Mariela looks away but I see her roll her eyes. As the girl next to her stifles a giggle, I conclude that Mariela could care less about dissing a pageant judge. Either she’s super confident or a little foolish.
I glance at my watch. “Pay your checks, ladies. You’re due on stage in seven minutes.”
Scrambling ensues. Trixie leans close when I return to our table. “You handled that really well, Happy. Those girls need to learn that being a beauty queen isn’t just about what’s on the outside.”
I keep my voice low. “What in the world is Consuela telling her daughter?”
“Even if she did see a list she should keep it to herself. Especially the part about her daughter’s name being crossed off.”
Mariela’s mother intimidates me, I will tell you. Not only does she have a child with Mario—about whom I harbor a fantasy or two—she’s as pretty as J Lo, amazingly fit, and comes off as kind of imperious. Like me, she got pregnant in high school. Unlike Jason and me, she and Mario never married.
You can tell I’m having trouble liking her. I order myself to take my own advice and believe the best of her.
At least until I know differently.
Outside the restaurant we stroll past the kind of pastel-colored Art Deco building Miami is famous for. “I hope Lasalo and Peppi aren’t pointing the girls based on how they do in rehearsals,” I say as we near the theater. “Or whether they were nice at the orientation lunch.”
“That wouldn’t be fair at all!”
“Maybe they don’t know that. Maybe they’re first-time judges. Maybe the organizer didn’t explain to them how pageants work.”
“You’re right! This pageant does seem, I hate to say it, kind of disorganized. Now if somebody saw a list tomorrow after the personal interviews, that would be different.”
“Sure, once the composite scores from the preliminaries are added up.” That’s how pageant finales go straight from the opening number to the semifinalists. “But nobody but the judges is supposed to see the list. Plus Mariela said her mom saw a list of the top five.”
“That’s not right!” Trixie sounds truly pained. “No judge is supposed to pick their top five until the swimsuit and evening gown competitions are conducted on stage in front of the audience!”
We enter the auditorium and reclaim our seats. The teen queens take their marks. I glance around but see no sign of Lasalo or Peppi. I plan to take them aside to make sure they’ve got the 411 on how pageant judging works.
The house lights dim, the colored spotlights come on, and the without-a-beat music once again assails my eardrums. “Ay caramba,” Trixie mutters. In short order the crescent-moon prop nosedives toward the cardboard manatee, stabbing it in its plump posterior. Then the contestant from Opa-Locka does a face plant on stage left.
“What else could go wrong?” Trixie wails.
Sadly, soon we get an answer to that question. The stage floor’s trap doors spring open and, like a hulking figure in a dark alley, the pirate ship looms into view.
A spotlight rakes the bow. I catch a flash of hot pink. I lean forward and squint, then grab Trixie’s arm. “What is on the front of that boat?”
Trixie gasps. “Oh my Lord! I think that’s Peppi!”
With another swipe of the spotlight, there’s no mistaking her. Propped on the foredeck, black cover-up seriously askew, is Peppi. She’s half upright and half draped over the prow like a cockeyed bowsprit. Her eyes are bugging out, her tongue is hanging out, and this beauty queen is getting a real bad case of déjà vu.
I jump to my feet and hurtle toward the stage. “Stop!” I screech. “Stop!”
A few teen queens are staring at me and laughing. But a few others are looking around to see what I’m pointing at. And a few have started screaming.
Another lurch or two and I am close enough to see that Peppi is no longer sporting the top of her pink and white polka dot string bikini.
At least not in the usual location. It can be found about a foot or so north, lassoed tightly around her neck, polyester and spandex morphed into a murder weapon.
I try to catch my breath, something the woman in front of me will never again be able to do.
How fleeting is life! At least for Peppi. Sun worshiping one minute and gone the next to that gigantic pool deck in the sky.
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Continue reading for an excerpt from Diana’s novel Chasing Venus, which readers have called “a spot-on blend of romance and suspense” …
CHASING VENUS
Known for page-turning romantic novels that keep you reading late into the night, Diana Dempsey delivers a suspenseful tale about a man and a woman who must shed the past to embrace the future …
Annette Rowell’s latest novel is leapfrogging up the bestseller lists, and with every surge in sales she’s becoming more of a household name. The literary success she’s struggled so hard for would be a dream come true were it not for the killer preying on bestselling authors.
Reid Gardner hosts a syndicated crime show dedicated to capturing dangerous fugitives. The former LAPD cop knows only too well how violence can shatter lives. No victim arouses his ardor more than the pretty author who’s become the target of a psychopath. Yet falling in love with her could cost him not only the reputation he’s spent years building, but the one killer who’s eluded him for years …
PROLOGUE
Death was not on the guest list, but it appeared all the same.
Maggie Boswell, reigning queen of mystery fiction, sat at the signing table as if she were royalty on a throne. Around her, in teetering piles, was her latest bestseller. Grabbing at the books were members of the literary elite—authors, editors, agents. It was a huge irony that Maggie had invited them into her home for this book party. Most of them she disliked. Now all of them she distrusted.
