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.
CHAPTER TWO
“No!” Trixie bawls from right behind me. “Peppi is too nice to be dead!”
Be that as it may, dead she is. Happy Pennington is becoming a bona fide expert on peremptory flights to the Great Beyond and she can tell without a doubt that Perpetua Lopez Famosa has just taken one.
“Somebody stop the music!” I yell. “Raise the house lights! Contestants, remain in place! Moms, stay in your seats!” My whole body is shaking but I’m trying hard to stay calm and think fast. “Trixie, call 911 then run to the front of the theater and make sure nobody exits.”
“I’m on it!” she cries and bolts up the aisle.
Who knows? Probably the perpetrator is gone from the building but nevertheless we should try to secure the crime scene as best we can.
I know a thing or two about that. That’s what three murders in three months will do to a girl.
“No!” I shout. “Put away those cell phones!” A dozen teen queens are photographing the scene. Twice that number are howling like banshees and the rest are paralyzed in place.
“I have got to tweet this!” one girl whines.
I don’t think twice before I confiscate not only her cell phone but every mobile device I see.
“Who died and made you king?” another girl demands before her eyes widen in horror as she realizes what she said.
“You’ll get your phones back soon enough. For now I want all of you to stay calm, walk off this stage, and take the seats in the first few rows. Slowly!” I add, as frenzied pushing ensues and one girl almost pitches headfirst down the stairs.
In the audience, a passionate reunion occurs between moms and teen queens. It’s as if they’ve been separated for months and not minutes. Except for Mariela Machado Suave, whose mother is nowhere in evidence. Mariela plants herself in front of me.
“Why can’t we go back to the hotel?” Her tone is snarky. A clamor rises from the pro-Mariela posse.
Callous, anyone? It’s remarkable how unfazed Mariela appears to be by the corpse in our midst. In fact, she’s got enough wits about her to use this opportunity to take my measure.
I raise my voice to respond. “The authorities will want to speak to you girls. And your moms—”
“Whoever did this might still be in here!” one mom shrieks. “We could all be dead if we stay!”
Another hubbub ensues. A gaggle of females breaks loose and makes for the exit.
“Stop!” I holler. “Everybody stay put and listen to me!”
Amazingly, all forward motion ceases. I don’t think of myself as having leadership qualities but I guess I must.
“We have to keep everything exactly as it is until the authorities investigate,” I declare. I don’t add I should know. “Otherwise whoever did this will never be brought to justice. We’ll all be safe if we stick together. Nobody go off by herself. That means you, too, Mariela. Sit down with everybody else.”
After a muffled aside to her compadres and a grudging roll of the eyes, she capitulates. In truth I doubt the cops will want an in-depth interview with everyone here but they might. After all, who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of teen queens?
I’ve barely gotten control of the situation when my cell rings. It’s Trixie.
“The cops are on their way.” She sounds breathless. “They said exactly what you did. Keep everybody inside. And don’t touch anything.” Her voice rises and I can tell she’s fighting hysteria. “I can’t believe this is happening!”
“Keep a grip, Trixie. We’re on the hairy edge here.”
“Oh, Happy, I tried to keep the choreographer inside but she got away from me.”
Suspicious? Maybe. But based on our brief acquaintance I’d judge the choreographer too incompetent to commit murder. “That’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”
“I did something else, too. I told the police operator on the phone that it was Peppi who died. I hope I did the right thing.”
“Of course you did. The cops will know that soon enough.” I just hope no one in the theater spread that information. I don’t want Peppi’s family finding out what happened to her from a Facebook post going viral. “You’re doing great, Trixie.”
“Not really but thank you. Okay.” I hear her suck in a few restorative breaths. “You’re right about keeping it together. We’re beauty queens. We know how to handle crisis situations.”
Though this is in a whole different category than clumpy mascara or pageant-day bloating. I steal a glance at Peppi. “You’ll never go anywhere with me again, Trixie.”
“This isn’t your fault! It’s this pageant! It’s not just disorganized, it’s cursed!”
If anything is cursed, it’s me.
This beauty queen is a murder magnet.
“I hear sirens!” Trixie yelps. “Now I see a black-and-white.” I’m sure she never used this insider language before meeting me. “And a news van!”
