Ms America and the Villainy in Vegas

by Diana Dempsey

  There’s no one around so I try to engage him in conversation. “Danny’s funeral must have been really hard to get through. I’m so sorry.”

  He lowers his head. “Yeah.”

  “I saw Sally Anne today.” I hesitate but then plunge ahead. “She told me you don’t want to set another date for the wedding.”

  “It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s that I can’t.” The eyes he raises to mine are bloodshot and sad.

  “Because of the gambling?” I ask softly.

  “Because I’m lying to her about it. About that and a few other things.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I almost blow a gasket hearing that. “What other things?”

  He looks away. “I can’t believe I’m telling you this.”

  “Sometimes it’s good to let it all out.”

  “I can’t keep it bottled up anymore.” He wanders away from the reception desk and collapses onto a bench.

  I join him. “If you tell me what’s going on, maybe I can help you.” That won’t be true if he confesses that he’s Danny’s killer.

  “Even the day of the wedding”—he pauses to collect himself—“even that day, I lied to Sally Anne twice about where I was and what I was doing.”

  Uh oh. But at least he seems to have a conscience about it. “What did you tell her that wasn’t true?”

  “That I was gonna be home all night thinking about Danny. When what I actually did was go see my bookie.”

  That must have been the smarmy guy we saw him with here in the hotel.

  He goes on. “And that detective is right that I wasn’t at my apartment up until the wedding, either.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Where do you think? Placing a bet.”

  If Frank’s problem is gambling and not murder, there might be hope for him and Sally Anne. “Don’t you think you’d be better off if you were upfront with Detective Perelli? You’re making her think you were doing something worse than gambling.”

  He throws out his hands. “How was I supposed to ‘fess up to this with Sally Anne in the next room? She woulda heard every word!”

  “You know, Frank …” I try to think how best to frame this. “Sally Anne loves you. There’s no doubt in my mind that she’d forgive you if she knew you had a gambling relapse. She’s a lot less likely to forgive you lying to her.”

  “But that’s exactly what I did! Even on the day we were supposed to make our vows. No.” He shakes his head. “I thought I could kick this habit before my wedding day came around. But I didn’t. And a woman like Sally Anne, a self-made independent woman, she don’t need my kind of trouble.”

  “Do you still want to marry her?”

  His jaw gapes in astonishment that I could even pose the question. “Are you kidding me? In a heartbeat! But I’m not gonna saddle her with this—whadda they call it?—addiction of mine.”

  It’s really hard not to believe Frank when you’re sitting there next to him. I force myself to remember that’s true of all good con men: they convince you of their integrity all the while they’re making off with everything you hold dear.

  “You know,” I say, “you’re really hurting Sally Anne by breaking off your engagement without giving her a good reason. Why not be honest with her and let her decide whether she still wants to marry you?”

  “Because she might want to outa the goodness of her heart. But I can’t let her make that mistake. And I know she’s hurt. Believe me”—he pounds his fist on his chest—“I am not happy about that. But a clean break is the best thing. She’s strong. She’ll get over it.”

  I’m not going to convince him, I realize. “At least be honest with Detective Perelli. You’re not doing yourself any favors by withholding information from the police.”

  He says nothing. Then, “I don’t know what to do anymore.”

  I lower my voice. “You said there were a few things you were lying to Sally Anne about. What else doesn’t she know?”

  He looks away from me toward the reception desk, where a young couple has shown up wearing matching tracksuits. “That’s it. That’s everything,” he tells me, and hoists himself to his feet.

  I watch him walk away. Something about the way he said that wasn’t entirely convincing.

  An hour later, my mom is nowhere to be found. Her cell phone goes instantly to voicemail because no doubt she has it turned off. I use this opportunity to call my father, who does answer his mobile.

  “My beauty! How is everything in Las Vegas?”

