Ms America and the Mayhem in Miami (Beauty Queen Mysteries No. 3)

by Dempsey, Diana

  “I heard what happened.” Rachel is wearing her striped bikini with the side ties. She trembles and I don’t think it’s from the water running down her body. “I saw all the cop cars and then those girls over there were talking about it.”

  Mariela et al. I grab a beach towel and throw it over my daughter’s shoulders. We settle on some lounge chairs. “It’s really sad what happened,” I tell Rachel, “but we’re all fine. And I’m sure we’ll all be safe.” Not that I won’t use the chain to double-lock our door tonight.

  “I won’t feel totally safe until your mom figures out who did it,” Trixie says.

  Rachel’s eyes widen. “Are you gonna try, Mom? If you do, Dad’ll kill you.”

  True. If I want to keep Jason happy, I must steer clear of all matters homicidal. And he’s not even fully versed on how close my past sleuthing has brought me to being catapulted through the pearly gates myself.

  “The whole thing’s creepy,” Rachel goes on. “I just want to go home.”

  This surprises me. “What about your interview tomorrow?” It’s with a program that organizes do-gooder projects overseas for American teenagers. It’s Rachel’s not-so-secret alternative to college next year. I’m forcing myself not to fight it but I’d be awfully happy if she dropped the idea. I’d much prefer her on U.S. soil working toward a bachelor’s degree.

  “They said we could do the interview by Skype. I’ve already called them. I called Grandpa, too, and told him he should turn around and go right back to Ohio. But he said we should stay put and he’ll get here as soon as he can.”

  Mariela strides over. She’s decked out in a clearly expensive zebra print bikini with gold pyramid beads on the straps. She and Rachel exchange cool nods. “So Ms. Pennington, do you know what’ll happen now with the pageant? My dad doesn’t.”

  I try not to get hyped by the reference to her father. I can’t help wondering when he’ll appear in the flesh and how I’ll feel when he does. “Colleen Wrightwood texted me that everything is on hold. I imagine we’ll know more in a few hours.”

  “The choreographer quit,” Mariela informs me. “I saw her checking out of the hotel and she told me she’d had enough. But personally I don’t think everything should be cancelled just because a judge got killed.”

  Rachel releases a quiet snort. I am once again taken aback by how hardhearted Mariela appears to be. “Well, it is a very serious matter—”

  “So’s pageant competition,” Mariela declares. “Isn’t that what you told us? Besides, all us contestants had to do a lot of prep for this pageant. Buy a ton of wardrobe and everything. And take two days off school,” she adds, though somehow I doubt she found that last a hardship.

  “Honestly, somebody’s dead,” Rachel mutters.

  “What’s it to you?” Mariela wants to know.

  “That’s enough, girls,” I say. “Mariela, all the contestants will be notified once a decision is made about the pageant.”

  “Just so you know, my father could find another judge to fill in. One who’d be better than Ms. Lopez was. I told him I want him to because I need to compete in this event for my resume.” She spins away.

  “Who needs a pageant for a resume?” Rachel hisses once Mariela is across the pool deck. “Would it be too much for that self-absorbed freak to care about something important? I can’t believe I have to be nice to her just because you’re friends with her father! I have more empathy in my little finger than she does in her whole body.”

  “Rachel, different people care about different things.” Though I, too, am put off by Mariela’s selfishness. How could she criticize Peppi mere hours after the woman was strangled to death?

  Trixie pipes up. “I think it’s high time we got something to eat. And drink,” she whispers to me as we climb the stairs to our room on the third floor. So far not taking the elevator is our one homage to exercise.

  Twenty minutes later we’re in Trixie’s minivan. She drove the seven hundred miles from Charlotte because flights were too expensive on such short notice. “Tonight’s my treat because you’re letting me stay in your room,” she says. “I hope you like the place I picked out. It got really good reviews online.”

  It turns out to be a casual, smallish Latin restaurant with colorful murals and a cheerful vibe.

  “It’s perfect,” I tell Trixie even before the server asks if we’d like a mojito to start. I inquire if there’s anything else she’d recommend and she suggests something called a Pisco Sour. It turns out to be a frothy libation concocted from the Peruvian brandy Pisco, lime juice, and egg white.

