Ms America and the Offing on Oahu (Beauty Queen Mysteries No. 1)

by Dempsey, Diana

  But one good thing about a curtained prison cell is that the potential escapee is presented with a full 360 degrees of escape route.

  I twist around in my bed and listen for noise in the area behind me. I don’t hear a thing. No conversation; no nothing. Very quietly I get out of bed and kneel on the floor, crouching down to peer in that direction. No feet are in evidence. There may be a patient in that area, lying in bed, but there’s no nurse or ER tech.

  That’s as good as I’m going to get in these parts.

  I grab my tote and turn off my cell phone so my Gloria Gaynor ring tone doesn’t draw unwanted attention. I’m proud of thinking of that. It proves I learned something from my ill-advised mail-room escapade. Briefly I halt, wondering if this foray is as imprudent as that one was. I conclude I don’t care. I’m blowing this pop stand.

  I shimmy underneath the curtain, clutching my tote to my chest. I glance to my right as I go. Yes, there is a patient in this room, a wizened elderly man, lying in bed facing my direction with his eyes closed.

  Not for long. They flutter open and fear crosses his face. I rise to my feet and hold my index finger to my lips. “Sshh.” I point to the curtain that closes off his area and start tiptoeing in that direction. “I’ll just be on my way,” I whisper.

  Immediately he does exactly what I don’t want him to do. Pant. Then gasp. Gasp and pant, in relentless succession. I’ve seen a lot of that today, all of it caused by me. First with Sally Anne Gibbons, then with Dirk Ventura. Now with this poor fellow, who doesn’t look like he can handle much of it. A little beep is emitted from the monitor at his bedside. I am toxic today, a true menace to society. Thank the heavens that when I locate the gap in his curtain and glance behind me, the man is still breathing. Fear remains on his face, though. I mouth a wish for his health and keep going.

  What I want to do but can’t is run, both because of my platform sandals and because I don’t want anybody to notice me. Running is happening in the ER, but it’s the nurses and techs doing it, not the plainclothes civilians.

  I amble as casually as I can past what looks like the ER’s intake area, a kind of reception desk, keeping my head averted. I walk as close to the opposite wall as possible. My body English says, I’m not here. Don’t bother looking at me because I’m not here. Fortunately this place is such a beehive that nobody is looking at me.

  At the glass exit doors, I halt all forward progress. Bad news: I face a new obstacle. Actually, a mob of them. Camera crews. Photographers. Reporters. Armed with microphones and smart phones and tape recorders.

  I pull back from the glass doors and shrink against the wall of the foyer. Am I the story? Is this what Dorothy was talking about when she said that after the chopper incident, we beauty queens are all over the news again? Because now the going theory is that somebody’s targeting us?

  Jason will kill me when he hears about this. Because he’ll know without anybody telling him exactly what I was up to that got me into trouble.

  As I stand there, I realize there’s someone besides Dirk I can cross off my suspects list. Sally Anne Gibbons. She was lying in this very hospital when my breakfast drink was spiked with cyanide. So she couldn’t have done it.

  I’m pondering that truth when opportunity presents itself in the form of a large Hawaiian family. They’re on their way out of the ER, flanking what looks like the matriarch. She’s wearing a bright pink and orange muumuu that might have been sewn by Omar the Tentmaker. The other family members are fairly imposing individuals as well, shall we say. And there are a lot of them.

  I attach myself to their lee side, furthest from the reporters, and move with them outside. They don’t advance as fast as I’d like but they provide excellent cover. As we skirt the reporters, who take no note of our lumbering posse, I hear snippets of live shots.

  “—pageant be cursed? This is the second alarming—”

  “—reigning Ms. America barely escaped with her life when well-known local helicopter pilot Dirk—”

  “—confirm that poison was found in his system, the same fast-acting poison that caused the death less than a week ago of—”

  When the family arrives at its vehicle, a Cutlass Cruiser station wagon that has seen better days, I dart away. In seconds I’m hightailing it from the hospital.

  A cab ride later I’m back at the Royal Hibiscus. And what do I see massed on the wide sweeping driveway that fronts the hotel? The last thing in the world I expect. Another crush of reporters and news cameras and photographers and such like, as large and zealous as the horde I just avoided.