  I bring him up to speed on the Sparklettes rehearsals but steer clear of the Danny Richter murder. My father has always been very supportive of me but he is not a fan of my “so-called investigating.” Not only does he think it’s dangerous—and of course he’s right about that—he is definitely in the Happy Lucked Out On Oahu camp. He’d much rather that I stick to what I’ve proved I’m good at: girly activities like beauty pageants.

  We chat for a while before I home in on the reason for my call. “Pop, I know you and Jason talked about your new lady friend staying at the house.”

  “I know how you feel about that. And since it’s your house I’m going to respect your wishes.”

  That’s what he told Jason, too. “I appreciate that. And I’m really glad you’re willing to stay with Rachel while Jason and I are both out of town. Would you do something else for me, too?”

  “What’s that?” He sounds a trifle wary.

  “Would you be a little more low-key about this relationship? At least for the next few months?”

  Silence. Then, “Why’s that?”

  “Well, the timing.” I wait for him to get the gist without my spelling it out but that does not happen. “You know, we’re coming up on what would’ve been your fiftieth anniversary with Mom.”

  “What would’ve been.”

  “I know. But still.”

  He sighs. “I’ll think about it.”

  “It’s just that it’s hard for Mom. You know that. And the divorce has only been final for a few months.”

  “Almost six months now.” I don’t say anything and my father sighs again. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Thanks, Pop.”

  After the call ends, I am more than ready to refresh myself with a shower. I wash my hair and change into my black floral print trapeze dress. Then my cell rings. The caller is Mario Suave. I try to sound casual. “Hey, Mario.”

  “Hey, I’m glad you picked up. Listen, you want to come with me to check out the hottest spot in Vegas for ghost sightings?”

  “You’re still here?”

  “For a little while longer. Anyway, you want to come?”

  “Sure,” I hear myself declare, and that’s no lie. When I meet up with him in the lobby, I’m surprised to find him alone, looking dashing in espresso-colored twill pants paired with a navy gingham dress shirt over a long-sleeved Henley. “Is the crew already set up at the location?” I ask.

  “No crew.” He gives me the Mario Special, smile plus wink plus flash of dimple. “Just you and me.”

  My heart seems to find that prospect enticing because it flutters a time or two.

  “You look especially fabulous this afternoon,” Mario tells me. “Your skin is really glowing.”

  “It’s the cryotherapy.” I shout out a prolonged explanation of the treatment as he leads me along the Strip. I’m glad I have something neutral to talk about. It saves me from analyzing what I’m doing alone with him without the benefit of a good excuse.

  “Well, whatever you’re doing, keep it up and you’ll win Ms. World.” He gives me a sideways glance. “At the very least you’ll take the swimsuit competition. I caught you on that cable show that’s shot at the pool on the Strip.”

  “You didn’t!” I knew somebody I knew would see that! It never occurred to me it would be Mario.

  “Someday you and I’ll have to go dancing. Though I don’t know if I can keep up with you.”

  I’m thinking how that sure sounds like an
invitation when we arrive at another of the major hotels. “Let’s go to the casino first,” Mario suggests. A minute later he halts me in the middle of all the noise and action. “Picture this. November 21st, 1980.” He’s using his host voice now, which I find as mesmerizing as the dark brown eyes gazing into mine. “Hundreds of people are in this very room while mere yards away a dangerous fire burns.”

  “Right here? In this very hotel?”

  “It was the MGM Grand then. An electrical fire had broken out in one of the restaurants. Then it spread to the lobby. And then to the casino.”

  He pauses long enough for me to imagine the flames, the fear.

  “The fire tore across the floor of the casino,” he goes on. “A gargantuan fireball exploded out the main entrance to the Strip. Some say the blaze burned so fast that some victims died still clutching their drinks, or the levers on the slot machines.”

  “How horrible,” I breathe.

  “As terrible as that was, most of the deaths did not occur here.” Mario grabs my hand. “Follow me.”