  “Yum,” Trixie says, echoing my verdict.

  We dig into an appetizer of Marlin tacos and I share what I gleaned from surfing the web while Rachel dressed for dinner. She’s wearing skinny teal-colored jeans, a polka dot tank, and ballet flats. “The enemy Detective Dez was talking about is a trumpet player who used to work for Peppi’s father but then sued him ten years ago claiming that Don Gustavo didn’t give him enough credit for composing their music.”

  “So he was a disgruntled employee,” Rachel says. “Did he win or lose?”

  “Lose.”

  “He was probably even more disgruntled after that,” Trixie points out.

  “Probably. But for years now he’s played for another band. And I see no sign he had anything more to do with Don Gustavo.”

  I’m wondering if Detective Dez might be falling prey to a danger all investigators face: clinging to a preconceived notion of whodunit whether they have evidence to back up their theory or not. Then another thought occurs to me.

  “That trumpet player never would’ve killed Peppi with the top of her string bikini. That’s a crime of passion if ever I saw one.”

  Trixie licks Pisco Sour foam from her lips. “You mean he would have planned it out and come armed with his own weapon, like a gun or a knife or something.”

  “Exactly. I think Peppi and her killer were arguing about something and it got out of hand and the killer grabbed the first thing available.”

  This line of thought is interrupted by the arrival of our meal. We’re sharing a trio of entrées: Pionono, a casserole made of ground beef and plaintains; sea bass with a jalapeno cilantro marinade; and a fire-roasted-vegetable chile relleno. As I am highly susceptible to doing outside my native Ohio, I ignore the fat and calorie warnings screaming at me from the platters and take portions from all three.

  Suddenly Trixie shrieks. “Happy, you never told me what your mom is up to!”

  “You’re right! We got so distracted by what happened to Peppi.” Actually I’m still distracted but I can’t let it take me over. “For the first time in her life my mom has a job outside the home. Paid and everything.”

  “The one she applied for while we were in Vegas?”

  “For Bennie Hana. Cleveland’s premier used car salesman.”

  Rachel takes up the tale. “He’s famous because he does TV commercials wearing a karate outfit. He stands next to a piece of wood and does a karate chop and screams that he chops prices. I told Grandma what to say in the interview and then she got the job. All on her own she made him pay her more money.”

  The whole thing astounds me, I will admit. My mom has been reporting for duty for only a few weeks but it’s long enough for Bennie Hana to get an idea what he’s in for. My mom would be beside herself if she knew that Jason and I laid odds on how long her employment will last. I gave her two months but Jason gave her only half that.

  Speaking of my husband, I get a text from him just as I’m stuffing chile relleno down my gullet. Rachel told me what went down at the pageant, it reads. Don’t even think it, Happy. I’m serious.

  Here we go. Peppi’s not even cold and Jason’s drawing a line in the sand.

  “That text must be from Dad,” Rachel says, “because you’ve got that expression you always get when he says something you don’t like.”

  “I’m that easy to read?”

  “I knew he wouldn’t want you to investigate
the murder,” Rachel goes on.

  I set down my phone without replying to the text. I understand why Jason feels the way he does. Danger. Danger. And more danger.

  “Was it really scary to see that lady dead?” Rachel wants to know.

  I have to think about it. “It was very upsetting but I wouldn’t say scary.” I don’t mention it but Peppi’s wasn’t my first corpse. “It really bothers me, though, how Trixie and I were enjoying ourselves having a wonderful lunch and all the while Peppi was going through something horrifying.”

  “Fighting for her life,” Trixie says.

  Remembering lunch brings to mind Mariela’s this-pageant-is-rigged allegation. “It could’ve been Peppi who composed a top five list.”

  Trixie’s hazel eyes widen with comprehension. “You could text Lasalo and ask if he made one.”

  That text I do write. Immediately Lasalo replies that he didn’t make a top five list. “You know what that means,” I say.

  Trixie nods. “We know at least one contestant who was really mad at Peppi.”

  “And one contestant’s mother.” An eyewitness to supposed pageant perfidy.