  Boy, we queens have become a gigantic story. That, or it’s a slow news day on Oahu.

  I’m plotting how to evade this throng when I spy Misty Delgado holding court in front of a phalanx of TV cameras. J Lo, if you thought you were the Latina diva, prepare to meet Misty Delgado. Reporters are almost climbing over each other to get their microphones in front of her face. Misty flips her long dark hair over her shoulder. She flashes a smile before she remembers that murder and attempted murder are serious topics. She goes back to trying to look somber.

  How fake! What a hypocrite! I want to barf. There she is, my number one suspect, preening like the Queen Bee. No matter that Tiffany Amber is dead, that only a standing-room-only bus prevented me from joining Tiffany at the gateway to heaven, and that Misty’s former lover—granted, she should never have had one, but still—is fighting for his life at this very moment. Ms. Arizona might be responsible for this macabre trifecta but clearly that won’t stop her from trying to score some airtime. I half expect her to nail down a reality-show gig.

  I tamp down my frustration. This is no time to let my emotions take over; I’ve got investigating to do.

  Fortunately, by now I know the Royal Hibiscus like I know my Macy’s back home. I could map every inch blindfolded. I retrace my steps to find the path that cuts down to the beach. That way I can access the hotel from the oceanfront side.

  I’m just entering the lobby courtyard from the back when, to my right, the elevator doors to the penthouse level whoosh open. Quite a crowd emerges. Of cops, I soon see.

  There’s Sebastian Cantwell with them, too, I note. He seems his typical insouciant self, his ponytail as jaunty as ever. He’s wearing his usual I’m about to go yachting blue blazer with the crest on the breast pocket. What makes me nearly fall off my platform shoes, though, is the next detail I spy.

  Sebastian Cantwell is in handcuffs.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  I’m spellbound as I watch the cops maneuver Cantwell across the lobby and out the hotel’s main entry doors. I don’t know if this is what the reporters here at the Royal Hibiscus were waiting for—maybe they got wind of an upcoming arrest—but they’re sure getting some astonishing shots now. I get some idea what it must be like to be accosted by paparazzi. Even from this distance I’m almost blinded by the flashbulbs going off in Cantwell’s face.

  The cops hustle Cantwell into the back seat of a black-and-white. They slam the door and the sedan careens away, siren blaring. Other cop cars follow. The cameramen train their lenses on the disappearing vehicles until they’re gone from sight. Then they swing back around and the reporters resume the live shot position.

  The hotel staff appear shell-shocked. I see Neil, the sunburned surfer guy, standing next to the Reception Desk with his mouth literally hanging open.

  As for me, I fall back against the wall behind me. Does this mean that Sebastian Cantwell is the murderer? Momoa got the proof he needed and so hauled the pageant owner in? On one count of murder and, gulp, one botched attempt?

  That one was on me.

  Oh my God.

  I race across the lobby to get into the elevator and soon am whisked to my own ninth floor. Shanelle pulls the door open as I’m fumbling with my key card.

  “Good Lord Almighty,” she shouts and grabs me in a hug that’s more like a wrestling takedown.

  I’m able to resume breathing half a minute or so later. “I’m
all right,” I tell her, because she keeps on asking. “I’m all right.”

  “Here.” She pulls her cell phone off the waistband of her shorts and shoves it in my hand. “Call your mama. She’s frantic. You been all over the news, girl.”

  I see that our TV is on and tuned to a news program. On the screen, behind a pert blonde reporter, is the façade of the Royal Hibiscus. Along the bottom four words scream: PAGEANT TYCOON A KILLER?

  “Once that chopper went down,” Shanelle says, “and it came out that you and Dirk were both in it and that he was incapacitated somehow, you been on nonstop.”

  I give Shanelle back her cell phone and dig my own out of my tote bag. I turn it on to find scads of messages, from Jason, Rachel, my mom, my dad, and yes, Mario Suave. I raise my eyes to Shanelle. “You’ve been watching all along, right?”

