Read Ms America and the Whoopsie in Winona for Free Online

see the men of pit-crews calendar,” I say. “He did make the cover.”
    That elicits another round of whoops and hollers. We pledge to visit the Giant W to buy a few copies the second it’s not unseemly to return to the scene of the crime for such a self-indulgent purpose.
    “So does Jason want to take the job or not?” Shanelle wants to know.
    “He says he’s still deciding but I think he’s already decided.”
    “Meaning yes,” Trixie says.
    “He has to let Zach—that’s the driver—know next week.” I rise to look out the window and see my father shoveling again. I wonder what stress he’s trying to work off. “It’s a wonderful opportunity for Jason, so much more exciting than being a plain-old mechanic. But it means we’d have to sell the house and uproot Rachel and move away from my parents. And I’d have to give up my job, too.” I’m the personal assistant to a senior executive at an energy company back in Cleveland and my boss gives me tons of leeway to meet my Ms. America obligations. It would be very hard to match that flexibility anyplace else. I turn around and throw up my hands. “But the bottom line is I can’t stand in Jason’s way. I’m pursuing my dreams. I have to let him pursue his.”
    It’s so ironic. I’m the one who pushed Jason to go to pit school when I won Ms. America and scored all that prize money. Now it’s lit a fire under him, which I’ve always wanted but never expected. I guess I figured Jason would go to pit school and have a good time there and then we’d return to our normal lives. Now I’m having trouble grappling with Jason the High-Performing Husband. I wonder why. Maybe I’ve gotten a little too comfortable being the one who gets all the attention.
    If that’s true, I don’t like what it says about me.
    Trixie is asking about Rachel’s reaction to all this when we’re interrupted by a knock on my door. It’s Maggie. “I called the funeral home,” she reports. “The woman who runs it is waiting for us.” She glances at her watch. “We should’ve gotten there earlier. They’ve been open for an hour already.”
    “Did you find the will?” I ask.
    “No, but I did find the name of Ingrid’s lawyer. I’ve called her, too.”
    We three queens promise to be ready in fifteen minutes. My bet is Maggie will be ready in ten. Pop is clearly relieved that Maggie excused him from this excursion. He says if he stays at Damsgard he can let in the cops, who are supposed to come by again today. That is true but I think there’s something else going on. Despite his career as a cop, my father has never been good at facing life’s harsher realities. Of which death is the harshest. And that’s one topic you can’t avoid at the funeral home.
    I’ve just decided to pair my black turtleneck with crimson-colored skinny pants featuring a muted brocade print when my cell rings. “Hey, mom,” I answer.
    “You’ve got a cold!” she shrieks. “When did you get sick? Probably the minute you got off the plane. I told you they had germs in Minnesota.”
    My mother is not happy that I agreed to visit the home state of Pop’s reviled lady friend. If she got her wish, I’d write off the entire upper Midwest. “I got sick yesterday. But that’s not the big news.” I lower my voice. “Maggie’s sister was murdered during the Giant W opening ceremony.”
    “Did that Maggie do it?”
    I hesitate a beat too long.
    “I knew it! I could tell she was bad news from that time she ran up to me in the pickle aisle.”
    “Mom—”
    “Your father always had a fascination with sickos. Just like you’re developing, young lady. But in my opinion getting all lovey-dovey with one is taking it too far.”
    “We don’t know that Maggie did it.”
    “How many other suspects do you have?” When I can’t name a single one, she continues. “I gotta go. Bennie talked some woman into buying a Pontiac Grand Am with ninety thousand miles. Can you believe that? He could