For any one of them might try to kill her.
Someone handed her a book. She scribbled the inscription, struggling to rise above her fear. In the shifting terror of her worst imaginings, even her beloved home unnerved her. Its enormity was no longer a joy, but a threat. It had too many corners, too many shadows. And outside its stucco walls the night was moonless, and the silver-gray Pacific beyond the terraced garden unnaturally still.
A breeze from the open French doors behind her wafted over the back of her neck, chilling her skin like a spectral caress. She shivered, turned to look. Yet there was nothing there, nothing but the unrelieved blackness of her garden.
“Ms. Boswell?”
She spun at the woman’s voice, and pursed her lips. A pretender to her throne, in the form of a brunette wisp with—in Maggie’s opinion—dubious talent.
The woman held a book toward her and smiled. "I’m Annette Rowell. I’m a huge admirer of your work."
Maggie took the book but didn’t care to smile back. “Are you?”
"I’ve really been looking forward to this one."
Read it and weep. “Shall I sign the book to you?”
“Please.”
Maggie scrawled To Annette and then her signature in expansive script. She slapped the hardcover shut and held out the volume.
"You may remember that I have a mystery series of my own," the woman said.
Maggie was well aware of it. "Is that so?"
Again the woman smiled. “Thank you so much for including me tonight."
Maggie wondered how this upstart had made it onto the guest list. She averted her head in silent dismissal and the woman moved along.
The books kept coming, endlessly. Greet, open, sign, hand back, smile, over and over again. At one point, Maggie jolted upright. She’d felt something, sudden and swift, in the nape of her neck. A piercing, like a bee sting, or a needle making an entry into flesh. Deeply and with purpose. Then, just as quickly, gone.
My God. A thought came, a terrifying idea she immediately banished. It can't be.
Someone held another book toward her. Mechanically she signed it, her mind whirling. As she returned the volume to its owner, she grimaced again.
An unnatural tingling sensation had begun in her body. Maggie stilled, gave it her full attention. Yet the feeling didn’t disappear, but grew, strengthened.
She shivered. Coldness writhed within her. The hideous thought returned, taunted her. Just like in my second book.
No. She wouldn’t believe it. It couldn’t be so easy, that what she feared most would simply come to pass. Just like that. All the while the iciness intensified, knifing through her body. A harbinger of doom.
This cannot be happening.
Yet, she knew, it could.
The people around her seemed to grow distant, as if a veil had dropped between her and the living world. She saw their faces, she heard their voices, but she was alone among them in a way she never had been before. She tried to move her mouth to speak but her lips failed to respond.
So fast. It really is so fast.
She was almost admiring of the poison's power. Just as she had written about it, so it was.
"Darling?" Her husband bent over her. Voices echoed, concerned faces loomed. Someone held up something thin and shiny and silver. Maggie didn’t need to see it clearly to know what it was. A dart, tipped with poison.
Terror gripped her then, spun in her mind like a grotesque dervish. Her imagination, always vivid, conjured an image of her last breath. Not so far off now, she knew. And, oh, how she would gasp, strain, seek air she could never more find ...
Panic ballooned in the gorgeous living room, an acid cloud only she could see. People were jostling now, bumping into one another, seeking escape. A lone scream rent the air. She tried to turn her head to see who had made the shrill sound but wasn’t able. Already that was beyond her rapidly dwindling capabilities.
So fast, so fast …
Her body slumped to the table. She was powerless to keep her head from slamming onto the book she had been preparing to sign.
My last book. It's over. I'm dead.
Another scream, not her own, for she could no longer draw breath. She knew. She had tried. Nothing came.
Death made its exit, leaving its grim calling card behind.
CHAPTER ONE
Annie Rowell snagged a deep breath of air, her heart pumping, her feet in their worn running shoes pounding the graveled shoulder of the two-lane road. It was dusk, and at this hour few cars passed through these low grassy hills outside the California coastal town of Bodega Bay. Here, a mile inland, she couldn't hear the surf, but still the chill air carried a tang of salt. Overhead a raven cawed, its shriek splitting the heavens.
The route was her usual one and required no concentration. Her mind was free to wander, and it did, to her favorite daydream.
New Yorkers shouldered past her as she stared into the windows of the glitzy bookstore. Snow drifted from the sky, dusting her brunette hair and melting on the long lashes rimming her green eyes, shiny with tears of joy. A businessman, walking fast, bumped into her, muttered under his breath.
She remained motionless. Mesmerized. Nothing could tear her from this sight, one she'd dreamed of for years. Her novel—hers!—stacked in a giant pyramid in the window. In the middle where the bestsellers go.
A shopper inside lifted a book from the pyramid and headed for the registers. More like that and Annie would rise even higher on the bestsellers list. She could just imagine Philip and that new wife of his frowning at each other over their New York Times, unable to fathom that Annette Rowell's name was printed there, and in such an illustrious position.