“So fast?” I have to wonder if the press got wind of this from eavesdropping on the police radio or a post from a teen queen. Or, come to think of it, a teen queen mom. Some of them crave attention more than their daughters do. “Try to keep the reporters outside, Trixie.” I don’t want them shooting video of poor Peppi, Miami’s Spanish-TV weathergirl, strangled and semi-topless.
I expect cops to swarm the theater in short order but for an amazingly long time not a single one puts in an appearance. When I start getting serious guff from the mob inside the theater, I call Trixie to inquire what the heck is going on.
“They put a bunch of crime tape out in front of the theater but then a policeman who I think is the homicide detective started giving interviews to the reporters.”
“He what?”
“It took a while, too, because he put on pancake makeup and then hairspray and then he complained about the sunlight being in his eyes and making him squint, which as you know reveals fine lines. But finally he was ready. I think they’re done now.”
I am trying hard to think of reasons why a homicide detective would talk to the press before launching his investigation when the man in question appears before me. Even from this distance—I’m on stage and he’s just entered the auditorium—I’m sure I’ve met him before. Not him precisely. But his type.
He’s nearing fifty, I would think. Fit. Possessing a mane of carefully coiffed hair dyed an unnatural shade of blond. A tan so deep an orange alert should be ordered in his honor. The trousers of his light gray suit are so tight I’m getting a high level of detail on his family jewels. When he gets close, I note he has unnaturally blue eyes, which I chalk up to tinted contact lenses. If they were any lighter he’d be mistaken for a Husky.
Based on my life experience, I would guess the man before me has a great deal of ego riding on his appearance. I’d go so far as to say he spends as much time in front of a mirror as I do. But unlike me, he’s pretending he’s not a beauty queen.
He leaps up the stairs to the stage. I can’t tell if the enthusiasm is because of Peppi or me. “And you are?” he says to me.
“Happy Pennington. The reigning Ms. America. I’m a judge in this pageant.”
“Detective Dezmond Monaco.” He flips open a small leather case and reveals a badge from the Miami Police Department. It features an ocean scene and a palm tree. “That’s Dezmond with a Z. You can call me Dez.”
He emphasizes you. Which makes me worry that I have captured his attention more than Peppi has. Which would not be right.
I give him a brief run-through of events. He takes no notes and keeps his gaze trained on my face. That is, when it’s not dropping to my chest. I am getting a vibe that seems pretty darn inappropriate for the situation.
Cops are fanning out around the theater. Detective Monaco—I find myself not wanting to call him Dez—meanders toward Peppi. He spends an inordinate amount of time staring at her. I hope he is gleaning clues and not enjoying a peep show at her expense. Finally he returns to my side and eyes the moms and teen queens assembled in the auditorium. “So you’ve got a beauty pageant going on here?”
“Miss Teen Princess of the Everglades. You should probably talk to the organizer, Colleen Wrightwood. She was here this morning then had to go to work.” I give him her contact information.
“Miss Teen Princess, you say? I wasn’t going to do any interviews but I may reconsider.”
“You weren’t going to interview anybody?”
“It’s not necessary.” He gives me the kind of smile a Nobel prizewinner bestows on a high school dropout. You may recall I don’t like being on the receiving end of that kind of smile. “None of them had anything to do with the murder.”
“You know that already?”
“I knew that before I got here.” This time he gives me a wink.
If this were one of the other homicide detectives with whom I’ve intersected in the recent past, I would think Wow! Impressive! But somehow when it comes to Detective Dezmond with a Z, I’m less convinced.
He must have excellent qualities, I tell myself. It is my long-held view that one must be an exemplary individual to work as a homicide investigator. After all, my father is a terrific person and was an outstanding cop and was never promoted to that level. He’s been retired for years from the police department of Lakewood, Ohio, but that shortcoming disappoints him to this day.
Detective Dez returns his tinted eyeballs to the teen queens. “Yes, come to think of it, I will chat with some of these young ladies.”
I watch him select his “one-on-one” candidates. No mom makes the grade. The girls who do share one characteristic: they’re the prettiest. I am not surprised Mariela is among their number. I am also not surprised she’s texting madly when she gets the nod from Detective Dez. I wish I’d pried her cell out of her hands.
“The rest of you can go!” he booms from the stage, which I note produces surprised looks from his fellow cops. “You’re released.”
Relieved cries rise to the rafters. Butts launch out of chairs so fast you’d think they were spring-loaded.
