Ms America and the Whoopsie in Winona by Diana Dempsey Read Free Book Online Page B

own experience. And never would I have guessed that anything “heathen” would come within a million miles of Ingrid Svendsen.
    Then again, this just proves Ingrid had secrets. It was no doubt one of those that got her killed.
    “Why was Ingrid into all this?” Shanelle wants to know.
    Priscilla edges closer. “You’re so narrow-minded you can’t think of a reason? Perhaps she was not bound by Western tradition, as you seem to be. Perhaps the Icelandic sagas resounded in her heart. Perhaps she espoused the heathen values of warriorship and understood the value of bold action.”
    “You said she swore you to secrecy,” I say. “So Ingrid was making a point of keeping all this to herself?”
    “Wouldn’t you have done the same thing?” Priscilla demands. “In a town where eyes snoop and tongues wag?”
    I hope they do wag. In fact I’m hoping I can make Priscilla’s tongue wag. I don’t know what to make of this nervy Manhattanite but if she knows Ingrid half as intimately as she says she does, she’ll be a font of information. “Perhaps you’d like to join us for a glass of wine and some soup,” I suggest. I make a point of leading Priscilla out of the secret room. I have a suspicious enough mind that I’m worried she might try to trap us in there given half a chance. “I’m sure by the time we’re done with lunch Maggie will be back from her errands.”
    “That would be delightful—” she’s starting to say when again the doorbell rings.
    I march into the foyer and throw the door open, castigating myself for once again hoping to find Mario Suave on the stoop. No such luck. While this latest arrival is indeed a man, and a man roughly Mario’s age, too, it is not Mario. With his beard, longish dark hair and tweed jacket, he’s a professor-type who’s just sexy enough that some students would fall in love with him.
    He holds out his hand. “I’m Peter Svendsen.” He waits a beat, then, “Erik Svendsen’s son.”
    “Ingrid’s … stepson?”
    He nods. I step back to usher him in out of the cold. As he stomps the snow off his shoes, behind me I hear clattering noises. Then the kitchen door at the side of the house bangs. Maggie and Pop must’ve come back in that way for some reason.
    It’s only when I’m introducing Peter to Trixie and Shanelle that I realize Priscilla is no longer among us. Her luggage is gone, too. Nor is there any sign of Pop or Maggie having returned.
    I race to the kitchen. The side door is ajar. I pull it open even though I already know what I will see in the freshly fallen snow. Footprints. And the tracks left by a trendy leather spinner.

CHAPTER SIX
     
    Trixie has trailed me into the kitchen. “First we can’t get rid of Priscilla and then she disappears! Where did she go?”
    “The tracks lead to the street.” I give my nose a hearty blow. “I presume she came by car.”
    Trixie throws out her arms. “How weird is that?”
    I’m mystified, too. And freakish behavior by an out-of-towner who claims to be the BFF of the murder victim certainly raises a host of questions in my mind.
    I want to know more about Priscilla Pembroke. Though I don’t know how I’ll ever find her again.
    First things first. We rejoin Shanelle and Peter Svendsen in the living room.
    This is an amazingly beautiful space, too, with the same rust-colored walls and coffered ceilings as the dining room plus stunning white built-in cabinetry and plush velvet-upholstered seating arrangements. Poinsettias and garlands abound. And the Christmas tree in this room is the grandest of all. Since it’s a real tree, it gives off a marvelous pine scent. A gazillion glittering ornaments hang from its branches, also adorned by green mesh ribbon flecked with gold.
    “We’re all so sorry about your stepmother,” I tell Peter after we offer him a glass of wine. It turns out he’s already heard through the grapevine that Ingrid invited all of us to stay as guests here in his childhood