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

by Dempsey, Diana

  “There’s too much snow in Ohio! I could have a heart attack shoveling that snow. Which is why it doesn’t make sense to move to Minnesota.”

  “Who’s even talking about Minnesota?”

  “That’s where Maggie’s people are from.”

  “I don’t care where her people are from! If they were from Timbuktu, would you want to move there?” I realize even as I say these things that I’m not being fully rational. My father is free to move wherever he pleases. He’s free to live with his girlfriend—who no doubt is slowly killing her clients by polishing their nails with toxic-trio varnishes—if he so chooses.

  I’m just shocked that he so chooses.

  Shocked … and sad.

  Which is why I run out of breath and just want to cry. For Rachel, for me, and for Mom, too. Mostly for Mom. Because this will just kill her. I pad toward the coffeepot and pour myself more java.

  “My beauty”—my father comes up behind me—“I haven’t agreed to any of this yet. I’m just thinking about it.”

  “You’re doing more than thinking. You’re actually looking at condos. You’re talking to real-estate agents. And don’t try to tell me you don’t feel guilty about it because I know you do. You were trying to hide it from me.”

  “Because I knew you’d react like this.”

  I spin around to face him. “Why now? Why do you have to do this now? You’re only a few months away from your golden anniversary!”

  His face softens. And honestly, I think I see a tear in his eye. “There isn’t going to be a golden anniversary, my beauty. Your mom and I are divorced.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  This isn’t a news flash. I know this. But still it hurts to hear it said out loud.

  I can’t stop the tears then. I start sobbing and Pop grabs me in a hug and I suspect he’s crying a little, too, and then I hear somebody come into the kitchen and so I look past Pop’s shoulder and it’s the person I least want to see at this moment.

  Mariela. Looking disgusted per usual. She heaves a gigantic sigh as if this show of emotion by someone other than herself is just too much to bear. Mercifully she abandons us to our weepy selves.

  I get a grip on myself. “Are you planning to buy a condo while you’re here?”

  He looks away. “Maybe.”

  “Please think it through before you do it.” This is the sort of advice he gave me decades ago so he shouldn’t object to being on the receiving end of it himself.

  He agrees. I force myself to join Trixie in the workout room but this morning even the surge of endorphins can’t improve my mood. After I shower and do my hair and makeup, I do rally. I put on my red and white tweed shorts and flowy black check top. With black heels, it is one sassy outfit.

  My cell rings and my heart rate picks up. Perchance this is Mario calling to chat about his darling Mariela. Alas, no. It’s Lasalo Dufu.

  “Monday is Donut Day here at Dufu Dodge,” he tells me. “Plus I was thinking I could set you up with a nice set of wheels.”

  “Oh, that’s very thoughtful of you, Lasalo, but I’m not really in the market—”

  “Not to buy! To drive while you’re in Miami. You’re here all week, right? So come on by and I’ll get you set up with a loaner. No charge. Plus I can give you that folder I should’ve given you at rehearsal yesterday. I just forgot.”

  That’s right. The folder from the judge I replaced. “That is so sweet of you to loan me a car, Lasalo. Are you sure it’s okay?”

  “You can depend on Dufu,” he replies. “Aloha.”

  An hour later—after I find out that Mariela drives herself to school, and Trixie gives Rachel and me a lift—I’m standing next to a red Durango insisting that Rachel finish her chocolate donut outside the vehicle. “No eating inside the Durango. I want it crumb-free when we return it to Mr. Dufu.”

  “No worries,” Lasalo says. I note his floral campshirt is the size of a pup tent.

  “Thanks for the donut, Mr. Dufu,” Rachel says. “It’s exceptionally good.”

  “Three things I know, young lady.” He ticks them off on his fingers. “Football, cars, and donuts. So back home, are you in some kind of pageant?”

  “No way. Pageants are stupid. No offense or anything.”

  “None taken. I never competed in any, either.” They exchange a smile.

  “You know, Lasalo, while I have you here,” I say, “did you notice any friction last week between Peppi and anybody else?”