  “That detective with the pancake makeup isn’t even thinking about them,” Trixie points out.

  No. Because he’s too busy homing in on a trumpet player who I’m sure had nothing to do with Peppi’s murder.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Rachel pipes up. “You liked this woman Peppi, right, mom?”

  “I did. We chatted before rehearsal. We talked about her work and my pageant stuff and all sorts of things. She was peppy,” I add, and we all laugh.

  “She seemed kind of like your mom and me,” Trixie says. “Kind of like a beauty queen. A nice one, because unfortunately they’re not all nice, you know.”

  I voice something else I’ve been thinking. “For me this is a little different from the people who died in Hawaii and Vegas. I know it shouldn’t matter because murder is never right, but I wasn’t crazy about them. Personally, I mean. Peppi I feel differently about. So what happened to her seems especially sad to me.”

  Trixie sighs. “It’s made me forget my troubles.”

  An expression of understanding crosses Rachel’s face. “I really see how if you knew the person who died, you’d want to do your best to find out who murdered them.” She gives me a funny look then turns to Trixie. “Ms. Barnett? Do you think my mom really is good at that?”

  “I sure do.”

  I am gratified to hear Trixie unhesitatingly deliver this response.

  “I’ve seen her do it twice now,” Trixie goes on. “She thinks of things nobody else does. You should be really proud of her.”

  My daughter turns her lovely eyes to me. “Then I think you should do it, Mom. Since you’re so good at it. Figure out who killed Peppi. Whether Dad likes it or not.”

  Of course I promptly burst into tears, which causes a restaurant-wide ruckus even though my hysteria had nothing to do with the food. Eventually, after tissues are pushed in my direction and I mop my face, our server brings us three desserts on the house. I approve, because while sugar may not heal all wounds it certainly makes them feel better.

  “Thank you so much for what you said, Trixie”—I grab her hand—“and you, too, Rach. You are the only one in the family who understands why it’s so important to me to try to solve these murders.” I nearly launch into round two of frenzied sobs remembering her words. Then I think you should do it, Mom. Since you’re so good at it …

  “I know Dad thinks it’s dangerous and Grandma thinks it makes you a pervert. Before I came here, I thought it was just kind of embarrassing. Since you’re not a cop or anything you could really make a fool of yourself.”

  It’s not news to me that I’ve humiliated my daughter a time or two. It’s one of the main sins we moms commit.

  “But Grandpa was a cop,” Rachel goes on, preparing to cram cinnamon-dusted churro in her mouth. “Why doesn’t he like it?”

  I glance at Trixie, who’s making solid inroads on the rum-soaked sponge cake. “That’s complicated. It’s partly because he never got to do it himself. And partly because he can be a little old-fashioned and think women should only do girly things.”

  “You’ll understand when you’re older,” Trixie says. “Sometimes parents get an idea in their head what would be best for their kids to do and it’s really hard not to push them in that direction.”

  “Like Grandma pushed you into pageants,” Rachel says.

  My fork digs into the Mexican coconut flan. “Exactly. Though it’s working out pretty well, I have to say.”

  “And like you pushing me into college,” Rachel goes on. “I get it. You’re only doing what you think is right.”

  Trixie winks at me. I could kiss her. Somehow her sweet, accepting presence is making it downright easy to get along with my teenager.

  In the minivan on the way back to the hotel, I use my cell phone to google Peppi’s name. “She gets lots of hits,” I observe.

  “She is a local celebrity,” Trixie says. “Was.”

  “I want to watch her news show at 10 o’clock and see what they say about her,” Rachel says from the back seat. “I bet I know enough Spanish to understand. And it’ll help me practice for my interview tomorrow.” All discussion of bolting has ceased.

  “Good idea,” I say, but I am once again distracted, this time by Peppi’s appearance on a YouTube video from a few years before. I watch it once and then all I want to do is watch it again. With the volume all the way up this time.

  “What is all the screaming on that video?” Trixie wants to know.

  “It’s a catfight at a basketball game between Peppi and an African-American woman named Jasmine Dobbs. Somebody taped it on a cell phone. Oh my God! Did you hear that?”

