelle says, “if that infernal teenager makes one more
announcement, I am going to boot-kick her all the way to the North
Pole.”
“She is a little
over enthusiastic,” Trixie agrees. “But this is a big night.”
From our vantage
point behind a display of inflatable fruitcakes—yes, you read that
right—I assess the gathering throng. “Half the town may show up
to this thing.”
I am exaggerating.
I’m told Winona boasts about 27-thousand residents. But I bet a
few hundred are already massed on the other side of the cash
registers, escaping the frigid temps and ogling the discounted
merchandise. They won’t be able to get at it until 7 p.m. at
least, when the speechifying is concluded and the opening ribbon cut.
Shanelle squints
her eyes at the crowd. “I don’t see your dad, Happy.”
“You see the
couple who are both wearing two-foot-tall Christmas tree hats?”
“There’s your
dad!” Trixie cries. “Wow, does he look happy.”
I am forced to
admit that even though he’s sporting the tackiest headgear this
side of Minneapolis, yes, Pop does look happy. And it is largely due
to Maggie Lindvig—Winona native, Cleveland transplant, and Pop’s
lady love. I watch multicolored lights blink atop Maggie’s longish
brunette hair. She may be in her early sixties but she still favors
a sex kitten look, with tight clothes and a shimmy in her walk.
“Those hats were Maggie’s idea. Pop keeps telling me how many
fun things she thinks of for them to do.”
“She sounds
pretty different from your mom,” Shanelle observes.
“That must drive
your mom batty,” Trixie says. “I wish she were here, too.”
“Apparently
December’s a busy month in the used-car business. She claims she
can’t get away.” Ever since my mother took a job as receptionist
for Bennie Hana, notorious in the greater Cleveland area for
executing a karate chop in his TV commercials about chopping prices,
she’s become surprisingly slippery. I’m convinced only some of
her elusiveness is due to her new 9-to-5 gig. The rest I attribute
to her burgeoning social life, which also revolves around one Bennie
Hana.
Again the P.A.
system blares. “Santa toilet-seat cover and matching bath rug in
aisle three!” the teenager chirps. “Trim the family throne with
Old Saint Nick!”
I lay a restraining
hand on Shanelle’s arm as I turn to Trixie. “I wonder what
you’ll think of Maggie’s sister Ingrid.”
“She’s one of
the people giving a speech, right?”
“I’ll be amazed
if that woman lets anybody else get a hold of the microphone,”
Shanelle says. Like me, Shanelle arrived yesterday, so she has the
lay of the land where the Lindvig sisters are concerned.
“It sounds like
Ingrid had a lot to do with convincing Giant W to put an outpost here
in Winona,” I say.
“At least to hear
her tell it,” Shanelle adds.
“She’s a big
muckety-muck in town,” I go on. “Organizes a lot of social
events, serves on all the committees—”
“—takes credit
for everything,” Shanelle adds.
“I get the
picture.” Trixie nods sagely then brightens. “Well, we should
be thanking her because if Ingrid didn’t get this brand new Giant W
for Winona, we wouldn’t be seeing each other again so soon!”
“Truth is, we
have Maggie to thank for that, too. She’s the one who suggested to
Ingrid that we be part of the opening.” Ingrid made sure this is
an official Ms. America appearance, organizing it with Atlanta
headquarters, but it was Maggie who got the ball rolling. And I know
why: she’s trying to get on my good side and thinks booking pageant
gigs is a way to do it. It’s clear all she wants for Christmas is
an engagement ring from Pop and she knows that’s more likely to
happen if I’m on her team.
Problem is I’m
not ready to play ball yet, and I may never be.
“I can’t wait
to look around Winona more,” Trixie says. “This town is so cute!
Especially with all the Christmas decorations up.”
“I’m thinking
we can get some of our shopping done while we’re here,” I say.
“Nothing like a
small-town Christmas,” Shanelle says. “I put some bubbly in the
fridge so we can kick off our celebrations as soon as we get back to
Damsgard.”
Trixie’s hazel
eyes widen. “We’re staying at a house that’s got its own name?
That’s like Tara in Gone With the Wind!”
I bet Ingrid
wouldn’t mind being likened to Scarlett O’Hara. “Damsgard
isn’t that big but it is pretty impressive. It’s named
after some mansion in Norway.”
“A lot of folks
in these parts are Norwegian,” Shanelle says. “Like Ingrid and
Maggie. And Ingrid’s second husband, who left her the house.”
“It’s awfully
nice of her to put us all up,” Trixie says.
“And,” I add,
“there are so many bedrooms we don’t even have to share.”
Though the second those words leave my lips, I feel a teeny tiny bit
glum.
The last time I was
a guest in somebody’s house was last month in Miami, when we all
stayed at Mario Suave’s Spanish-style manse. It may not have as
many bedrooms as Damsgard but it’s pretty splendiferous. I don’t
have to tell you, dear reader, that some large fraction of the appeal
of Mario’s home’s derives from its owner—pageant emcee and host
of America’s Scariest Ghost Stories—whose hotness,
smartness, and all-around scrumptiousness continue to haunt my
dreams. And, I will admit, sometimes my awake moments, too.
