Ms America and the Offing on Oahu

by Dempsey, Diana

  I toss my handbag onto the bed and sink beside it seconds later. Am I the only person in this archipelago not conducting a clandestine affair? Apparently so.

  I suppose I could separate these sexual transgressions into categories. There are the adulterers, like Tiffany and Misty. And possibly Tiffany’s husband, Tony Postagino. Then there are the fornicators, like Keola and Dirk and Sebastian Cantwell. Maybe they should be considered less naughty. After all, none of them are married.

  Then again, Dirk and Keola made those despicable bets. And Cantwell was forbidden by pageant rules even to talk to a contestant privately. Much less … you know. So those factors elevate their waywardness, in my humble opinion.

  Again I sigh. I’m discovering that much dirty linen is aired during this murder investigation business. It makes a person feel positively scummy. I’m sure that’s part of the reason my father wouldn’t want me getting involved. He puts me on a kind of pedestal, which is both good and bad.

  I take a bracing shower, and after that again feel ready to face the world. Which is good, because it’s barely 4:30 in the afternoon and this Ms. America has delving to do.

  Wearing my blue paisley patio dress with spaghetti straps, I am so filled with resolve as I sit at the desk near the sliding glass doors that I barely glance at the yellow roses Mario Suave gave me. Since I’ve decided I must put off the Sebastian Cantwell matter until I can figure out how to handle it, there’s another puzzlement I will address, one I haven’t been able to get out of my mind. It’s the accusation Misty Delgado hurled at Magnolia Flatt this morning in the buffet line. When I asked if you got the videotape you needed, I didn’t mean of me, you moron!

  I want to know what Misty meant. And I want to know now.

  I scan my pageant paperwork and before long my fingers are punching in Misty’s room number. A man answers. I presume it’s her husband but given what she’s been up to of late, I don’t know why I should. “May I please speak with Misty?” I inquire.

  “She’s at the salon,” the man growls, and hangs up.

  Lousy mood; has to be the husband. Can’t say I blame him, though. Time for my second salon visit of the day, though this time I don’t anticipate being the recipient of any services. Especially not at Royal Hibiscus prices.

  The salon here at the hotel is called a spa, which I gather is what allows them to charge more. The brochure describing it makes liberal use of the nouns retreat and escape. As I enter, I conclude the designer must have been a real mosaic devotee, because it’s everywhere. Somebody’s also fixated on Buddha, whose sculpture seems to fill every nook and cranny. Tucked into one corner is a Spa Shop. I glimpse shelves groaning under the sort of brightly colored, beautifully shaped bottles that make my female heart sing. At the reception counter are sprays of orchids, and behind them women sporting the same lab coats as Clinique salesgirls. There’s less makeup on these spa women but they seem possessed of the identical superior attitude, like they’ve achieved Internal Peace to a degree that your rattled self can only aspire to.

  Somehow I feel like I should speak softly, though I might not be heard above the fountains and piped-in New Age music. “Good afternoon. I’m Happy Pennington, the new Ms. America. I understand our Ms. Arizona Misty Delgado is here and I must see her on urgent pageant business.” I’m quite proud of that phrasing, which sounds both businesslike and pressing. It came to me as I rode the elevator down to the lobby.

  The spa women look at one another. They’re virtual twins, of identical height, build, and skin tone, and both with long black hair slicked back into buns. “We do not disturb our clients during their restorative treatments,” one says.

  “She could be in a transcendent state,” says the other.

  “I understand completely,” I lie. “But I’m afraid I must insist. This concerns the tragedy our pageant has suffered.” I stole that phrasing from rose-giver Mario Suave’s own lips.

  The faces of both spa women contort. One gestures to me to follow her into the sanctum sanctorum. Nothing like the specter of death to pry open doors.

  We walk down a corridor, passing many closed doors and a few open ones, which reveal darkened interiors and empty massage tables. At one door the spa woman halts, knocks lightly, and pokes her head inside the small room. A moment later she moves aside, motions for me to enter, then closes the door behind her as she exits.

  Misty’s Latina-goddess self is lying on her back on a massage table. I’m relieved to see she’s clothed, at least sort of, in a simple black bikini. A mask shades her eyes. But there’s no sunlamp shining on her, no nothing. She must be getting an invisible treatment because it looks to me like all she’s doing is taking a nap. She could do that in her room for free. Then I notice something small and dark on her belly. I inch closer and peer down at her perfect abs. Then, “Ewww!”

  “Oh, you bumpkin, shut up,” Misty snarls.

  “Is that a leech? Oh my God!”

  “It’s medicinal.”

  “It’s medieval! You’re letting it suck your blood?”

  She whips off the mask. “No, I’m letting it sing me a serenade. Of course I’m letting it suck my blood! That’s the point.”

  “How vile!”

