Free Ms America and the Whoopsie in Winona by Diana Dempsey

Ghost Stories posters and you know what? It doesn’t matter that I look like hell on wheels.
    He looks fantastic, of course, his skin tanned from L.A. sun and his dark hair perfectly imperfect and his musky cologne breaking through my congestion to assail my nostrils. He’s dressed in sleek black trousers and a camel-colored overcoat that must have cashmere in it because it feels so darn soft. I know how soft it is because I’m hugging him. I’m hugging him for a little too long, I realize.
    I back away and tell a lie. “I can’t believe you came to Winona!”
    He winks at me. “Didn’t I tell you there are ghosts in Minnesota?”
    I hear commotion behind me. Everyone is coming into the foyer from the kitchen. Delighted shouts and cries are ringing out.
    Mario lowers his voice. “Ghosts … and angels.”
    I get a few minutes to collect myself as Mario is greeted and hugged and backslapped and escorted to the kitchen for coffee and a Bloedow’s donut. We have a moment of solemnity when he offers Maggie his condolences. She seems so undone by his celebrity that she can’t speak, no matter the topic. All she can do is stare.
    “Maybe you can share some local knowledge with me,” Mario suggests to her at one point. I can tell he’s trying to cheer her up, which goes to show how considerate he is. “That’s always a great way to improve the show.”
    She clears her throat. “So you’ll be working on your show here in Winona?”
    “Why else would I be here?” He gives me a sly wink and nobody says a word. Mario may have had a good cover in Vegas and Miami but we all know why he really came to Winona: Mom knows, and Trixie and Shanelle and me and even Pop.
    If Jason knew Mario had shown up here, he’d know why, too.
    “I’ve got a shoot this afternoon,” Mario goes on, “on Cummings Street on the west side of town. It’s said to be haunted by a very lively spirit.” He shivers dramatically and we all chuckle.
    “How is Mariela?” Trixie wants to know. “Mariela is Mario’s 16-year-old daughter, who lives in Miami,” she adds for Maggie’s benefit.
    “She’s just fine. Shopping constantly and trying to make me believe it’s for Christmas gifts.”
    “How did her audition go?” Shanelle asks. We all know Mario pulled a string or two so his drop-dead-gorgeous daughter could try out for a new teen TV drama.
    “She got a callback but then she flubbed her lines.” He meets my gaze. “She didn’t practice enough. Just like for the pageant.”
    Mariela was a shoo-in to win Teen Princess of the Everglades but then in the finale not only tripped over her evening gown but delivered a catastrophic answer to the final question. She placed fifth and was not happy about it.
    “It could’ve just been nerves,” Trixie suggests, charitable as ever.
    “Nerves aren’t her problem.” Mario finishes his coffee. “Failing to prepare is.”
    Pop pipes up. “And how is Consuela doing?” He’s much higher on Mariela’s mother than we three queens are.
    Mario chuckles and shakes his head. “Prepare yourselves, ladies! She’s talking about entering Ms. Florida.”
    “But she has to be married to compete!” Trixie cries.
    The Ms. America pageant of which I am the proud title-holder is the nation’s foremost pageant for married women.
    “I think she’s got that part well in hand,” Mario replies.
    I detect chagrin in his voice. “Do you mean, with Hector?” I’m referring to the married man with whom Consuela was catting around as recently as last month. Maybe she finally succeeded in prodding him to leave his wife.
    Mario shakes his head. I’ll have to get that story later.
    I take a deep breath. This is potentially big news, on a few levels. For one thing, Consuela getting married presumably means she’ll stop making a play for Mario. I shouldn’t care but I do.
    From a pageant point-of-view, this is potentially alarming. Consuela is a total bombshell. If she becomes a contestant—and is smart