That would be A-OK
if I weren’t married to Jason Kilborn, my high-school sweetheart
and the father of my 17-year-old daughter Rachel. The self-same
husband who just the other day threw me for a loop so big, I’m
still spinning in circles.
The public-address
system succeeds in distracting me. “Not done putting up your
holiday décor?” the teenager inquires. “Then check out our
Shotgun Shell Christmas Wreath in aisle nine! Less than thirty bucks
when you mail in the ten-dollar rebate!”
“My wreath at
home has red twigs and rhinestones,” Trixie whispers. “Rhett
thinks that’s tacky.”
I’m about to make
an uncharitable observation about the Giant W’s merchandise when
Ingrid bustles up to our trio. She’s one of those women who look
wispy and ultra feminine but in fact are totally take-charge. She’s
got platinum blond hair styled in a sleek bob and a svelte build
she’s showcasing in a red satin dress with jeweled detailing.
Unlike her sister, she has enough sense not to sport pine-needle
headgear.
She homes in on
Trixie and extends her hand. “You must be the third beauty queen.
I’m Ingrid Svendsen.”
“So nice to meet
you!” Trixie says. “I’m—”
Ingrid swings her
head toward me, brandishing the opening-ceremony schedule. “You’re
clear on your marching orders? Why aren’t you in the sleigh yet?”
“We were just
about to—”
“Remember to be
quiet while the mayor is speaking. I don’t want you drawing
attention to yourselves during his speech.”
Behind Ingrid,
Shanelle shoots me a look. I know what she’s thinking. Ingrid
doesn’t want us drawing attention to ourselves during her
speech. Not to be immodest but I don’t think you should invite
beauty queens to an event if you don’t want heads to turn. Just
saying.
Ingrid resumes her
instructions. “And keep quiet when the lights go off for the
Christmas tree lighting, too. Don’t ruin the drama of the moment.”
“You won’t hear
a peep out of us,” Trixie assures her.
I steel myself
before I speak again. “I think only two of us should ride in the
sleigh.” I watch Ingrid’s brow lower. “Shanelle and I did a
trial run earlier and I’m not sure it can handle—”
“Nonsense! Three
is what we planned.” Ingrid spins away.
Our trio has a
moment of silence. Then, “She’s not the nicest person I’ve met
so far in Minnesota,” Trixie observes.
Shanelle harrumphs.
“Just you wait till you get to know her better. You ask me, it’s
no accident she’s got two husbands in the grave. If I were married
to her I’d probably want to punch out, too.”
“I hope for your
dad’s sake Maggie’s nicer than her sister,” Trixie says to me.
“She is.” That
doesn’t mean I want her as a member of the family.
Shanelle pokes my
arm. “Girl, you really worried about that sleigh? I want to
survive this holiday season.”
“I never even
heard about a sleigh until now,” Trixie says.
“They put it in
special for the opening ceremony. I’m only a tiny bit worried
about it. It’s on an elevated track,” I explain to Trixie,
although by now she can see that for herself. I lead us toward the
sleigh, lying in wait at the rear of the store. Here and at the
front, just behind the dais, are the two places where the track is at
floor level. It’s like an in-store rollercoaster. “It just
seemed so herky-jerky when we were in it this morning that I got
scared it might not take all our weight.”
Trixie eyes the
sleigh with suspicion. “Tell me again when I sing my song?”
Since Trixie’s the only one of us with any voice to speak of, she
has the dubious honor of belting out the Giant W holiday song, set to
the tune of “Jingle Bells.”
“Your music is
supposed to start when the sleigh does,” I tell her. “When we
stop at the dais, jump out and start singing. Shanelle and I will be
right behind you.” I start climbing into the sleigh. “Come on,
let’s get into this thing so it doesn’t take off without us.”
Ingrid would really read us the riot act then. I’m halfway in when
I freeze in place hearing the P.A. system’s latest 411.
“Smoked chunky
kielbasa only four dollars and ninety-nine cents a pound!” the
teenager announces. “Aisle thirteen!”
“That’s a good
price!” I cry. “Especially for smoked chunky.”
“You can get it
when the festivities are over.” Shanelle gives my backside an
encouraging push.
We settle ourselves
on the sleigh’s bench, Shanelle in the middle and Trixie on the far
end. The Giant W’s overhead fluorescents blink a few times to
signal that the festivities are about to begin.
Trixie takes a few
deep breaths. “I’m always nervous before a performance.”
Shanelle pats
Trixie’s leg as I assure her she’ll do great. Though that’s
easy for me to say. I don’t even have a speaking part. All I have
to do is cut the ribbon.
As the hush of a
deep winter’s night settles over the Giant W, the cheerful opening
notes of “Jingle Bells” blast from the sound system. Before I
can get the words “Brace yourself” past my lips, the sleigh takes
off.
“Whoa!”
