Ms America and the Villainy in Vegas

by Diana Dempsey

  “I just want somebody official to take over.” I know. I am such a wuss. This is not the first time I’ve stared death in the face but clearly I haven’t gotten any better at it.

  Now that I think about it, it’s not just death I’m witnessing for the second time in a month. It’s murder. Because “sure as shootin’,” as Sally Anne would say, Danny did not put this bullet in himself.

  I hear commotion behind us.

  Shanelle spins around. “You’re sprung.” She stands up. “It’s casino security.”

  “They won’t be any more use than I am! All they’re trained for is ejecting people for card-sharking.”

  One of them comes up behind me. “Stand back, ma’am.”

  I know I must oblige and I do. The security guys promptly swarm Danny. Then the lead guy gives me a once-over and I remember that I’m dressed as a showgirl.

  “Are you medically trained?” he asks, clearly expecting no for an answer, and I wish, I truly wish that I could say yes, because he’s giving me that look that I’ve gotten so many times in my life, that look that says, hey, sweetheart, you look mighty fine, but I bet you’ve got the intellectual horsepower of a sea urchin. I hate that look.

  “No, I have no medical training,” I am forced to admit, and Shanelle and I are pushed further afield as the paramedics finally arrive on scene. Even from this more distant vantage point, I can tell the pros quickly conclude what I did: that Danny Richter has gone to his reward.

  Shanelle nudges me and cocks her chin at the Rolls. Sally Anne is leaning against it, shaking her head and sobbing noisily while an unholy mess of mascara runs down her cheeks. Frank is beside her mopping his forehead with a handkerchief and wearing a stunned expression. The wedding planner is flitting around them, clearly trying to be comforting but not having much success. I’m guessing she won’t be keeping photos of this event in her sales portfolio.

  I eye Frank. “I wish Sally Anne knew him better,” I whisper.

  Shanelle throws me a shocked look. “You’re not saying—”

  “I’m not really saying anything. I just don’t know. One thing I do know, though.” I’m sounding like a rattled poet. “That pink smoke being so thick was no accident.”

  She frowns. “I bet you’re right.”

  “I know I’m right. Because what with the smoke, nobody could see a thing and so the murderer was able to commit his, or her, dastardly deed undetected. And do you know what else?” My brain cells are cranking at warp speed because I’m so irked that casino security typecast me as stupid. “Those popping sounds we heard when we were walking up the aisle? They didn’t come from the Rolls backfiring. Those were the gunshots that killed Danny.”

  I am filled with conviction as I assert this. Now that my initial dread has worn off and I’m no longer in close proximity to the deceased, that old excitement is coming back. I don’t know if it’s because I’m a cop’s daughter but I’ve long had a jones for homicide.

  Speaking of cops, I watch as Vegas’s finest arrive, sporting their gold badges that declare Metropolitan Police and feature a depiction of the Strip in all its garish glory. They don’t bother sealing off the chapel and there’s no reason they should. Almost all the guests—including my mom, I’m sure—have made a break for it, at least those who aren’t darn curious what will transpire next from an investigative point-of-view.

  I count myself in their camp.

  Then a new thought occurs to me and I seize Shanelle’s arm. “Come with me.” I pull her past the cops and paramedics into the holding area behind the chapel, right outside the bridal dressing room. It doesn’t take long to find what I’m looking for. “Up there!” I point at a gray metal machine mounted near the ceiling next to a large vent that opens into the chapel. “That’s the fog machine.”

  “That contraption made all that smoke? It’s so small. And it looks like a video camera.”

  “That’s it, though. But how does it work?” I glance around for a ladder and don’t see one. “It’s not exactly easy to get to.”

  “It’s got a remote,” says a male voice behind me.

  I jump. Shanelle jumps. We’re a trifle edgy at the moment. I spin around. “Who are you?”

  He’s actually one of the most unthreatening men I’ve ever seen, sort of like Opie grown up into his twenties but still with the red hair and the gangly limbs.

  “I’m Nick. I work here.” He hangs his head. “Well, I probably don’t work here anymore.”

  Guilt. We Catholic girls know it when we see it. “Were you responsible for the pink smoke?”