While the rest of the cops tend to Peppi and the crime scene, Detective Dez conducts his one-on-ones in the rear of the theater. I keep an eye on him. He doesn’t take a single note. He does make most of the girls giggle. Mariela is the lone exception. Eventually he releases the last teen queen and returns to my side. “You lucky girl,” he tells me. “You’ve gotten me alone.”
I am finding it increasingly challenging to maintain a positive impression of this pompadoured investigator. I’m even starting to wonder if he’s the one who summoned the reporters. “Did you mean what you said before? That you already know no one here had anything to do with the murder?”
He sidles still closer. “How about the two of us meet later for cocktails and I’ll lay it all out for you?”
“Won’t you be working the case later?”
“I’ll have it wrapped up by the cocktail hour.” He gives me what he probably considers a seductive gaze. “So we’ll have all the time in the world.”
Since I wasn’t born yesterday, I know what for.
I am assailed by a second surge of pity for Peppi. Not only did the poor woman lose her life this afternoon, the man with the solemn duty of bringing her killer to justice seems more interesting in nailing me than the perpetrator.
CHAPTER THREE
“How about you tell me now,” I suggest, “and we’ll talk about something else later?”
Not that I’m agreeing to a rendezvous with Detective Dez, mind you. In fact I want to avoid that distasteful prospect by prying information out of him here and now.
He gives me a sly arch of the brows then cocks his head at the pirate ship, which, thanks to the coroner, is now minus one Perpetua Lopez Famosa. “Do you know who her father was?”
I profess ignorance, which I don’t have to feign.
“Gustavo Lopez Estrada. Otherwise known as Don Gustavo.”
“Really? The famous musician?” To my mind he’s the Latin Tommy Dorsey: a bandleader, musician, and composer. “Is he still alive?”
“Barely. He’s got Alzheimer’s real bad. So much so he’s bedridden. But what matters here is that he’s got enemies. One in particular.”
“And you’re telling me you think this enemy killed Peppi?” I struggle to follow this line of reasoning. “But what would he gain by that? Peppi’s father might not even understand what happened.”
Detective Dez’s Husky eyes narrow to slits. “There are many things the killer could gain.”
I restrain myself from saying Name one. “What’s the name of this enemy?”
He gives it to me as a trio of uniformed cops approach. I use that opening to slip away. Detective Dez looks after me with regret but apparently does recog
nize he shouldn’t attempt to pick up witnesses while his colleagues are within earshot.
Trixie and I are the last civilians to abandon the theater. Everyone left is a crime-scene professional. I feel very in sync with them.
Perhaps because the specter of death clings to us, Trixie and I are solemn as we enter our hotel, adjacent to the theater. Even though it’s located in the glam metropolis of Miami, it’s the sort of ho-hum establishment you don’t miss after checking out. Smaller-scale pageants like Teen Princess of the Everglades—the kind I grew up competing in—don’t block out rooms at the swanky hotels Trixie and I enjoyed in Hawaii and Vegas.
As we traverse the lobby, in which the aromas of burnt coffee and industrial cleaner linger, Trixie says exactly what I’m thinking. “I don’t like that detective. I don’t trust him to do a good job.”
“So it’s not just me?”
“Have you started your investigation? I hope so,” she adds. “Because if it’s left up to him I’m not sure Peppi’s murder will be solved.” She lowers her voice and glances around in a nervous manner. “And then she’ll never rest.”
I shiver as I look through the dust-streaked glass doors to the pool area, where I half expect Peppi’s string-bikini-clad ghost to be sunbathing in the fading light. “It’s only a matter of time before the pageant’s cancelled, don’t you think? And when that happens I can’t stick around just to figure out who killed her.”
“I don’t think Mr. Cantwell will make us go before Sunday, when we would’ve had to leave anyway. The room’s paid for through then. That gives you two days.”
Apparently Trixie thinks me the Speedy Gonzales of beauty queen sleuths. “You know what?” I point toward the pool. “I think that’s Rachel by the hot tub.”
Trixie’s face lights up. She darts outside. She gets the first hug from my damp daughter but I get the second. It’s enough of a rarity that my heart swells. Trixie giggles. “She looks just like you, Happy.”
“Like Jason, too.” Rachel got the best of both of us, I always think: the almond shape of his eyes and olive tone of his skin but my skinny big-boob body type and the slight wave of my long, dark hair. Hers is short and pixie.
Ms America and the Mayhem in Miami (Beauty Queen Mysteries No. 3) Page 2