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

by Dempsey, Diana

  “I won’t do diddly now.” She raises her finger to summon the male server working the pool area. “With Cantwell in the slammer, who knows if I’ll get paid.”

  That makes me worry about getting my prize money, not a cent of which I’ve yet seen. I can’t think about that now, though. “Do you know anything about Mr. Cantwell’s arrest? Were you in his suite when it happened?”

  “No. I was in that hellhole of a babysitting room. I don’t know a damn thing about it.” She looks up at the server. “I’ll take one more of what I just had.” She glances at me. “You want something? Better order now because the gravy train’s about to dump us off.”

  “No, thank you,” I tell the server. “Listen, Magnolia,” I say once he’s gone, “I’m hoping your memory’s recovered because I would really like to know the name of the B&B that Dirk Ventura’s sister owns.”

  “Oh, yeah, right.” She squints her eyes. “Plum something. Like the flower.”

  “You mean plum blossom?”

  “No. It’s that Hawaiian flower that starts with plum.”

  The woman at the next lounger pipes up. “Plumeria?”

  “That’s it,” Magnolia says. “Plumeria B&B.”

  I lean forward to thank our fellow sunbather. “And it’s where?” I ask Magnolia. “Kailua Beach?”

  “Yeah, it’s about a half-hour drive from here.”

  “Great. Thanks.” I stand up. “By the way, I like your swimsuit.”

  She swipes at it. “I hate it. My mother made me buy it.”

  News flash. At least one female in the Flatt family tree has taste.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The Royal Hibiscus shuttle doesn’t go as far as Kailua Beach so I pop for a cab and tell the driver to take the Pali Highway, which cuts across southeastern Oahu. We cross over the dramatic Koolau mountains, which run the whole length of the island’s windward side. Shanelle and I find ourselves at the Plumeria Bed and Breakfast in 26 and a half minutes. But who’s counting?

  Shanelle steps out of the cab and hikes the spaghetti straps on her bright yellow patio dress. “We’re a long way from Waikiki, girl.”

  “Not a skyscraper in sight.” It’s more of a residential neighborhood, with a mix of McMansions and older bungalow-style homes. The beach is gorgeous. We can spy it between the houses fronting the ocean. Beautiful white sand and turquoise water with more wind surfers than we’re used to seeing on our side of Oahu.

  The Plumeria Bed and Breakfast is a two-story board-and-batten cottage painted eggshell blue with white trim. Next to the front window on the first floor somebody painted a large bright pink plumeria, five oval petals springing from a darker-hued core. A plumeria tree with white blossoms dominates the small front lawn.

  Shanelle leans close to me. “This place is tiny. How many rooms could it have?”

  “Probably no more than two.”

  “Isn’t it a weird place for somebody from California to stay? I mean, it’s cute and all, but of all the places to stay on Oahu, why would Tiffany’s husband pick here?”

  I was thinking the same thing. And I have the answer. “It’s a perfect place to stay if you don’t want to run into anybody you know, which you might at one of the big Waikiki hotels.”

  “For example, if you want to lie low because you’re in Hawaii with somebody other than your wife.”

  “Precisely. And I think it’s good luck for us that the place is so small because that makes it more likely that Dirk’s sister, or somebody who works here, will remember who stayed here with Tony Postagino.”

  “He might have come here alone.”

  “Who would come here alone?”

  Shanelle has to agree. It is very possible, though, that it was Tiffany who accompanied her husband. Then I’ve gone through all this to get nowhere.

  We trod up the fieldstone walkway to the front door. It’s one of those Dutch doors where the top and bottom halves move independently. The top half is open, probably to let in the breeze.

  I lean inside and am about to call out when I behold before me the same tableau I’ve seen twice now, once on Tony Postagino’s website photo and once in the infamous Misty and Dirk make-out video. There are all the Polynesian tchotchkes, the pineapple-base lamps and the surfboard-shaped throw rugs. There’s the Hawaii quilt the same color as the deep blue sea. And in front of the hanging quilt is the totem pole with the two outsized faces, one grinning and one grimacing.

