Read Online Ms America and the Whoopsie in Winona by Diana Dempsey - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Diana Dempsey
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what I’m up to.
“That should work,” Maggie agrees. “I’ll call the lawyer.”
Since I’m on a roll, I keep going. “You two are thinking of driving to Minneapolis today, right?” As I say that, I realize that with my mom here it will be difficult to search the house. I know from experience that I can’t count on her to keep her mouth shut.
“Can she do that?” my mom asks me, gesturing toward Maggie. “The cops will let her leave town?”
Maggie frowns at my mother. “Why wouldn’t they?” She turns to my father. “What have you been saying, Lou?”
Interesting. Maybe Pop has been pestering her to explain her whereabouts when Ingrid was gunned down.
Before Pop can answer Maggie bursts into tears. “I had nothing to do with Ingrid getting shot!”
“So where were you when it happened?” I ask. As soon as the words pop out of my mouth, I realize they sound pretty accusatory. Still, I do want that question answered.
Maggie keeps sobbing. “I can’t believe you’re asking me that! What do you have against me? I got you this opportunity here in Winona, didn’t I?”
She makes it sound like she lined me up at Carnegie Hall. “It’s a perfectly reasonable question. One you should have no trouble answering.”
She keeps crying for a while, and I note with interest that Pop doesn’t try to comfort her. Eventually, since I don’t let her off the hook, she comes out with it. “Fine! You’re so desperate to know? I wanted one of those inflatable fruitcakes.”
“Why didn’t you just say so?” Pop hollers.
My mother throws out her arms. “What in tarnation is an inflatable fruitcake?”
“Hey, hold on a minute.” Pop frowns at Maggie. “Are you saying you stole it? While we were all standing there in the dark?”
She starts crying harder and I start wondering if her tears are a ploy to make us back off. Finally, “They were expensive!” she wails. “I don’t have the kind of money the rest of you people have.”
Boy, will my mom make hay with this! Suspected sister killer and tchotchke thief. I see the triumphant glint in my mom’s eye. “What in the world would anybody want with an inflatable fruitcake?” she wants to know.
Maggie struggles to explain. “It’s so you can put fruitcake on the holiday table but nobody has to eat it. Because nobody ever wants to eat fruitcake.”
Pop and I meet each other’s eyes. That is so not true.
“People only eat it to be polite,” Maggie insists. “Everybody knows that.”
Pop shuffles his feet. “Well, truth be told, Hazel here has been known to bake a darn good fruitcake.”
My mother bows her head in a false show of modesty. I know her heart is soaring.
I chime in. “In fact, Mom’s fruitcake is so good that we have neighbors call us in early December just to make sure their names are still on her gift list.”
“I don’t believe it.” Maggie sets her jaw. “There’s no such thing as good fruitcake. You’re both making this up.”
“There’s only one way to prove it.” My mother produces such a sweet smile I nearly go into insulin shock. “How about you and I have a fruitcake bake-off?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Now that’s the way to get the season started!” Pop bellows. “Hazel’s fruitcake!”
Maggie throws out her arms. “Seriously? You expect me to bake a fruitcake? Well, fine. I’ll do it. But not until after the funeral. Some of us are in mourning.”
Only a honker of a sneeze keeps me from disputing that assertion.
The doorbell rings. “I’ll get it,” I offer, and without thinking twice I run to the front door in my ancient PJs with my hair in a pile on top of my head and my nose red from non-stop blowing and half of a maple long john donut in one hand and a snot-filled Kleenex in the other and who is standing there but Mario Suave.
“Happy,” he says, “just the woman I’ve been looking for,” and he cracks that trademark dimple-flashing smile that appears on his America’s Scariest
“That should work,” Maggie agrees. “I’ll call the lawyer.”
Since I’m on a roll, I keep going. “You two are thinking of driving to Minneapolis today, right?” As I say that, I realize that with my mom here it will be difficult to search the house. I know from experience that I can’t count on her to keep her mouth shut.
“Can she do that?” my mom asks me, gesturing toward Maggie. “The cops will let her leave town?”
Maggie frowns at my mother. “Why wouldn’t they?” She turns to my father. “What have you been saying, Lou?”
Interesting. Maybe Pop has been pestering her to explain her whereabouts when Ingrid was gunned down.
Before Pop can answer Maggie bursts into tears. “I had nothing to do with Ingrid getting shot!”
“So where were you when it happened?” I ask. As soon as the words pop out of my mouth, I realize they sound pretty accusatory. Still, I do want that question answered.
Maggie keeps sobbing. “I can’t believe you’re asking me that! What do you have against me? I got you this opportunity here in Winona, didn’t I?”
She makes it sound like she lined me up at Carnegie Hall. “It’s a perfectly reasonable question. One you should have no trouble answering.”
She keeps crying for a while, and I note with interest that Pop doesn’t try to comfort her. Eventually, since I don’t let her off the hook, she comes out with it. “Fine! You’re so desperate to know? I wanted one of those inflatable fruitcakes.”
“Why didn’t you just say so?” Pop hollers.
My mother throws out her arms. “What in tarnation is an inflatable fruitcake?”
“Hey, hold on a minute.” Pop frowns at Maggie. “Are you saying you stole it? While we were all standing there in the dark?”
She starts crying harder and I start wondering if her tears are a ploy to make us back off. Finally, “They were expensive!” she wails. “I don’t have the kind of money the rest of you people have.”
Boy, will my mom make hay with this! Suspected sister killer and tchotchke thief. I see the triumphant glint in my mom’s eye. “What in the world would anybody want with an inflatable fruitcake?” she wants to know.
Maggie struggles to explain. “It’s so you can put fruitcake on the holiday table but nobody has to eat it. Because nobody ever wants to eat fruitcake.”
Pop and I meet each other’s eyes. That is so not true.
“People only eat it to be polite,” Maggie insists. “Everybody knows that.”
Pop shuffles his feet. “Well, truth be told, Hazel here has been known to bake a darn good fruitcake.”
My mother bows her head in a false show of modesty. I know her heart is soaring.
I chime in. “In fact, Mom’s fruitcake is so good that we have neighbors call us in early December just to make sure their names are still on her gift list.”
“I don’t believe it.” Maggie sets her jaw. “There’s no such thing as good fruitcake. You’re both making this up.”
“There’s only one way to prove it.” My mother produces such a sweet smile I nearly go into insulin shock. “How about you and I have a fruitcake bake-off?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Now that’s the way to get the season started!” Pop bellows. “Hazel’s fruitcake!”
Maggie throws out her arms. “Seriously? You expect me to bake a fruitcake? Well, fine. I’ll do it. But not until after the funeral. Some of us are in mourning.”
Only a honker of a sneeze keeps me from disputing that assertion.
The doorbell rings. “I’ll get it,” I offer, and without thinking twice I run to the front door in my ancient PJs with my hair in a pile on top of my head and my nose red from non-stop blowing and half of a maple long john donut in one hand and a snot-filled Kleenex in the other and who is standing there but Mario Suave.
“Happy,” he says, “just the woman I’ve been looking for,” and he cracks that trademark dimple-flashing smile that appears on his America’s Scariest
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