Ms America and the Whoopsie in Winona Read Online Free PDF Page A

above which our fellow residents are trying to sleep.
    “Yup. She kept saying the house needs updating. I don’t agree.”
    “I don’t, either! It’s gorgeous as it is.”
    “Well, those renovations won’t happen now.” I barely stop myself from licking the bowl clean. I let myself do that only when no one is watching. “You ready to go up? I’m dying to get out of this Santa costume.” Oops. Bad choice of words.
    Trixie rises from her chair. “I want to hear all about Rachel and Jason and your mom but that’ll have to wait.”
    “I want to hear your news, too. Did Rhett get that job in Savannah?”
    Trixie’s eyes gleam with pride. “He did. He found out just the other day. And he’s taking it.”
    “How exciting! Congrats to Rhett!” I give her a hug. “You seem really happy about it.”
    “Well, Rhett’s thrilled, the kids will come around, and I’m ready for a change. After getting fired from my job and all.”
    I carry our dishes to the sink. “I want to hear all about it in the morning.”
    Trixie giggles. “If you have any news about Mario, you can tell me about that tonight!”
    I feel her gaze on my face. “Can I make a confession?”
    “Oh, boy. Should I sit back down?”
    “It’s just that now that I’m out of town and there’s been another murder I kind of expect him to show up. You know what I mean? Even though it’s crazy.” I don’t say: And even though I shouldn’t want him to show up .
    “It’s not crazy. He showed up both other times.”
    “And I found out in Miami that was no coincidence.” Trixie and I stare at each other. “And now I’ve got kind of a problem with Jason.”
    Trixie’s features contort. “Oh, no. Happy—”
    “We can get past it,” I add with more confidence than I feel. “You know what? I’ll tell you about it in the morning.” If I talk about it, I’ll get upset. And then I won’t be able to sleep. And then I’ll get even sicker.
    With the promise that she’ll hear the details over breakfast, Trixie precedes me up the staircase. Evergreen garlands with big plaid bows are twined around the banister. “The policemen took us to a drugstore on the way here so we could get you Nyquil,” she whispers as we hug good night. “I put it in your bathroom.”
    That’s Ms. Congeniality for you.
    My bedroom is Christmas-y year-round, with forest-green walls and crimson window treatments and bed linens. It has a fireplace, believe it or not, and a Nativity scene has been arranged on the ivory-colored marble hearth. After admiring my surroundings, I treat my scummy self to a eucalyptus-scented bath. I’ve just finished applying my moisture recharge night cream when I hear somebody walk past my door, whistling softly. The footfalls sound too light to be Pop’s, and I sure hope they don’t belong to a spectral Ingrid, but even that possibility doesn’t keep me from creeping back into the dark hallway and then down the stairs to investigate.
    The treads belonged to Maggie, I realize. I spy her in the elegant dining room, with its rust-colored walls, French doors, and coffered ceiling. Under the half-lit chandelier a fully dressed Maggie is bustling about.
    Whistling a happy tune.
    Using a tape measure to get the dimensions of the room.
    And surveying everything she sees with a jocular air.
    Maggie is so preoccupied taking measurements and jotting notes that I watch her for a matter of minutes and she never notices me. Eventually I back silently away and return to my room. Despite the soporific trio of red wine, hot bath, and cherry-flavored Nyquil, it takes this beauty queen quite a while to fall asleep.
    I awaken the next morning to an overcast sky, falling snow, and a stuffed-up nose. I wander down to the kitchen to find a full coffeepot and Shanelle over the electric cooktop scrambling eggs and frying bacon. That’s about the best morning tableau you can get in my book. Like me, Shanelle is wearing drawstring flannel sleep pants and has her