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

by Dempsey, Diana

  “Has the pageant been cancelled?” I ask.

  “It’s been postponed. Till next weekend. Colleen called me and I told her I’d let you know.” He leads us toward the breakfast room, away from the prying ears of the receptionist. “The contestants are all local, as you know, and most of them can compete next weekend. And want to.”

  I can name one in particular who wants to.

  He goes on. “Obviously we’ve lost a judge. And the choreographer, too. Lasalo Dufu is still available. I’m wondering if you are, Happy. Before you answer, I’ve already cleared it with Cantwell.”

  So my expenses would continue to be covered by Atlanta. And I’d have more than two days to delve into Peppi’s homicide.

  And more than two days in Mario’s orbit. I feel my heart lift.

  That’s before I consider how Jason will react. That brings me back down to earth.

  I force myself to think practically. “Well, I’d have to talk to my boss and make sure my mom could stay with Rachel because she has to fly back Sunday for school.” Both of those are formalities, really. I’m a personal assistant to an executive at an oil company and he gives me lots of latitude when it comes to pageant matters. And my mom grabs every opportunity to see Rachel.

  “Maybe I could stay, too,” Rachel puts in. “Remember how school let me do that literacy project last year and make everything up when I got back?” She turns to Mario. “I’m a really good student so they let me do stuff like that.”

  He grins. “Maybe some of that will rub off on my daughter!”

  Rachel’s face drops. I hope Mario doesn’t notice. At least she has the good sense not to let fly a snide comment about Mariela.

  “I don’t want to be too bold but I have a suggestion,” Trixie says. “How about if we ask Shanelle to be the third judge?”

  “Oh my God, I love it!” I cry then contain myself. “But do you already have somebody else in mind, Mario?”

  “No. She’d be terrific. We’ll have to clear it with Colleen first.”

  “I have a second suggestion,” Trixie goes on. “I could take over for the choreographer. I’m sort of off work right now and I’ve got a gazillion ideas for how to improve that opening number.”

  Now my heart positively launches. Nothing can undo today’s calamitous events but being in Miami for a week with my beauty queen BFFs—and maybe even my daughter—sounds like a little piece of heaven here on earth. And just maybe I can nab whoever murdered Peppi.

  I feel Mario’s eyes on my face. “I really hope it works out,” he says and I have the funniest feeling that now he’s speaking to me and me alone. “And if so I’m hoping you’ll take me up on something else. I’d love for all of you to stay at my house.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “I have plenty of room,” he adds, and as he talks about the home’s convenient location and how many bedrooms and bathrooms it has and how comfortable we’d all be, I kind of zone out.

  O.M.G. Could there be any question that Happy Pennington would trade this drab hostelry for the private residence of one Mario Suave?

  You bet your tiara she would. The place could be a Class 6 HAZMAT zone and she’d still move in. And it wouldn’t even be improper. She’d be chaperoned by two morally upright friends and maybe even by her daughter.

  “My grandpa’s on his way to Miami right now,” Rachel blurts. “Can he stay at your house, too?”

  I am stricken by guilt as I realize I totally forgot about Pop. I was so dazzled by the prospect of installing myself in Mario’s crib that all thought of my father’s imminent arrival fled my mind. Oops.

  “Of course,” Mario agrees. “That’d be great.”

  As all around me this scenario takes shape, I grasp that I’m being no better a wife than I am a daughter. I know Jason would be less than thrilled with my relocation to the Suave homestead. And who could blame him? If a gorgeous woman invited my husband to stay at her place for a week while I was out of sight out of mind, I would balk big-time.

  Still, I am finding it darn near impossible to nix this scheme. It’s just too thrilling. Because apart from the luxury aspect, there’s the personal aspect. What intimate details would I learn about Mario from this interlude? How much closer would he and I become from this time spent together?

  Of course, that’s not necessarily a good thing. Shanelle has warned me in the past not to encourage him. I must be careful not to encourage myself, either.