  He becomes animated. “I set the level on the machine just fine! How was I supposed to know something was gonna go wrong with it?”

  “Weren’t you watching it?” Shanelle asks.

  “Are you kidding me? I never watch it!” He seems astounded at the question. “I’ve got other things to do. I refill the fluid, set the level and the timer, and go about my business. Usually I don’t have to babysit the thing.”

  Shanelle shakes her head. “You should have today.”

  “It’s never messed up before.” Now he sounds defensive. “I could tell from all the smoke that the level must be jacked up to high but I sure didn’t set it there.”

  “When exactly were you here to set it up?” I ask.

  “I don’t know.” He shrugs. “About half an hour before the ceremony was supposed to start.”

  I shiver. I’m thinking the killer must’ve been keeping a close eye on our movements, Sally Anne’s and Shanelle’s and mine, to make sure we were in front of the chapel before he or she risked coming back here to re-set the fog machine.

  “You didn’t touch the remote again, did you?” I ask Nick. “I mean, afterwards?”

  “Of course I did. I had to turn off the machine, for one thing. And I also had to figure out what went wrong so I could tell my boss.”

  “Shoot,” I say to Shanelle. “I hope he didn’t screw up any fingerprints.”

  “Are you saying”—his eyes widen—“you think somebody messed with it? That the machine didn’t go haywire by itself?” He stops dead. He’s gotten the picture.

  “Don’t touch it again,” I tell him. “Where is the remote now?”

  He points at it, lying on a folding chair behind him.

  “Any killer worth his salt would’ve been careful not to leave prints anyway,” I say to Shanelle.

  “Holy crap,” Nick says. He was pale before but now he, too, looks like he’s ready for a vampire casting call.

  Behind me, getting closer all the time, I hear the distinctive clacking sound of high heels. And it is quite clear that the woman filling this particular pair of stilettos is moving at a rapid clip. She’s got business.

  I soon find out it’s with me.

  “Happy Pennington?” The woman has the thickest New Jersey accent I’ve ever heard. She holds out a badge, the same type I saw earlier, but hers is encased in a black leather holder hanging around her neck by a really cute string of kaleidoscope beads.

  Wow. This must be the homicide investigator. A woman, about my age, who appreciates fun jewelry, no less. She has her brunette hair styled in an adorable chin-length bob and she could fill out my showgirl outfit as well as I do, though she’s wearing a light gray pinstripe suit with slim-cut trousers.

  “Detective Roxanne Perelli, Las Vegas Metropolitan PD. I hear you were one of the bridesmaids today.” My admiration grows when she fails to utter a single derogatory syllable about my showgirl costume. “I’d like to ask you a few questions. And you, too, miss,” she says to Shanelle.

  A perfectly understandable request, and Shanelle and I do our best to be forthcoming. But as it turns out, neither of our interviews yields much by way of elucidation on Danny Richter’s murder. I find myself wanting to provide this very charming detective something she can work with.

  So I point out the fog machine and mention the possibility of fingerprints. Detective Perelli nods and takes notes on an electronic tablet. Then I ha
ve another brainstorm. “The ceremony was supposed to stream live on the Web. At least that’s what the bride told us. Of course, the smoke may have been so thick it obscured everything.”

  “I’m sure that’s what the shooter intended. But I’ll check it out. I got one last question. What do you two ladies know about the groom?”

  I speak up first. “I know he works as a masseur at the spa here at the hotel.”

  “I didn’t even know that,” Shanelle says. “We just met him yesterday. At the rehearsal dinner.”

  The detective nods as if that’s what she expected to hear, then eyes Shanelle and me in a discerning sort of way. “Nice costumes,” she says.

  I get a sinking feeling. She’s going to mock us, like so many people do.

  “I’m dead serious,” she goes on. “Most of my career, I had to wear hot pink. I always thought white was a lot classier.”

  “You used to be a showgirl?” Shanelle asks. This revelation has left me so stunned I’m incapable of speech.

  “For years, first in Atlantic City and then here. Anyhow”—she hands us business cards—“call me if anything else strikes you. Both of you planning to stay in town?”

