Ms America and the Whoopsie in Winona Read Free Page B

Svendsen does goose me from an investigative point-of-view. I extend my hand toward Kevin. “Cough it up. The note and the twenty.”
    Kevin grumbles as he digs in the pocket of his cords even though he predicted this would happen. “I threw out the note. In the garbage can in the break room.”
    “Take me there.” This I want to see, even if it requires digging through trash.
    Going to the break room requires us to pass within a few yards of the deceased. As I nod at the officer standing guard, I sneeze. And not one of those dainty, genteel sneezes, either. More like a huge honker.
    Kevin guffaws. “You probably contaminated the whole store.”
    “Put a sock in it, Kevin.” Out of desperation I wipe my nose on the sleeve of my Santa minidress and pretend I haven’t been feeling a tickle in my throat all day. “How’d you get the note, anyway?”
    He’s explaining how it was mailed to his house when we arrive at the break room. Kevin gestures to a tall gray garbage bin. “Hope you Dumpster dive in your spare time.”
    I ignore the sarcasm and kick off the proceedings with a delicate inspection of the top few inches of the garbage. “How long ago did you throw out the note?”
    “When I got in. Around noon.”
    More than six hours ago. Fabulous.
    I roll up my already germ-laden sleeves. “You’re helping me,” I inform Kevin, and before long we are plowing past burrito wrappers, more corn dog sticks than I care to count, and innumerable paper plates bearing half-eaten pizza. “You Giant W workers need a crash course in healthy nutrition,” I mumble. “Hey, is this it?” I extract a small white sheet of paper with typewriting on it. Unfortunately it is soaked not only with used coffee grounds but other even less desirable lubricants.
    “That’s it,” Kevin confirms.
    While he’s off getting a plastic bag to hold it in, I peruse this pathetic piece of evidence. Its typewritten contents are as Kevin described. “I can’t believe you did this no questions asked,” I tell him as we exit the break room.
    “A twenty’s a twenty.”
    Can’t argue with that. We’re walking up aisle twelve to make our way back to the front of the store when we pass a rack of hanging calendars and what do I see? Men of NASCAR Pit Crews , featuring my husband on the cover.
    Yes, the cameraman who took the test shots was right. Not only did Jason make the calendar cut: he scored the cover.
    He’s standing shirtless next to a race car, in the hot sun, showing off the sort of 6-pack abs you’d expect of a cover boy. He’s shooting water from a bottle into his mouth but most of it is running down his torso to disappear into his tight, slightly undone jeans. With his longish dark hair, olive-tone skin, and bad-boy demeanor, he looks dangerous, sexy, and hot, hot, hot.
    Kevin watches me drool over the calendar. “You look good, lady, but you’re weird.”
    I put the calendar back. I guess the Giant W’s wares aren’t all bad. Between this and the discount kielbasa, if I were a local I’d shop here all the time. “That guy on the cover is my husband,” I tell Kevin.
    “Yeah, right.”
    We arrive at the front of the store and I’m about to repeat my assertion when I notice a short gray-haired lady standing over Ingrid Svendsen’s corpse, so close she must be someone official. She’s wearing low-heeled ankle boots, a camel-colored walker coat with a faux fur collar, and a matching brimmed hat. She must’ve just arrived, as a light dusting of snow still clings to her hat. She lowers her head, clasps her hands, and closes her eyes.
    “Is she praying ?” Kevin sounds incredulous.
    “Looks like it. And you know what? It’s not a bad idea.”
    He shrugs and joins his teen coworkers. Shanelle and Trixie join me. “That’s the homicide detective,” Trixie whispers.
    I’m surprised. And pleased, when I think about it. A Miss Marple who’s a real-life cop.
    “You find the note?” Shanelle wants to know.
    I hold up