  “Not a thing. Looked to me like she got along with everybody. Guess you never know what’s going on in somebody’s life.” He points at the Durango and turns to go. “Alice’s folder is in the front seat. You should try her restaurant while you’re in town. Good eats.”

  We thank him again for the wheels. I am truly grateful. I hate asking Trixie to drive me around almost as much as I hate spending money on cabs.

  “Sweet!” Rachel says as she assumes the shotgun position. “You don’t think Mr. Dufu killed Ms. Lopez, right?”

  “No. He only knew her for one day.”

  “It’d be hard to get mad enough at somebody in one day to want to kill them.” She opens the folder. “Alice Dilling,” she reads. “She’s the lady who was supposed to judge but who dropped out at the last minute?”

  I carefully roll out into traffic. “She pulled out right after the orientation lunch. Crisis at her restaurant, I guess.”

  “You should ask her if she saw Ms. Lopez have a fight with anybody. Other than Mariela’s mom, that is.”

  “Good idea.”

  En route to Don Gustavo’s residence for Rachel’s appointment with Paloma, Sebastian Cantwell returns my call. Since I’m driving, Rachel answers and puts him on speakerphone. “Day three, Ohio,” he booms, “and no reporters have called to tell me you’ve solved that murder! What’s the holdup?”

  Rachel arches her eyebrows. She doesn’t know my pageant owner like I do.

  “I’m making progress, sir,” I say.

  “You’d better be. I have a reputation to maintain.”

  Actually I do, but I refrain from pointing that out.

  “So you need a few pointers on powerboats, eh?” he goes on. “Listen and learn.”

  I mouth to Rachel to take notes. She can’t write as fast as Cantwell can speak but it appears she gets down most of it.

  “However you handle that murderous perp, Ohio, don’t let him throw you to the ‘gators,” he says by way of goodbye. “I’d hate to give the tiara to Wyoming. She just may be the dimmest bulb this side of the pond.”

  “Wow,” Rachel says after we disconnect. “He’s stern. He sure knows a lot about powerboats, though. You know what, Mom? Maybe you should take somebody with you to that meeting with Mr. Hector.”

  “The broker will be with me.” I’m waved right into Paloma’s gated community. It gives me a pleasant feeling of belonging.

  “I mean somebody who knows you. Like Ms. Walker or Ms. Barnett.”

  I like this feeling, too. My daughter is worried about me. I reach across the console and pat her leg. “I’ll be fine, Rach. I won’t get thrown to the ‘gators.”

  She tears the powerboat notes from her notebook and gives me a hug before she exits the Durango. I am actually starting to believe that I might be able to transport this Miami closeness back to Cleveland. “By the way I didn’t forget about the sewing,” she tells me. “I told Ms. Barnett I’d help her with it tonight. I want to stay with Doña Paloma all day if she lets me.”

  I watch her go. I am so darn proud of her. I don’t care if she thinks pageants are stupid. So long as she doesn’t think her mother is.

  I have just arrived at my next location—a strip mall with one storefront in which I am keenly interested—when again my cell rings. This time it is Mario. With a wee flutter of the heart, I park and answer.

  We start out pretty stilted but eventually it gets more natural. “I hope it’s okay that Mariela stay at the house while I’m not there,” he says.

  “
It’s fine.” That’s mostly true. “I more wanted to know whether you were okay with it. Or whether you’d prefer she stay with Consuela since you’re out of town.”

  “Mariela’s a responsible girl,” he says.

  I close my eyes. I so don’t agree with that assessment.

  “I’ll be checking in with her all the time,” he goes on. “Just keep half an eye on her. As a favor to me.”

  “Of course. I really do appreciate you letting all of us stay at your house, Mario.”

  “The more I think about it, the more I think it’s better this way. For Consuela, I mean. She needs a little space right now. You know how that goes.”

  I look at the sign in front of me—Luscious Lady Pole Dancing—and try to think of something nice to say about Consuela. It takes me so long Mario fills the silence.

  “Anyway, have a good week. I’ll talk to you later,” and he hangs up.