  “From time to time I pack a thing or two, because now this crime’s been solved we’re all gonna be forced off this island, but for the most part I can’t tear my eyes off it.”

  “Have you seen Momoa at all? Making some comment or saying he’d make a comment soon or anything like that?”

  She frowns. “Not that I remember.”

  “So he didn’t confirm that Cantwell’s been charged with Tiffany’s murder. Did any other official-type person?”

  “Not that I’ve seen. But—”

  “So maybe it’s not official.”

  Shanelle throws her arms wide. “How much more official does it need to be? The man’s in police custody! He’s been arrested. Can’t be no more clear than that.”

  I know Cantwell’s been arrested. I comprehend that. And it’s true he’s been one of my suspects ever since I found out that Tiffany paid a surreptitious visit to his penthouse suite. It’s also plausible that Cantwell tried to do me in today after I blackmailed him yesterday.

  But still, something about this doesn’t sit right with me. I never considered Cantwell the likely killer and there’s a reason. Why would a man who’s basically a master of the universe bother murdering a two-bit beauty queen like Tiffany Amber? He could eat her for lunch. She might have tried to blackmail him but why would he even care? He doesn’t seem to give a fig what anybody thinks of him. And as for opportunity, he certainly wouldn’t have gone unnoticed backstage.

  Another thing strikes me as odd. Why wasn’t Momoa here for the arrest? He’s the lead investigator into Tiffany’s murder. Wouldn’t he want to take credit? Or at least be seen to be involved? And if he couldn’t be here, why didn’t he send his lackey, Jenkins? All my life I’ve watched my dad’s police department operate. Momoa being absent for a huge break like an arrest is not what I would expect of a homicide detective investigating the highest-profile case of his career.

  Shanelle snaps her fingers in front of my face. “Don’t you go daydreaming on me, girl. What’s up with you? You’re not acting like you should.”

  “You mean because I’m not jumping for joy? Because if Cantwell’s been arrested for Tiffany’s murder, I’m off the hook?”

  “Maybe it’s that post-traumatic stress thing that’s got you tied up in knots. Wouldn’t be surprising after what you just been through. Here, sit down.”

  She prods me toward my bed and sits me down. She makes me kick off my platform shoes and gives me a mini shoulder massage. Even after all that, I’m no less ill at ease than when she started. “You know why I went to find Dirk in the first place?” I ask her.

  She doesn’t so I tell her the whole story. About how hugely bizarre it is that Tony Postagino’s website photo was taken in the same location as Misty and Dirk’s steamy YouTube video. About how that location turns out to be the funky B&B owned by Dirk’s sister. About how all day I’ve wanted to go visit that B&B to find out if anybody there remembered who Tony Postagino stayed there with.

  “Because,” I conclude, “Keola told me that Tiffany told him that her husband was having an affair. Maybe Tony was at that B&B with his fling, because neither Trixie nor I believe that Tiffany would be caught dead somewhere funky. And maybe—”

  “It’s the fling who killed Tiffany. I get it.” Shanelle nods. “Nice theory but the problem is people have affairs all the time and don’t kill each other over it. But why are we even talking about this now? Cantwell’s been arrested.”

  “Maybe …” My mind cranks. “Maybe they arrested Cantwell not because he’s the murderer but because they think the murderer will relax now that someone else has been hauled in. And so he or she will reveal themselves. You know, a smokescreen. And Cantwell went along with it because he’s so desperate to bring this whole thing to a close. And because he doesn’t really care about his reputation anyway. Heck, for him, it’s another story to burnish his legend.”

  Shanelle assumes a dubious expression. “You really think Momoa’s smart enough to come up with a plan that savvy?”

  “No. Not really.” I sigh. Then I brighten. “There’s something else, too. Dirk told me that Misty confessed to him that she pushed me into the macaw last night.”

  Shanelle’s eyes widen. “Maybe Misty’s the fling!” She jabs her fist in the air. “I always suspected that girl!”

  Nothing like impugning Misty Delgado to get Shanelle Walker on board. “So you’re willing to help me, right?”

  Shanelle’s hands settle on her hips. “You want more help? What now?”