  “We’ve come to the right place,” I whisper to Shanelle, then I call out. “Hello! Anybody home?”

  A woman about my age comes into view, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She’s an attractive brunette wearing white shorts and a sleeveless print top. I detect a softer version of Dirk Ventura’s features in her face. Clearly this is the inn’s owner, his sister.

  She doesn’t smile when she sees us. First I think it’s because she shares her brother’s moody demeanor. Then I recall why she might not be at her most cheerful this afternoon: her sibling is in a hospital bed fighting for his life.

  It occurs to me that she might blame me for that.

  She stops a few feet from the door. On closer inspection I see that the skin around her brown eyes is puffy. “Please come in,” she says. “It’s open.”

  We enter. A small boy is splayed on one of the surfboard rugs playing with a huge collection of G.I. Joe figurines. He looks up at us and I see Dirk’s Mini Me. But unlike Dirk, this little tyke’s face cracks in a wide grin.

  “That’s Elijah,” the woman says. She extends her hand to me, then Shanelle. “And I’m Deirdre. Are you interested in booking a room or two? We’re full up right now but—”

  I decide to plunge right in. “Deirdre, this is my friend Shanelle Walker. And I’m Happy Pennington.” I watch recognition dawn on her face. “How is your brother doing?”

  She answers in a rush. “I just got back from the hospital, as a matter of fact. My parents are still there. The doctors say he’s out of the woods.” Her face crumples. She twists away from us. “I’m sorry. It’s just been such a terrible day.”

  “I understand. Please don’t apologize.” I struggle to think of something to add and decide I’ll try to ingratiate myself. “Your brother was just amazing landing that chopper in the state he was in.” That is no lie. “He saved both our lives. It really was an astounding feat.”

  That seems to calm her. She sniffles a few more times, then asks us to sit down. By the time she returns bearing iced tea, Shanelle and I have managed to seat ourselves without squishing any action figures.

  Deirdre wants the whole story of what happened and I oblige, minus the details of her brother’s attempt to seduce me, yet another married woman. Today at least the guy deserves a halo.

  “The only thing that makes me feel better,” she says when I finish, “is that I saw on TV that the cops found the maniac who did it. What is wrong with that sicko? He killed that contestant from California and then tried to kill you? He’s so loaded, he probably thinks he can get away with it. They should strap him down and fire up the power, if you get my meaning.”

  Shanelle gives me a pointed look when Deirdre finishes her diatribe. Yes, here too is someone who’s convinced Sebastian Cantwell is the killer. That leaves me as the lone delusional holdout.

  I clear my throat. “Deirdre, I have a question to ask you.” I pull the computer printout of Tony Postagino’s website photo from my tote. It’s seriously dogeared from being carried around this long eventful day. I hold it out toward her. “This man came to your B&B at some point. You can tell from the background. Do you remember him?”

  She squints at the picture. “Not offhand. Do you know how long ago he was here?”

  “Not really. Probably not that long.”

  Clearly, Deirdre is not remembering Tony Postagino. She shakes her head and tries to hand me back the printout.

  I’m not willing to take it. Not yet. “Do you think anybody who works here might remember him?”

  She frowns at
me. “Why do you want to know? Who is this person?”

  Maybe she’s thinking it’s my husband. And I’m trying to catch him out in an affair. And maybe she wants no part of that. Bad for business.

  Shanelle jumps in before I can decide how to answer. “He’s the husband of the beauty queen who was murdered.”

  “The widower?” Deirdre gasps. “The poor man! He’s a victim, too.” She brings the printout up close to her face.

  Shanelle and I are holding our breath—at least I am—when we hear a clattering on the stairs behind us. An older woman appears manhandling a vacuum cleaner. I take her to be Filipina and conclude she must be the housecleaner.

  Deirdre stands up. “Luisa.” She holds the printout toward the woman. “Do you remember this man? Did he ever stay here?”