  She jolts upright. I see now that she has four leeches on her and none of them has budged, despite her sudden movement. Of course not, I realize: they’re attached. “Leech therapy has been performed since the time of Hippocrates,” Misty informs me. “They’re placed on reflexogenic points, like in acupuncture. For your information, I’m getting my blood detoxified.”

  “What, they suck it up and then they spit a better version back in?”

  “No, you hillbilly, their saliva releases an enzyme into the bloodstream.”

  “How do you know they’re not giving you something else besides that enzyme? Like, for example, bacteria?”

  She screws up her face. “I don’t think so. These are medically trained leeches.”

  So they have little MDs from Leech U? I’m not buying. Apparently my face reveals my skepticism.

  Misty lies back down and replaces her mask. “There’s no point explaining to you. You’re incapable of understanding.”

  I am; it’s so true. All I know is that Misty has leeches attached to her body that are growing more engorged by the second. One of them sloppily tumbles off, fat as a bumblebee. It reminds me of Sally Anne Gibbons after her third Mai Tai. “Okay.” I take a deep breath. “I’ll get to the point.”

  “I’ll be amazed if you have one.”

  “You said something this morning in that fracas you caused in the buffet line—”

  “That was no fracas. And none of it would have even happened if that fat-assed yokel Magnolia Flatt hadn’t slammed into me with her overloaded breakfast plate.”

  My recollection of events is that Misty pitched into Magnolia, but my cause will not be served if I dispute the point. “Be that as it may, you said that Magnolia didn’t get you the videotape you needed but instead got the videotape of you and Dirk Ventura. What did you mean by that?”

  Misty lifts the mask off one eye. “This is urgent pageant business?”

  “Yes, it is,” I declare forcefully. “So what did you mean? What videotape did you need?”

  She replaces the mask. “I plead the fifth.”

  “Come on, Misty. That tape of you and Dirk made YouTube’s top ten. Everybody already knows the whole story. There’s nothing to hide anymore.”

  “Top seven,” she corrects.

  “There you go. So just tell me. How did you even know that Magnolia was videotaping?”

  “Because I saw her. During the preliminaries she was videotaping constantly. How is it possible you missed that?”

  I have no idea. I think maybe I’m not always as observant as I should be. That will have to change if I hope to figure out who killed Tiffany Amber.

  Misty goes on. “It just didn’t make sense. There were professional cameramen shooting all the contestant events. There was no need fo
r a know-nothing like Magnolia to videotape a single frame. Then one day I saw her in the hotel business office staring for hours at YouTube. I put two and two together.”

  “So what was the tape you told her you needed?” I watch Misty purse her lips. “Misty, what was it?”

  For a while she says nothing, then all of a sudden she rips off the eye mask and bolts upright with such speed one of the leeches goes flying. I step aside just in time to avoid being slimed. The creature plops unceremoniously onto the floor.

  But the real show is Misty and the diatribe into which she’s launched. “Listen, you supposed Ms. America you, I don’t have to tell you a damn thing. If it weren’t for that effing videotape, I’d be holding the title.” Her mouth twists. “You’re a poser and nothing more. I wouldn’t be surprised if Cantwell takes the crown out of your clumsy hands within the week. So don’t get too comfy-cozy wearing it.”

  “Don’t blame me you didn’t win, lady. It’s nobody’s fault but your own that that videotape even exists. Nobody ordered you to sleep with Dirk Ventura.”

  “Tiffany was having an affair, too!”

  “You know about that?” I ask before I realize it’s no surprise that Misty knows. Misty was with Dirk Ventura. For all I know, Misty may not only have supported Dirk putting Keola up to seducing Tiffany, she might have come up with the idea. Because if Tiffany were found out, she’d be knocked out of the competition, and the way would be clearer for Misty to win the crown.

  “It didn’t hurt her to have an affair!” Misty hisses. “Look where she got!”

  I eye her dubiously.

  “I mean before she died, you imbecile. Her sleeping around didn’t keep her from getting in the top five.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “What’s your problem with Tiffany, anyhow? You hate her when she’s alive, you hate her when she’s dead. What’s up with that?”

  Misty leaps up from the table and leans into me, jabbing her finger at my nose. I see the two remaining leeches clinging to her belly for dear life. “Tiffany Amber was a lying, scheming bitch, exactly like Sally Anne said. I hate having anything in common with that double-wide Sally Anne but in this case I have to agree with her. Tiffany thought she was better than everybody, better than you, better than me, better than all of us. Well, she wasn’t. And just like Sally Anne, I’m glad she’s dead.”

  Without further ado, Misty grabs the two leeches, one in each hand, plucks them from her skin, dumps them onto the floor, and wipes her bloody fingers down her naked belly. Then she stalks from the room, not even bothering to grab a robe.