  “I want to go find Magnolia to get out of her once and for all the name of that dang B&B.” I start snooping around for my beaded flip flops. My feet have had enough of those platform sandals for today.

  “Okay.” Shanelle starts nodding her head. “I get it now. I get it.”

  “What do you get?” I’ve just found my flip flops under the bed.

  “All right, I’ll ‘fess up first. I’m not totally thrilled with this Sebastian Cantwell outcome. I’d prefer if it was Misty Delgado who got arrested for killing Tiffany, just because I would love and adore to see that girl go down. But you, you got a bigger problem. You got a deep-seated resistance to the idea that this murder’s been solved at all. And I know why.”

  I go into the bathroom to check my face. As I suspected. All that hysterical sobbing in the chopper caused even my waterproof mascara to run.

  “Do you hear me?” Shanelle trails me into the bathroom. “I know why.”

  I moisten a face cloth and go to work underneath my eyes. This’ll take off my concealer, too, but I can reapply.

  “Are you listening to me?” Shanelle’s voice has gotten more demanding.

  “All right, Dr. Philomena, I’m listening.”

  “You don’t want Sebastian Cantwell to be the guilty party because you’re not the one who figured out he did it. You want to get the props, yourself, for solving the crime. So you’re going to keep investigating as though nothing happened. There’s a name for that, girl.” She comes to stand beside me, her eyes boring into mine in our shared reflection. “And it’s not just a river in Egypt.”

  I toss the face cloth and snatch up my concealer. “I am not in denial.”

  “Do you not have one speck of self-awareness?”

  “I am totally self-aware, Shanelle. Just like I am totally responsible. And that is why I am not comfortable abandoning my investigation prematurely.”

  Even as I say it, I wonder if Shanelle’s right. I will admit to a smidgen of disappointment when I saw Sebastian Cantwell being hauled in no thanks to me.

  I set down my concealer and turn to face her. “Look. What harm will it do? I go to the B&B, I ask a few questions. If I don’t learn anything interesting, which I probably won’t, I’ll give up the investigation. I promise. This is the only lead I have left to pursue anyway.”

  She nods slowly.

  “So you’ll help me, right?”

  She emits a dramatic sigh. “What do you need?”

  “While I’m gone finding Magnolia, will you make a few phone calls for me to tell people I’m all right? Because if I get on the cell with Jason or my mom, I’ll never get off.” That’s my s
tory and I’m sticking to it. I know the real reason I don’t want to call my husband is that he’ll rake me over the coals for continuing my investigation, which this time nearly got me killed.

  I dash out of the bathroom, grab the memo paper near the bedside phone and jot down a list of who I’d like Shanelle to call. I hand her the names then head for the door. “And then please come with me to the B&B. Please?”

  She shakes her head. “If this isn’t a wild goose chase, I don’t know what is. And don’t forget that now this murder’s been solved, they’ll want all of us out of this hotel and booked on flights home.”

  I pull open the door. “They can’t make us leave if they can’t find us. Maybe we’ll score ourselves another day in paradise.”

  Shanelle seems to get a boost from that happy possibility. I watch her eyes drop to the jotted list of names as I disappear out the door.

  A wee bit of investigating yields the tidbit that Magnolia Flatt is sunbathing by the pool. I gird myself for a viewing of Ms. Flatt in her swimwear.

  To my amazement, I find her in a tasteful crimson-colored halter-style swimdress with shirring at the sides—quite slimming—and cute white embroidery along the hemline. She is, somewhat less graciously, noisily sucking down the dregs of a tiki-tiki drink. I claim the lounge next to her.

  Her face assumes a sullen expression. “You again. I thought maybe you bit it when that chopper went down.”

  Same lousy ‘tude as ever. “Sorry I failed to oblige.”

  “Just my luck you survived so you can ream me again about those brats Cantwell made me watch.” She slams her empty glass onto the concrete pool deck.

  I bite my tongue. “No,” I respond sweetly. “I think we covered that pretty thoroughly before. I am a little surprised to see you here, though.”

  “Why? Don’t I deserve time off?”

  “I would think that with Mr. Cantwell being arrested, you’d have to man the phone lines or something. Lots of people must be calling in with questions.”