Maybe I shouldn't have divorced her, Philip would think, eyeing wife number two with the disappointment he'd previously reserved for Annie. But who would have thought she'd ever amount to anything?
The fantasy generated the usual smile but this time it didn’t last long. Annie was abruptly jarred back to reality.
She picked up her pace—just a bit, not enough to be obvious, then raised her chin a notch and resisted the urge to glance over her shoulder.
How long had that car been behind her?
Why wasn’t it driving past?
It was late April and the longer days allowed her to get sloppy about when she set off on her run. In January she had to get going by 3:30 or it’d be dark by the time the circuit led her back home. Darkness and jogging solo were a bad combo for any woman. Let alone one who might have a target on her back.
But she’d gotten caught up revising chapter seventeen, and five o’clock slipped by, then six, six thirty … And there was no way she’d skip the run. She was all discipline these days—in her writing, her workouts, her meals, everything. But it meant that here she was, still out, with the shadows too long for comfort.
The slow-moving car sped up. She could tell from the rev of its engine. Then it appeared alongside her and slowed again to roll at exactly her rate of speed. From inside the vehicle, through the open passenger window, she could feel the driver’s eyes on her. Just … watching.
She kept her gaze straight ahead, her heart thumping an anxious rhythm that had little to do with exertion.
What should she do? Be bold, she decided. Look at the driver.
She swung her head to the left and got an eyeful of a beat-up maroon sedan. Behind the wheel … a man. Not an elderly man, either, which might have explained the molasses-in-January pace. Of indeterminate age, and dark-haired. Wearing sunglasses even though the sun had nearly set.
But that was all she could make out, because a second later the car accelerated and shot ahead. At first Annie couldn’t understand why, until she realized that another vehicle was coming up from behind. She caught a snippet of animated conversation through open windows as an SUV sped past.
The roar of both engines died away and silence again descended, broken only by the repetitive beat of Annie’s footfalls on the gravel.
The SUV scared him off. That’s good, right?
Sure, but who was he? And why did he have to get scared off in the first place?
Don’t think. Just run. Get home.
For several minutes she made good progress. But the peace was short-lived. Soon she heard a vehicle behind her.
She glanced over her shoulder.
Despite the gloaming, a car was approaching without its headlights on. Was it the maroon sedan? She couldn’t tell. Had the guy turned around and doubled back?
Her breath caught in her throat. Should she confront him? No, that would only egg him on. Turn around? But it made no sense to close the distance between them. Speed up? At the bend just ahead she could cross the road and sprint over the smallish hill to the left. It would make for more difficult running but it would also be impossible for him to follow her.
Unless he abandoned his vehicle.
She didn’t care to consider that possibility. Nor did she have time to think. She was nearly at the bend now, the softly mounded hill tempting her as an escape route.
Do it. Another few paces. Now.
She made a sharp left turn and knifed across the road, then scrambled up the grassy incline as fast as her aching muscles and pounding heart would allow. It was no easy trick, winded as she was. Don’t let him follow me don’t let him follow me …
Behind her she heard tires on gravel. Had he pulled off the road? She was only a little ways up the hill, which was steeper than it had appeared. Her breath was coming hard and fast into a dry open mouth that was sucking in as much oxygen as possible. Her lungs were on fire; her brain repeated the silent mantra. Don’t let him follow me …
She wished for the fearlessness she’d enjoyed as a gi
rl. In those days she was scared of nothing and no one. Since then, two decades of life had intervened. Philip had intervened, wreaking havoc with the confidence that used to fill her.
Behind her a car door opened. She heard the beep-beep-beep of the ignition when the key is left in, then voices, and static, like radio on a bad frequency. A flashlight beam lit up the grass ahead of her.
“Miss!” a man’s voice shouted. “Stop!”
She paused—she was almost on all fours, she’d been scrambling so hard—and glanced behind her.
It was a cop, late forties or so, with a thick build, a wide lined face, and a flashlight in his hand. He was standing in front of a black-and-white with both doors open. “Are you all right?”
Now she understood the static sound: it was the police radio. She let herself drop onto the grassy bank, cool against her skin, and watched the cop make his laborious way up the incline. When he got closer, she could see that his badge read HELMS. “Are you all right?” he repeated.
She nodded, for a second couldn’t find her voice. Then, “I’m fine.”
He motioned at the hill. “Why’d you come up here?”
“I thought I was being followed.” She relayed the story. Behind Helms, down the hill, his fellow deputy exited the cruiser. He was white, too, roughly the same age, height, and build as his partner but with a gut that sagged over his belt.
Helms offered her a hand and hoisted her to her feet. He motioned toward the road. “Let’s talk down there.”
She followed without protest. Once at the base of the hill she could read Helms’s partner’s badge: PINCUS.
Helms slid a notebook from his back pocket. “Did you see the license plate?”
“No.” How embarrassing she hadn’t even thought to look. But the car had sped off so fast she might not have been able to read it even if she had.
Ms America and the Villainy in Vegas (Beauty Queen Mysteries No. 2) Page 24