  Luisa gazes at the picture only briefly. Then, “Yes, Missus. He was here with that other man. The one who was so blond.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Shanelle leaps to her feet so fast you’d think her thong caught on fire. “Are you telling me that Tiffany Amber’s husband stayed here with a dude? Sleeping in the same dang room?”

  Luisa looks taken aback. She glances nervously at Deirdre.

  I intercede before Luisa clams up. “Are you sure, Luisa? This man could be involved in something big so it’s really important.”

  Luisa keeps her gaze trained on her employer. “I am sure, Missus. Not so often we have two men together. You don’t remember?”

  Deirdre squints again at the photo. “He looks vaguely familiar, I suppose …”

  “Do you remember when it was?” I ask Luisa.

  “Christmastime,” she says immediately. “A little after. We still had the tree up. And the lights outside.”

  “New Year’s,” Shanelle mutters, as though the timing makes the stay especially naughty.

  “And the man this man was with”—I cock my chin at the printout—“what did you say about him?”

  “He had blond hair,” Luisa says. “Not natural. Colored. And very …” She runs out of words but raises her hands as if to indicate a bouffant style.

  Shanelle and I stare at one another. My heart starts to thump. I can think of one man Tony Postagino knows who fits that description. And I’m sure so can she.

  “Deirdre,” I say, “will you look at your accounts for late December and early January and see if you have both these men listed as guests?” I’m having crazy thoughts of going to Momoa with this. And if I do, I’ll need more than Luisa’s say. And more than the photo of Tony Postagino in this B&B’s living room.

  But Deirdre is balking. She’s shaking her head and backing away. “No. I’m not comfortable doing that. Live and let live, is my philosophy. I’m not going to give out information about who stays here, and with who.”

  “I understand. And believe me, I’m not making any moral judgments here.” Although truthfully I am. Tony Postagino was married at that time, after all. And it wasn’t his wife he stayed with at this B&B. That doesn’t sit right with me. “But this man’s wife was murdered in cold blood. And the fact that this man was here, with another man, only months before …” My words trail off.

  Deirdre is obviously shocked by the implication. “You think he had something to do with killing his wife? But that doesn’t make any sense! The police already arrested the killer!”

  “I don’t know if this man had anything to do with the murder or not. And they did arrest someone, true. But I think the situation is more complicated than we know.”

  Deirdre still doesn’t look convinced.

  “Look,” I say. “Somebody tried to kill me today. And you know who else got hurt. And might have died.”

  She stares down at the picture of Tony Postagino. “Dirk,” she breathes. She crushes the printout into Luisa’s hand and races out of the room. “I’ll be right back,” she calls over her shoulder.

  Seconds later I hear the click of keys on a computer keyboard from somewhere deep inside the B&B. Luisa makes noise of her own by shoving the vacuum cleaner into a hall closet. Elijah has all his G.I. Joes shooting at each other with automatic weapons and moaning in agony as they drop dead. But Shanelle and I are as silent as corpses. My mind is cranking at warp speed. Probably hers is, too.

  Deirdre returns with a sheet of paper in her hand. “This is what you want, I think.” She hands it to me. “It’s a copy of the guest record.”

  The paper bears the Plumeria Bed and Breakfast letterhead. On it is a detailing of the expenses of a two-night stay ending January 5th. It specifies that the number of guests was two and that they stayed in room B. The amount billed was slightly more than three hundred dollars. And the guest name in the upper left hand corner, the person who paid the bill, is Rex Rexford, complete with his Beverly Hills address.

  As soon as I heard Luisa’s description of the blond helmet hair, I knew it had to be Rex. He’s a one and only.

  “I don’t know what that’ll be good for,” Deirdre says, “but you can take it with you.”

  “I really appreciate it,” I say. “You’ve been tremendously helpful.”

  Shanelle and I make ourselves scarce. We’re barely out of the house and onto the walkway when she hisses into my ear. “What the hell do you make of that?”

  “Is there any chance Rex and Tony could have stayed at this B&B for a reason other than an affair? Like they were strategizing how Tiffany could win the Ms. America pageant?”

  “They could do that in California! And if they did do it here, where was Tiffany?”