  I let him hold my hand all the way until we reach our destination, which I am surprised to find is the stairwell in one of the hotel towers. The door clangs shut behind us. All the noise and fury of the lobby and casino are lost in the silence that envelops just us two.

  Mario leaps up one flight of stairs to the landing. I watch him from below. “Smoke and toxic fumes billowed up the elevator shafts and stairwells,” he booms, as if he were narrating his show. “Like this one. Claiming dozens of lives.”

  I find my own voice. “How many people died?”

  “85 souls were lost that day. Another 650 were injured. Many more would have perished if helicopters hadn’t rescued them from the roof.”

  I sink onto the metal stair. It’s icy cold through the fabric of my dress. Mario jogs down the stairs to sit next to me.

  “The fire went down as the worst disaster in Nevada history.” His voice is quieter now but still it seems to bounce off the stairwell walls. “Almost all the victims died from inhaling the smoke and poisonous gases. It’s how people in this country came to understand that in a fire, smoke is often a greater danger than the flames themselves.”

  He’s very close to me on the stair. I feel the heat of his body and his leg is brushing against mine. My nostrils pick up just the tiniest hint of his cologne.

  “And you say there are ghosts?” My voice comes out in a croak.

  “I don’t say it. The people who have seen the apparitions, or heard them, say it.” He looks behind us up the stairs as if even now he expects a spectral shape to appear. “People report hearing panicked cries. Screams for help. And occasionally someone sees an actual phantom.”

  My skin is tingling but I can’t tell if it’s because of the ghost story or the man telling it.

  “You can imagine,” Mario goes on, his eyes now on my face, “that the victims weren’t ready to die. Their business on earth wasn’t finished.”

  I murmur a cliche. “No one can know when their time will come.”

  Again Mario takes my hand. I know I should pull it away but I don’t. We stare at one another. I get the funniest feeling he’s about to confess something to me, something I won’t soon forget. The air around us is cool and it is so, so quiet. All I can hear is my own heart thudding in my chest. I can’t believe that the hustling, bustling Strip is mere yards away. I can’t believe that I am alone with Mario Suave and that he is holding my hand and …

  “You never know what will happen in life,” he says. “For example, I didn’t expect to meet you. That came as a surprise.”

  He stops. My breathing stops. I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole world stops. I don’t know how to respond because I don’t know what Mario is really saying. I feel as if there are hidden layers of meaning behind his words but I don’t know what they are. After a few seconds he stands up and pulls me up with him.

  I’m sure of one thing. If I weren’t married to Jason, I know what Mario would do right now. He’d take me in his arms and he’d kiss me. And I’d let him. Oh, I’d let him.

  But instead I move toward the door of the stairwell and he pushes it open and we’re back in the real world, where I’m Happy Pennington, Ms. America titleholder, mother of Rachel, wife of Jason, daughter of Hazel and Lou, and woman who can’t help but wonder what her life might have been like if she’d done just a few things differently.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I am in serious need of girl talk after the stairwell rendezvous with Mario.

  “What are you going to do?” Trixie breathes.

  “She doesn’t need to do anything,” Shanelle points out.

  “I know what she should do,” my mother declares.

  She doesn’t have to spell it out for me to understand. My mother will never forgive Jason for impregnating me at age 17, though I was hardly an innocent bystander.

  It is early evening and we are all four of us piled in a taxi en route to Samantha St. James’s house. My mom is riding shotgun, armed with one of her discount cab coupons. It turns out she emerged from her seclusion in the early afternoon when the Liberace Museum dispatched a shuttle to collect her and only her from the Strip. No septuagenarian female could resist such temptation, apparently. She is notably perkier than she was in the morning hours.

  “I’ve made a few decisions,” she informed me earlier as we waited in our room for Trixie and Shanelle to come by. She would not elaborate. I find that disconcerting.

  But nothing is frazzling me more than my interlude with Mario.