Shanelle yelps.
“This thing
should have seat belts!” Trixie cries as the sleigh zooms
heavenward and we three are slammed back against the bench.
Just that suddenly
it jerks to a stop. I catapult forward, barely able to prevent
myself from launching out of the sleigh. I have a devil of a time
keeping my Santa cap on my head, my meta-grip bobby pins, which
perform so well on pageant night, stretched to their limit by this
monster of a ride.
“Happy!” Trixie
cries. I’m sure her panicked vibrato carries to the front of the
store. It might have carried all the way to Lake Winona. Ingrid
will not be amused.
I manage to return
my butt to the bench a nanosecond before the sleigh takes off again.
We three queens clutch one another for dear life. I knew I
was right to be worried about this thing!
Finally the
abominable conveyance plummets to floor level and lurches to a stop
behind the dais, just past the 30-foot-tall silver Christmas tree
that soon will be ceremoniously lit. Trixie doesn’t so much jump
out of the sleigh as pitch out. Shanelle and I follow on unsteady
legs, her elf and my Santa cap seriously awry. Ingrid glares at us
but my whiplashed neck and I are past caring.
Seconds later
Trixie bursts into the Giant W holiday song:
W, W, bargains every
day!
Oh, what fun it is to
fill my shopping cart this way, hey!
W, W, discounts every
day!
Oh, what fun it is to
bring a bargain home today!
Dashing through the
aisles,
A coupon in my hand …
As Trixie
masterfully whips through the refrain, Shanelle and I clap to the
beat. A photog from the Winona Post captures the moment for
posterity. I catch my breath and Pop’s eye. Like everybody else
in the crowd he’s bundled in his winter coat. I note that both his
and Maggie’s Christmas tree hats are now unlit. Ingrid probably
made them turn them off so they wouldn’t draw attention from her
speech. Pop winks at me like he’s done a million times before as I
stood on one Ohio stage or another competing in some rinky-dink
pageant. He’s been such a good dad. I just wish he and Mom were
still together. Their divorce is this year’s lousiest development.
Heck, I’d give back my Ms. America crown to see them reunited.
Trixie sings the
chorus one last time, drawing out the final phrase “bargain home
today” with a flourish. Shanelle and I cheer along with the crowd
and then our trio goes to stand at the back of the dais, right in
front of the Christmas tree.
No surprise, Ingrid
kicks off the proceedings. “Happy holidays, fellow citizens of
Winona!” she brays. “I’m so glad you could join us this
evening to celebrate the opening of the Giant W in our fair city! Of
course as soon as I heard— ”
As Shanelle
predicted, Ingrid proceeds to take credit for luring Giant W to
Winona. There are two men on the dais with her waiting to speak—the
mayor and a store executive—but it takes forever for her to cede
the mic and retreat to the rear of the dais to stand in front of the
sleigh. The suit kicks off with a lame joke about a reindeer in a
bar before detailing the Giant W’s many charms.
Finally the mayor
takes control. “What do you say we light the Christmas tree?” he
calls, and as the crowd roars its approval the overhead fluorescents
switch off and the Giant W is plunged into darkness. Indeed it is a
dramatic moment, and as Ingrid ordained I remain as silent as Santa
creeping down a chimney.
I keep expecting
the tree’s lights to blaze on—I know from this morning’s
run-through it’s decorated with about a thousand strings of
multicolored W’s—but they never do. In the distance a train’s
lonely whistle pierces the evening quiet. The crowd inside the Giant
W begins to shuffle and murmur. Then several feet to my right, where
Ingrid is standing, I hear a sharp popping sound.
I gasp. Trixie
clutches my arm. “What in the world is that?” she cries. I’m
afraid I know but I don’t dare say it aloud. A few screams rise to
the ceiling while I hear a thump, like a heavy sack dropping. Then
the sleigh noisily whirrs into life.
“Turn on the
lights!” the mayor hollers and none too soon we are all once again
bathed in their fluorescent glow.
Now it’s Shanelle
grabbing me. “Where the heck is Ingrid?”
She’s not on the
dais with us anymore. The mayor and the suit still are, but not her.
Overhead and to our
left, near the furthest cash registers, the fast-moving sleigh jerks
to one of its famous stops. To my astonishment I see that it’s not
empty. Nor does its cargo remain inside.
Ingrid Svendsen,
snazzy red holiday dress and all, pitches headfirst from the sleigh
like a duffel bag being tossed onto an airplane’s conveyor belt. I
thought I heard a gunshot and now I know I did, because there’s no
mistaking the bloody wound on Ingrid’s chest. The crowd shrieks in
horror. We all watch in morbid fascination as the hostess of the
evening’s festivities belly flops onto the linoleum floor of
Winona’s brand-new Giant W, narrowly missing a register and
upending a display of Christmas sweater wine-bottle covers.
On cranks the P.A.
system one last time. “Ceremony’s over! Clean-up at register
five!”
To be released
Thursday, November 21, 2013 …
No comments:
Post a Comment