  “For the time being,” I manage to get out. I am still reeling from the astonishing truth that a woman for whom I could be mistaken in a lineup actually earns her living as a bona fide homicide investigator. As Detective Perelli moves on to her next interview, stylus at the ready, I am filled with a mixture of admiration and, I cannot deny it, envy.

  But this is no time for wrestling with the green monster. After checking on Sally Anne, who takes a break from sobbing in Frank’s arms to wave Shanelle and me on our way, we emerge from the chapel into the wide hotel corridor and get our first clue that Danny Richter’s murder is already Big News.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Reporters and TV camera crews are swooping down on Shanelle and me like vultures on carcasses. I guess that even in Sin City, where outrageous things happen 24/7, a murder during a wedding is still a story.

  I’m a little thrown off by all the media, I’ll tell you. It’s part of my role as the Ms. America titleholder to interact with the press and I take it seriously. I don’t want to be one of those beauty queens who make headlines by sounding like a ninny. So I always prepare in advance and keep in mind the Two Cardinal Rules: Stay on Message and Don’t Say Anything Controversial.

  The latter is why beauty queens so often declare that their greatest heart’s desire is World Peace.

  This time I can’t prepare, though. The reporters are already in our faces, one TV-camera lens so close the cameraman can count my pores.

  “You on the right, aren’t you the beauty queen whose pic is up on the bride’s web site?” shouts a male reporter from the rear of the crowd.

  “I am.” After I won the Ms. America crown, I put an endorsement on the Crowning Glory Pageant Shoppe web site to try to make up for some bad press Sally Anne never deserved.

  “So you’re the one who solved that murder in Hawaii,” the reporter goes on.

  This, I find quite gratifying. I’m nodding assent when a nearby bottle blonde pipes up.

  “So whodunit this time?”

  This reporter appears on the impatient side. I right my ostrich feathers and proceed to deliver a few cautious insights. “The homicide investigators have only begun to sift through the evidence. I expect it will be some time before they pinpoint a suspect.” I notice a cameraman attempting to edge behind us and so I pull Shanelle back with me against the wall to prevent him shooting close-ups of our thong-clad rear ends.

  “Somebody must’ve looked suspicious in there,” the blonde persists. “If you’re such a sleuth, shouldn’t you have noticed something?”

  I’m not sure I like her tone. But I cannot reveal any of the things I did find suspicious for fear I’ll jeopardize the investigation.

  Because, truth is, I want Detective Perelli to think highly of me. In fact, I’m even hoping she’ll let me assist with the investigation, given my proximity to the homicidal event and my killer-nabbing experience.

  “There were a few anomalies.” I’m choosing my words so carefully I’m sounding like a cop. “But I do not feel at liberty to discuss them at this time.”

  “Admit it, you didn’t notice a thing, sweet cheeks,” the first male reporter opines. Chuckles, even a guffaw or two, ensue. “That so-called crime-solving you did in Hawaii was nothing more than a publicity stunt,” he adds then pulls his cameraman away.

  “Maybe she just plays a detective on TV,” somebody else says as the media mob I’d bemoaned seconds before besets a new target, leaving me and my trounced ego bereft.

  Shanelle pulls me away from the chapel. “Forget those losers. It is high time we procure ourselves a cocktail.”

  I am more than ready for an adult libation but that does not keep me from stopping dead in my stilettoed tracks. “Sometimes I do wonder if it was just a fluke.”

  She shakes her head so vigorously she has to grab hold of her plumage to keep it from launching off her head. “That was no fluke. And don’t you let anybody tell you otherwise.”

  It’s proof how well Shanelle and I understand each other that she immediately grasps what I’m referring to. In all modesty, it is true that I had a great deal to do with pinpointing the killer of Ms. California Tiffany Amber, who was murdered on Oahu when all us queens were assembled for the Ms. America pageant. I was honored to take home the crown, which probably would not have happened if Tiffany hadn’t been offed, which is why Honolulu PD had me pegged as Suspect Number One. (That, and I was alone with Tiffany in the isolation booth right before she died.) Anyway, I was highly motivated to clear my name and retain my title by zeroing in on the perpetrator, and sometimes even I have to wonder if my success was nothing more than a lucky break.