  “You skank! All you ever do is thrust your vajayjay around! You think I don’t know what you’re after?” That from Jasmine Dobbs, a tall, striking woman with long straightened hair wearing a low-cut U-neck tank and the largest hoop earrings I’ve ever seen in my life.

  But Peppi gave as good as she got. “You are so lucky my ass is sober! Otherwise I would deck you so hard those implants would come flying out of your boobs!”

  “Then they throw their drinks at each other!” Rachel cries. “The people around them try to pull them apart but they can’t because they’re kicking and screaming so much! Wow! I didn’t know this stuff happened in real life!”

  My daughter may be off school but she’s getting some real-world education here in Miami. “This is not how I think of Peppi,” I remark. “She looked different then, and sounded different. Sort of”—I struggle with how to phrase it—“less classy.”

  “What was her problem with this Jasmine Dobbs?” Trixie asks.

  “I wonder.” I google that name. “She gets a fair number of hits, too. She’s married to one of the Heat players. Donyell Dobbs.”

  “I’ve heard of him,” Trixie says. “So she’s a basketball wife. Was she sitting in the front row?”

  “Almost. Peppi was, too.”

  “Maybe Peppi got a good seat because of her job in the news,” Rachel suggests.

  “Maybe.” But the proximity of Peppi and Jasmine’s seats does not explain their enmity. From that snippet of argument I’d say those two really had it in for each other.

  Interesting.

  I eye the passing scenery. We have the minivan windows open since it’s such a pleasant night. The air, with its teasing hint of the sea, is caressing my skin. It’s Friday and fairly early so lots of people are out. They’re dressed for warm weather and why wouldn’t they be? It’s November in Miami.

  A selfish part of me wants to go to South Beach in the morning, see for myself what the hoopla is about. Pageant preliminaries won’t keep me busy, that’s for sure, and I’ll be flying back to Ohio the very next day. But the second I think about Peppi and how unbelievably bereft her family must feel, I know partying is out for this beauty queen. I have more important business to at
tend to, even if my husband’s not on board with it.

  We arrive at our hotel. “I’m going to park next to this flash silver convertible,” Trixie says. “Drivers of expensive cars don’t ding your doors.”

  “It’s a Z8!” Rachel shrieks, sliding the door shut on the minivan. “Boy, would Dad love to see this!”

  No, I don’t think he would, I realize as I stop dead halfway across the parking lot. The Z8 is Jason’s Fantasy Car. He wants it, oh, so bad. Maybe three thousand of them were exported to the United States from Germany and it’s safe to say they are really, really expensive. Jason would not be thrilled to learn who owns this vehicle. At this very moment that individual is standing at the hotel portico staring at me staring at him.

  I guess now I know how I’ll feel when I see Mario Suave again. Giddy. Girly. Breathless. Rather a worrisome trifecta given how I’m married to somebody else.

  Mario waits for us to reach him. He looks his usual tall, dark, handsome, dimpled self, well dressed in black jeans, a pale pink dress shirt, and a perfectly cut herringbone jacket. He hugs Trixie then smiles at my daughter. “You must be Rachel. It’s a real pleasure to meet you.” He shakes her hand and then there he is, right in front of me.

  “Happy.” He takes me in a hug. I get a whiff of that magical cologne he wears, which I’m sort of hoping will cling to me all night. He holds me for a second, long enough to whisper, “She’s as lovely as her mother,” into my hair. Then he lets me go. My arms feel really empty after he does that.

  “I wish we were meeting under happier circumstances,” he says.

  I nod. “We’re all really upset about Peppi.”

  “I want to talk with you about that,” he says, and sends me a meaningful look.

  Mario has a secret life, you see, which I know about but almost no one else does. It’s one of the reasons I feel close to him. Closer than I should.

  “I’m waiting for Mariela to clear out of her room,” he explains as we enter the lobby. Dashing Mario looks incongruous under the fluorescent lights standing between the fake palm tree and the credenza with tourist brochures hawking local attractions like the Arcade Odyssey and the Parrot Jungle. The chubby girl behind the reception desk can’t take her eyes off him. She’s letting the phone ring off the hook. To heck with the customers, is clearly what she’s thinking.