  I’m a tad dejected as I slide my cell back into my shopper. I can say one good thing about that conversation with Mario: at least we got through it without fighting.

  We might not have if he’d known what I’m about to do ...

  My senses are assaulted as I pull open the door to Consuela’s establishment, which boasts the hardwood floor you’d expect in a dance studio but walls painted an unorthodox bright pink. The techno beat of Marilyn Manson’s “Tainted Love” blasts from unseen speakers. Half a dozen women wearing bikinis and 5-inch stilettos are doing amazing acrobatic maneuvers on poles. One is upside down performing a split. Another is using her arms to jut out perpendicular to the pole. A third is doing a spin around the pole as if she were taking a walk in the park, holding on with only one arm.

  It’s like Cirque de Soleil, except being performed by normal women. Well, normal except for their unbelievable strength, agility, and skill.

  It doesn’t take long for Consuela to spot me. She’s sporting a strawberry pink bikini that reveals a set of six-pack abs you wouldn’t believe. Cellulite is clearly too terrified of her to have staked a claim on even an inch of her thighs. As she strides toward me, I don’t think I imagine the malevolent glint that suddenly lights her dark eyes.

  “Hola! We have a new student!” she cries, and a couple of women dismount their poles and applaud.

  “No, no,” I say but Consuela races forward and grabs my arm, pulling me forward.

  “Yes! Don’t we want her to try a few moves?” she calls to her students. “She just needs some encouragement because she’s so shy!”

  One woman grabs my shopper, another the hand Consuela isn’t clutching. I am pulled to a pole.

  “Good for you for wearing shorts and heels!” Consuela says. “You need that skin on pole contact. Plus you want to look sexy, am I right?”

  The other women whoop and holler. I’m ready to throttle Consuela but that’s nothing new. “I’m not here for a—”

  “Try it, you’ll love it!” one woman calls.

  “Teach her the windmill trick!” another exhorts Consuela.

  “Or the flamingo move!” a third says.

  “No!” Consuela chortles. “Those are too easy for her! Look how fit she is! She’s raring to go, I can tell. No, we’re going to start her with the inverted straddle.”

  A few women gasp. Both those words make an impression on me, too. Inverted and straddle. It’s not clear how they go together. But one thing is unmistakable.

  Consuela wants to humiliate me.

  Fine.

  Let her try.

  “This is how it’s done,” Consuela says. “There’s no kicking involved. All the movement comes from the core,” and she grabs the pole, lifts her legs above her head in a wide V so they straddle the pole, and hangs on, sliding an inch or two as gravity pulls her body toward the floor. Then, smooth as silk, she returns herself to a standing position. “Think you can do that?” she inquires, an innocent expression on her face.

  “Yes,” I lie.

  I take a deep breath. Like any beauty queen who’s had to parade on stage in a swimsuit competition, I’ve spent hours working on my abs. I’ve taken dozens of Pilates classes. My core may not be made of steel but it’s not made of pastry dough, either.

  I grab the pole, say a silent prayer to the heavens, and manage to get my legs up over my head.

  Oh. My. God.

  My muscles are screaming. But I am inverted and I am straddling the pole. Heaven help me.

  “Should I spot her?” I hear one of the women say. I believe I detect a note of concern in her voice.

  “No, that’s not necessary,” Consuela replies blithely. “Not bad but I did see you kick,” she tells me.

  I’ll be happy to show her one good swift kick after I dismount. Somehow—not very gracefully—I do manage to return my legs to the position God and nature intended.

  I receive applause from everyone except Consuela, who keeps her hands on her hips and her eyes on my face. “You keep practicing and maybe someday you’ll be able to do this,” she tells me and performs a trick that is truly dazzling.

  She kicks off her stilettos and gets herself on the pole with her head pointing toward the floor and her naked feet toward the ceiling. Then she proceeds to lower her body until it is parallel to the floor by moonwalking through the air Michael Jackson style, step by smooth step. I am not a Consuela fan but that maneuver is awesome. I applaud with genuine admiration.