  After all, I am a high school dropout who was dumb enough to get pregnant at 17, and all these years later, between raising Rachel and trying to be a good wife to Jason and working full-time as a personal assistant, I’m still taking night classes to earn my B.A. I’m no Einstein. So how is it that my brain cells lined up just right that one time?

  I don’t have a good answer to that question. So even though the number one beauty queen mantra is Keep A Winning Attitude!—I doubt myself. It doesn’t help that I encounter skepticism about my mental prowess wherever I go.

  Shanelle sets her hands on her hips. “That runt of a reporter individual simply cannot believe that a woman who looks as stupendous as you can also possess the IQ of a crime-solver. Do not allow him to shake your confidence. That type we can eat for breakfast and digest by dinner.”

  “So you think I should suggest to Detective Perelli that I help with the investigation?” I cannot keep a hopeful note from creeping into my voice.

  “I wouldn’t go that far.” Shanelle grabs my arm to force me to resume forward motion. We join the thronging horde moving toward the elevators that will transport us to the hotel rooms above. “I am simply making the obvious point,” Shanelle goes on, “that you would be injecting yourself where you are not necessarily wanted. Your reputation has preceded you. So if Perelli wants your help, she’ll ask for it.”

  Sadly, that sounds both sensible and like Shanelle’s last word. Minutes later, she and I repair to our separate hotel rooms on the eighteenth floor to change from showgirl to cocktail attire. I’m sharing my room with my mother, who I find sitting on her bed not only watching TV but engaging in her second favorite activity: clipping coupons. If there were such a sport as Olympic Coupon Clipping, my mother would medal.

  “Thank the heavens above!” she shouts when she sees me. “Just so you know, if I thought for one second you were dead or anything close to it, I would never have walked out of that ridiculous excuse for a chapel.”

  “I know, mom.” I kiss the top of her head. Her red hair’s a little sparse up there, but once a week her stylist poufs it to maximum effect, adding a few much needed inches to her height. “I’m just gla
d you got back up here on your own.” The hotel is so big, she’s gotten lost twice already. I sink next to her on the bed. “I cannot believe this. Another murder.”

  She cocks her chin at the TV. “Looks like it.”

  I see she’s watching local news. A picture of Danny Richter wearing a bow tie and a shiny paisley vest fills the screen. I learn from the graphics that he was employed as a blackjack dealer at this very hotel.

  My mind skips to a possible motive for murder. I wonder if Danny was skimming money or doing something else sketchy at his job and that’s what caught up with him. I glance at my mom. “How much did you see of what happened?”

  “I saw everything I needed to see.” She points her scissors at me to emphasize her next pronouncement. “From the moment I laid eyes on that character Sally Anne was intending to marry, with that best man of his who looked like a thug, I said to myself, that man is a shyster. I would have told Sally Anne so myself if she had asked me.”

  I do not doubt that. I begin to remove the bobby pins tethering my headdress to my hair. “We don’t know that Frank did it, Mom.”

  “You may not know he did it.”

  I force myself to my feet. “Whoever did it, I feel so bad for Sally Anne. She’s waited so long for her big day.”

  “Her age, she should know better.” My mother squints at the coupon insert. Seconds later, her scissors are in motion. “I can give this one to the nuns,” she says, and I smile. I am a fan of all harmless activities that keep my mother happy and occupied.

  Hazel Przybyszewski—pronounced shih-buh-CHEF-ski for those of you not fortunate enough to be of Polish descent—has had three great devotions in her life: me, the Church, and Pop. I fear we have all disappointed her. Me by my teenage pregnancy and shotgun wedding; you can probably guess the Church’s shortcomings if you put your mind to it; but the big kahuna is Pop walking out after 49 years of marriage. And once she gets wind of what he’s up to now …

  I’m going to play like Scarlett O’Hara and refuse to think about it.

  I toss the ostrich feathers on my bed. “Clip one more coupon, Mom, then get ready for cocktails and dinner. Shanelle and I are taking you out.”