  “You think about it,” Mario says as Mariela appears in the lobby rolling her trendy titanium spinner. She’s outfitted to go clubbing in a figure-skimming purple U-neck tank dress and platform pumps. Her hair glistens and her makeup pops. Still, there’s something different about her that I can’t pinpoint until she gets close.

  Then I realize what it is. She’s beaming a huge, sweet, genuine smile. And it’s directed at her dad. She sidles close to him then turns the grin on us, of all people. “Hey, you guys! Ms. Pennington! You look really pretty.”

  I’ve been wearing the same halter dress all day. In fact I was wearing it when Mariela huffed that the pageant was rigged.

  Rachel narrows her eyes. “You going out?”

  “My dad’s taking me to dinner in South Beach. He always does stuff like that when I stay at his house. Dad, can Rachel come with us?”

  I almost topple off my metallic slides.

  Mario is saying that’s fine with him when Rachel interrupts. “That is really, really nice of you to invite me but we just got back from dinner and I’m kind of beat after everything that happened today.”

  Graciously declined. This mother is relieved.

  “Okay! Next time.” Mariela’s grin is blinding. She nuzzles against her father and he drapes an arm around her shoulders.

  “So let me know,” Mario says, directing a dimple flash at me. “We’d love to have you.” Then he leads his daughter across the lobby, Mariela chattering and giggling all the way.

  I always have to take a deep breath after seeing Mario. I’ve just finished when Rachel spins in my direction. “That girl is so fake! It’d be great to stay in her dad’s snazzy house but I almost don’t want to if she’s going to be there!”

  We’re silent as we tromp upstairs. The girl at reception appears to have reluctantly resumed her duties, as she’s on the phone.

  Trixie turns on a few lamps as I dump my lazuli-colored shopper on the queen-size bed that Rachel and I share. Now that it’s bedtime, I realize how thrashed I am from the day’s events. “Well, I like the nighttime Mariela better than the daytime Mariela.”

  “They’re the same person!” Rachel yowls. “She was just nice to us because her dad was there to see it!”

  “Maybe her dad brings out the nice in her,” Trixie suggests but Rachel will have none of it.

  “She’s a snob who only cares about herself,” my daughter pronounces.

  I lack the energy to protest. Partly because I fear Rachel may be right. “All I want to do is wash off my makeup and climb into bed.”

  Trixie throws herself on the other bed. “All I want to do is climb into bed without washing off my makeup. But I don’t want to get pink eye.”

  Rachel flips TV channels to find Peppi’s Spanish-language station. Of which, here in Miami, there is more than one. “Why would you get that?” she wants to know.

  I head for the bathroom. “Because if you leave makeup on overnight, it can flake in your eye and promote infection.”

  “Even corneal ulcers,” Trixie says.

  I call out from the bathroom. “Plus your skin can’t breathe if it’s covered in makeup.”

  “Which leads to clogging of the pores and breakouts,” Trixie says.

  “Not to mention the generation of free radicals and collagen breakdown,” I add.

  “No wonder I don’t wear the stuff,” Rachel says. “Boy, this lady better wash off her makeup tonight.”

  Toothbrush in hand, I amble back into the bedroom to see that Rachel has found Peppi’s station. Where mourning th
eir colleague has not prevented the surviving on-air staff from employing an impressive array of cosmetic enhancements. Or wearing outfits that scream Let’s Go Dancing After the News! Even the male anchor is sporting what looks to me suspiciously like blush. Maybe Detective Dez could get hired at this place if his cop gig doesn’t work out.

  I can’t understand a word the news people are saying but it’s clear they’re discussing Peppi’s murder. Her picture is in a corner of the screen and video is playing of Detective Dez being interviewed, cops deploying crime tape around the theater, and Peppi’s body—I presume—being rolled away on a covered gurney. I am relieved to see no images of a nearly topless Peppi atop the pirate ship.

  When we see video of Peppi reporting from a beauty salon, Rachel pipes up. “Peppi wasn’t just a weathergirl. She did an exposé on nail polish.”

  “Wow! I would’ve liked to see that!” Trixie cries.