  She gives me a superior smile as she takes a bow. “Let’s call it a day, ladies,” she says. “See you Wednesday.”

  “Will you come, too?” a blonde in a blue bikini asks me. “You should. You did really good.”

  “I might,” I lie. “Is Consuela a good teacher?”

  “The best. And I really like how no guys can come to class. It’s like girls’ night out without the martinis.”

  Personally I prefer girls’ night out with the martinis.

  I’m starting to look around the emptying studio as Consuela sashays toward me. “I hope you weren’t too hung over from Diego’s to have a good day yesterday.”

  “I had a lovely day. Except for one sad thing. Rachel and I went to the funeral lunch for Peppi Lopez.”

  Her eyes widen in obvious shock. “How did you get invited to that? Her half-brother didn’t even make the guest list!”

  That gossipy tidbit certainly traveled fast. “Her mother asked Rachel and me to come. I happened to run into her at the pageant venue Saturday and we got to talking.”

  Consuela harrumphs. “So fast you make friends. Like with Mario.”

  There’s an accusation in there somewhere but I can’t put my finger on it. “I wanted to ask you about Mariela.” That’s my excuse for showing up. What I really want is to see if I can find Consuela’s class schedule. It wasn’t available on her bare-bones web site. “Is there anything I should know about her after-school activities this week?”

  “You don’t need to know a thing about Mariela.”

  “No practices or—”

  “I told you! You don’t have to worry about my daughter. Or keep Mario up to speed on her, either.” She smiles and waves at the last student to leave. “See you Wednesday, Sasha!” The grin fades as she pivots back to me. “Not that your type wouldn’t grab any opportunity to call Mario up.”

  “You know I’m here in Miami because Mario asked me to judge the pageant.”

  “That’s just an excuse. You’re here because you want to get closer to Mario!”

  Now that was a direct accusation. “I’m married, remember?”

  “I remember better than you do!” she sneers. “If you’re so married, why aren’t you wearing your wedding ring?”

  I have a good reason but don’t care to share it with Consuela. “There’s something I don’t understand. You don’t like me and you didn’t like Peppi, either. Why is that?”

  She narrows her eyes at me. “I had nothing against Peppi.”

  “Really? What about her top five list with Mariela’s name crossed off?”

  She swipes at the
air. “That meant nothing.”

  “I don’t think so. Mariela says you went ballistic when you saw it.”

  “My daughter has many talents and one of them is a vivid imagination. Besides, anybody can see that Mariela is the most beautiful girl in that pageant. Peppi would have seen that, too, in time. She would have voted for Mariela to win.”

  That’s her story and I bet she’ll stick to it.

  “And I’ll tell you something else,” Consuela goes on. “If anybody has trouble getting along with people, it’s that Peppi. She had a fight with that other judge at the orientation lunch.”

  “Lasalo Dufu?”

  “No, the one who quit.”

  “Alice Dilling? What about?”

  “How do I know? Unlike some people I don’t eavesdrop. But I saw them going at it outside the ladies’ room.”

  I bet. Peppi and Alice Dilling hardly knew each other. Consuela is just trying to deflect suspicion away from herself.

  Sasha comes back into the studio. “Consuela, can I borrow your cell? Mine ran out of juice and I need to see if my daughter’s done at the orthodontist.”

  Consuela obliges. I stride over to the sitting area by the restroom and what do I find but a stack of class schedules.

  This November, except for Thanksgiving week, the Luscious Lady Pole Dancing studio is open for business Monday through Friday and two of the four Saturdays. What catches my eye, though, is the class rundown for last Friday, the day Peppi was strangled.

  There’s nothing on the docket between 11 and 4.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  What did Consuela say about her teaching schedule on Fridays? We may have been having cocktails on Mario’s roof deck at the time but my recollection is clear: she declared that she has class after class on Fridays.

  That is so not true. There are two Aerial Dance fitness classes in the morning—the later one over by 11—and Sexy Cardio doesn’t start until 4. My brain cells start to crank the way they always do when I get excited about a suspect. Why would Consuela lie about her teaching schedule unless she had something to hide?