  “It is very hard to imagine two men would stay in the same room in this B&B, or any other, and not be … you know.”

  “It’s impossible!” Shanelle pronounces, and I have to agree.

  We get to the street and realize we need a cab. Once I place that call, I look again at Shanelle. “So Tiffany was right when she told Keola that her husband was having an affair. But I doubt she knew it was with Rex.”

  “She never would’ve kept working with him.”

  “I wonder if the affair was over by the time the pageant started.”

  “Who knows? And there’s still the matter of Sebastian Cantwell getting arrested today. How do you explain that?”

  I can’t. We mull the various possibilities until the cab arrives and after we’re inside. We’re only about a five-minute drive from the Royal Hibiscus when a flash of memory illuminates my mind. I grab Shanelle’s arm. “Oh … my … God.”

  “What?”

  “I remember who I bumped into today, literally, when I went to the casual café to tell Trixie about the photo of Tony Postagino.”

  “Who?”

  “Rex Rexford.”

  “What?”

  “Yes! Right at the entry. I crashed into him, no kidding, because I wasn’t watching where I was going because I was so anxious to talk to Trixie.”

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “Yes. He said …” I try to remember. “He said something like what’s your hurry? I don’t remember exactly.”

  Shanelle scrunches her face. “I wonder if he eavesdropped on your conversation with Trixie. Because he could see you were agitated. And he probably knew you were investigating. Could he have overheard you?”

  “Yes.” I feel like an idiot. “Because I didn’t really try to keep quiet. And neither did Trixie.”

  “Maybe he’s the one who poisoned your drink,” Shanelle says.

  That had occurred to me.

  When the cab halts at the Royal Hibiscus, Shanelle gets out but I stay put. She frowns at me through my open window. “What are you up to now, may I ask?”

  “I have another stop to make.”

  “Should I be worried about that?”

  “No. But answer your cell if it rings. You may be my one phone call.” I realize as the cab screeches away that that probably wasn’t the thing to say to keep Shanelle from worrying.

  We have to wend a circuitous route through Waikiki as some beachfront blocks are being closed off for
the night’s weekly street fair. I soon discover that the Honolulu Police Department is in a neighborhood with which I’m somewhat familiar. It’s close to the hospital I visited twice today, once as a patient and once as a cardiac-arrest inducer. Actually, I realize, remembering the old man whose ER area I invaded on my hands and knees, I sort of did that on my second stop-by, too.

  It’s getting on toward twilight as I enter the reception area. The fluorescent lights are so bright the cops could perform surgery. There’s a big sign on the wall that says: SERVING AND PROTECTING WITH ALOHA. There’s also a small sign that says: SAFETY IS NO ACCIDENT. PLEASE DRIVE WITH ALOHA.

  Maybe that’s my problem. I’m not doing enough things with aloha.

  I find out from the cop manning the front desk that indeed Detective Momoa is in. And yes, he will see me. I pace, because I’m too amped up to sit while I wait.

  Finally, Momoa emerges from the sanctum sanctorum. “Ms. Pennington,” he says.

  “Detective Momoa. You look surprised to see me.”

  “I am. I heard from the hospital earlier that you disappeared before you were released.”

  I just bet that’s how he found out I was no longer in the ER. “I felt fine and I’ve never been one for a lot of rules about where I can and can’t go,” I tell him, though he might already have figured that out about me.

  “Then what brings you to my little neck of the woods this evening?”

  “Information that might crack the Tiffany Amber murder case wide open.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  He eyes me. “You may not be one for rules, Ms. Pennington, but you do not shy away from hyperbole.”

  “Do we have to talk out here, Detective?” Somebody else in street clothes just entered the reception area. “I’d be more comfortable discussing this somewhere more private.”

  I know. This might seem risky behavior for a woman who mere hours ago took extraordinary measures to avoid being incarcerated. But I’m less freaked about that possibility now. Armed with my incendiary new information, not to mention the fact that Sebastian Cantwell was arrested today, I feel able to, as Trixie would say, deflect suspicion.