  Suddenly there’s a shift away from the anchors—the female half of whom is dabbing her eyes with a tissue—to a young man standing in front of a South Florida weather map. He’s grinning to beat the band until he realizes he’s on camera. Then his smile disappears as fast as a lizard on hot pavement.

  “Alfonso Ramos,” I read. His name is printed on the bottom of the screen.

  “They said he usually does the weather in the mornings,” Rachel reports. “But tonight he’s filling in for Peppi.”

  “Not just tonight,” Trixie points out. “Maybe now every night. By the way, I called Shanelle but she didn’t pick up.”

  “I really hope she can come to Miami to be a judge,” I say, and I do, but now I’m thinking about this Alfonso Ramos.

  Boy, he sure didn’t look sad. There could be a perfectly reasonable explanation, like he’s putting on a brave front while appearing before his adoring public. But maybe he didn’t like Peppi. Maybe he’s thrilled she’s out of the way and now he could get her job. Even though it’s one of the top three careers for beauty queens, I don’t know much about TV news. I would guess it’s more prestigious to be on at night than in the morning but I’m not sure.

  Shanelle calls Trixie back while Ms. Congeniality is dutifully washing her face. I take the call. “Are you joshing me?” Shanelle says. “You got a stiff and a pageant to judge and you can’t guess whether or not I’ll show?”

  “I haven’t even told you we might stay at Mario Suave’s house.”

  “You mean he invited us? Why the heck am I hearing the word might?”

  “I’m worried we might be imposing.” Truthfully there’s another might I’m worried about. Like I might do something that would trespass on my marriage vows.

  “Imposing is not what I’m worried about, girl,” Shanelle says with a warning note in her voice. She knows me so well. “But I’ll be there to keep an eye on you. Book me on the next flight!”

  I’m just off that call when Rachel reports Pop won’t arrive till morning. “He’s too tired to keep going so he’s spending the night at a fleabag motel in Boca del Mar.”

  Sometime between these news flashes and my escape into dreamland, I remember I never responded to Jason’s text. I know why, too, and it doesn’t reflect well on me.

  This wife has a thing or two she doesn’t care to share with her husband.

  I wake at dawn with an empty stomach and a full schedule. I have to pinch myself to believe that it includes settling into Mario’s hacienda. But first things first: I must procure caffeine.

  I manage to outfit myself in a black and white camisole-style tank and berry-colored leggings without waking Trixie or my daughter. Of course, since Rachel is a teenager, she sleeps like a zombie. A rocket could launch from our balcony and she’d remain comatose.

  I make it to the street aiming to find the nearest Starbucks when I see that, early as it is, somebody may be in the theater. There’s a Mercedes parked right outside. It’s splayed across the sidewalk like the driver couldn’t be bothered to proceed the few yards to the actual lot.

  It’s really early. I’m the only human in sight except for one lone man on a bicycle. All the shops and restaurants are shuttered. High overhead a plane traverses the sky, silent as a thought.

  I defer caffeine and leap up the few steps to the theater. Balls of crumpled-up crime tape litter the landing, letting everybody know that something really bad happened here. I push on one dust-streaked glass door after another until one opens, then slip inside and tread noiselessly across the carpeted lobby. It’s disconcerting to think it was just yesterday that Peppi’s killer roamed this foyer.

  I enter the auditorium through a side door. My eyes require a few seconds to adjust to the dimness. I’ve been a little worried what I would find in here ever since I saw that crazily parked Mercedes. I don’t know what I expected to see.

  But it sure as heck wasn’t this.

  CHAPTER SIX

  There’s a woman alone on stage. She’s wearing a simple halter-style black gown. And she’s dancing.

  Given the circumstances, that’s strange enough. What makes it even more bizarre is that she’s dancing … a flamenco.

  A silent flamenco. There is no musical accompaniment of any kind. No guitar; no nothing. The only sound is the frenzied clacking of her heels on the stage floor.

  The woman is an amazing dancer. Her delicate hands are incredibly expressive. Sometimes they lift her gown to reveal her shoes; sometimes they clap; sometimes they twist high in the air.