  “I had something like that happen to me a few years back,” Shanelle says. “But in that case it was crystal clear what was going on.” She gives a pensive look out the window as she casts her mind back. “My Mario Suave was a Tampa Bay Buccaneer.”

  “I didn’t know they still had pirates in Florida,” Trixie says. “I’m really glad Rhett and I only took the kids to Orlando and not somewhere on the coast.”

  “He was a tight end,” Shanelle continues. “A fine-looking black man.” She pauses as if to reminisce over his many enticing attributes. “He came after me like a defensive lineman goes after a sack. I was flattered, I will tell you.”

  “What happened?” my mother wants to know. I do, too, and when the cab driver turns down the radio I suspect it’s because he’s curious as well.

  “I wouldn’t cheat on Lamar and I told him so in so many words. Took him a long while to take no for an answer, though.” I can tell from the way she says it that she was flattered by his persistence. “But one thing really got my goat. Basically he was disrespecting Lamar. To him it was like Lamar just didn’t count. You can be sure I gave Mr. Tight End a piece of my mind about that.”

  I’m thinking how all Mario actually did was hold my hand. But was he propositioning me? Why else did he want to get me alone? Why did he make those portentous remarks about how unexpected it was to meet me?

  I know he’s not married and never has been. Like me, he has a teenage daughter, who lives with her mother in Miami.

  I don’t understand what happened today with him. All I understand is that the episode threw this queen for a loop.

  We arrive at Samantha’s house. Spotlit for the evening, it might be even more impressive than it is in daytime.

  My mother gives it a once-over from the sidewalk. “You go with that Mario,” she tells me, “you could live in a place like this.”

  “Mom, he didn’t propose marriage. Besides, he lives in L.A. How would you like me living all the way across the country in California?”

  We start up the walkway to the portico. “You live in a house like this, you can have a whole wing set aside for your mother. What’s keeping me in Cleveland, anyway?”

  I am astonished to hear this. “You’d sell the house you lived in all those years with Pop?”

  “He went his own merry way, didn’t he?” She harrumphs. “So maybe I should, too.” She pokes me in the arm. “Maybe all three of us should.”


  With these unsettling notions bouncing around my brain, Samantha greets us at the front door with Pucci in her arms. She’s dressed for the occasion in a neon pink floor-length caftan with sequin detailing around the V neckline. Pucci is sporting a matching collar “with real Swarovski crystals,” Samantha informs us when Trixie waxes ecstatic over the canine bling.

  I introduce my mother once she’s done rolling her eyes. Samantha ushers us into her expansive living room. I note that the Danny crystal bowl “memento” now holds pride of place on the grand piano. “I was thinking maybe we should just have a nice chat and a glass of chardonnay and not bother with the Tarot reading,” Samantha says.

  “But I spent all day preparing!” Trixie cries. She begins to extract items from her lemon-yellow patent-leather shopper and lay them on the coffee table. “Incense to extra purify the space”—she nods at our hostess so as not to insult her with the implication that her home isn’t already devoid of evil energy—“a white silk cloth on which to arrange the cards, the deck of course, and a compass.”

  “Are we going on a desert hike or something?” my mother wants to know. “Because I didn’t wear the right shoes for that.”

  “It’s because I need Mrs. St. James to face north during the reading,” Trixie says. “I’ll face south so as to best access the all-pervading knowledge of the universe.”

  Samantha’s hands flutter. “That’s what I mean. That’s why we should call the whole thing off.”

  “This is about finding the clarity you seek, Samantha,” I say. “I’m sure you’ll feel much more serene once that’s achieved.” And I’m hoping I’ll uncover a useful clue or two about whether this pink-and-white widow is Danny’s unlikely killer.

  “But what if I hear something I don’t want to hear?” she asks.

  I am intrigued. “Whatever might that be?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” She stands up. “I’ll go get the chardonnay.”

  “I’ll set up at the dining room table,” Trixie calls. She hands Shanelle the compass. “You find north.”