  I try to look away because I feel as though I’m witnessing something private, something nobody else should see. But I can’t stop watching.

  She has a mass of dark blond hair. It’s swept off her face into a complicated updo. She’s middle-aged, I can tell from way back here, still very slim and striking. I can’t quite put my finger on it but there’s something imperious about her. She’s wearing a full makeup, complete with the kind of heavily lined and mascaraed eyes I saw last night on the Spanish-language news. She’s really exerting herself at the dance and breathing heavily. She gives no sign she’s aware of me.

  I remain hidden in the shadows debating whether to stay or go. This woman’s flamenco has to do with Peppi, I know. There’s something so sad about it. So forlorn.

  I’ve pretty much decided to leave when she winds to a stop. With one hand on her hip and the other above her head, her flouncy black skirt does one final swish. Her chest heaves and her eyes remain fixed on the floor. Eventually the arm that was in the air falls to her side as if she doesn’t have the will to hold it up anymore.

  I step forward clapping my hands. “You’re a fantastic dancer. That was really beautiful.”

  Her head snaps up. “Who is there?” She has a thick accent.

  I walk far enough up the aisle so she can see me. “My name is Happy Pennington.”

  She lifts her chin. “I am Dolores Maricruz Leonor Corazón Famosa de Lopez.”

  All I catch are the last two names. Famosa de Lopez. Could she be—

  “I am the mother of Perpetua Lopez Famosa,” she says.

  There’s no right thing to say to a parent suffering this loss. If I even start to imagine what this poor woman is going through, I feel like my own heart stops beating. “I am so very, very sorry.”

  She nods. “You knew my daughter. She told me about you. The beauty queen.”

  Wow. Peppi mentioned me to her mom.

  “I am Dolores Maricruz Leonor Corazón Famosa de Lopez,” she repeats. “But you may call me Paloma.” She throws up her hand as if she’s about to launch into another flamenco. “I like that name Paloma!”

  Okay, then.

  “Why am I here, you are wondering,” she says. “Go on, you can admit it!”

  “I am wondering, yes.”

  She seems to deflate as she glances around. “I had to see the last thing she saw.”

  She probably thought it would help. I can tell that it doesn’t. “I have a daughter, too. Her name is Rachel. She’s 17.”

  “You go to her and you hug her! You kiss her
and you tell her that you love her!” Paloma’s full lower lip begins to tremble.

  That was already my plan. Nothing will keep me from it.

  “I have a husband at home lying in his bed who barely knows me anymore!” She makes a dramatic sweeping gesture with her arm. “Now this!”

  I mount the stage and take Paloma’s arm. Her body is shaking and I’m afraid she’ll topple over. Then again, despite how petite she is, somehow she seems strong. In both body and soul. I escort her down the stage steps and up the center aisle to the rear of the auditorium. I want to ask her about Peppi but know I shouldn’t. She’s too raw and it’s too soon. So instead I ask if there’s anything I can do for her.

  I don’t expect her to come up with anything but she does. “You may attend the funeral lunch with your daughter. It is tomorrow at my home.”

  “We would be honored.”

  She gives me the address. As she backs her Mercedes off the sidewalk into the street, I wonder what insights Paloma could give me into her daughter’s life. She would have an opinion about Detective Dez’s trumpet player theory. She would know about Peppi’s old boyfriends or if Peppi had been arguing with anybody lately.

  Like, maybe, basketball wife Jasmine Dobbs. With whom, I learned last night in my Internet trolling, Peppi had a fledgling business venture.

  What’s going on there is a mystery to me. But one thing I know for sure. I don’t want to solve Peppi’s murder just for Peppi. Now I want to solve it for Paloma, too.

  Which means I better call Jason. It’s time to get our fight over my investigating over and done with.

  The heavens give me a break when he doesn’t answer his cell. I leave a cheerful voicemail but it includes the ominous phrase: We need to talk. Jason will know that’s code for: I’m investigating the murder whether you like it or not. Fearless prediction: he won’t be a happy camper.