  I’m thinking that if she’d performed at that level in the talent competition, she might have made the top five, even with the Dirk Ventura videotape.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I return to my room exhausted. Shanelle, though, is awake enough for both of us.

  “Good, you’re dressed.” She is wearing white capris and a strapless plaid bustier with a sweetheart neckline. “Let’s go get drinks.”

  I flop onto my bed. “Are we at it again?”

  “Of course we are! Is it or is it not sunset?”

  “It’s sunset.” I roll over. “That’s why I want to go to sleep.”

  She slaps my bottom. “Up! We’re on Oahu, we’re not going to sleep the day away unless we’re lying on the sand. Rise and shine, girl, we still got five or six hours of fun left.”

  I force myself into a vertical position. “All right, but I’m drinking only wine tonight. And only one glass.”

  “Fine.”

  But when we get to the lobby lounge, Shanelle points in my direction and declares that I’ll have a Lava Flow. “And I’ll take a Chi Chi and, oh, Trixie!” Shanelle motions Trixie over from the general area of the macaw. Ms. Congeniality appears only too happy to oblige. “What do you want?”

  “The usual,” Trixie says. “A Blue Hawaii. Hi, Happy. You look a tiny little wee bit tired. What have you been doing today?”

  How do I explain?

  “You’ll feel better after you have your drink,” Shanelle says. “Just relax and sin with the rest of us.”

  “I told you I was having only wine. What is in that thing you ordered me?”

  “Oh …” She looks away. “This and that.”

  I find out it has rum and coconut cream, disaster in the making for both brain cells and thighs.

  “Will your mom be joining us?” Trixie asks.

  “No. I begged off. I spent most of the day with her today.” I did sneak in a little canoodling with Jason. It was sort of like being teenagers again. Of course, unlike years ago, this time foreplay involved reviewing six flat-screen TV brochures.

  “How was the nail salon?” Shanelle asks me.

  That questions launches us into a discussion of what I learned about Keola Kalakaua and Dirk Ventura. When that sordid tale has been told and dissected, we analyze the tidbit about Tiffany going to Sebastian Cantwell’s penthouse suite. The trifecta is completed with a dialogue about how Misty found out about Magnolia’s videotaping.

  “Misty said another thing that I can’t get out of my head.” I set down my empty glass. “She said that if it weren’t for the effing videotape, pardon my French”—I nod at Trixie—“she’d be holding the title. But what about Tiffany? I’m pretty sure that going into the finale all of us thought Tiffany was most likely to win.”

  “I sure did,” Trixie says.

  “The reason she said that is simple.” Shanelle takes a bite of the pineapple wedge from her Chi Chi. “She knew she’d murder Tiffany before the finale ended. And, arrogant you-know-what that she is, she figured that with Tiffany gone, she’d win.”

  “You’ve thought from the beginning that it was Misty who killed Tiffany,” I say to Shanelle.

  “You got that right, sister.”

  Trixie slaps her thighs. “Time to eat.”

  Clearly we’ve all gotten a lot more casual about this murder thing. We talk about it, then we go on about our business. “You know what?” I stand up. “Let’s eat here at the hotel. It’s expensive and not much of an adventure but I’m pooped.”

  “Fine with me,” Trixie says. “I haven’t used much of my per diem yet today so it’s a good night for it.”

  Shanelle rises. “Let’s do the casual place downstairs, though, not the fancy fish restaurant.” Which has stratospheric prices, as if the seafood didn’t come from a few feet away.

  We’re on the wide staircase that leads to the oceanfront café, scene of this morning’s food fight, when something occurs to me, probably because I have Sebastian Cantwell on the brain. “He’s got to be hating life,” I say. “He has to keep paying for all the contestants to stay here on Oahu until the cops release us to go home. Hotel and food. It’s already been two extra days and who knows how long it’ll end up being?”

  “He’s so rich, though,” Trixie points out. “Why would he care?”

  “Phooey on Cantwell,” Shanelle says. “I’m enjoying myself. Those cops should take their sweet time.”

  We arrive at the café’s hostess stand. “The scene of the crime,” Trixie whispers. “The second crime.”

  More of a misdemeanor, that one. I wonder if Misty will be able to get the egg stains off her white dress. Not that I care. Maybe Misty hates Tiffany so much because the two are so alike. Or maybe it’s because both came to Oahu with a high chance of winning the pageant and both committed the same misdeed—having an affair—but only one got caught. Of course Tiffany ended up paying the ultimate price, but none of us knows why.

  Actually, I suppose one of us does.

  It’s midweek and the hotel isn’t full so we score a desirable table on the open-air terrace that fronts the ocean. For a time we sit silently, not even reading the menus, just feeling the sea breeze on our skin and listening to the surf create its timeless music.

  “If it weren’t for Lamar and Devon, I’d stay here forever,” Shanelle says.

  “I know, I feel the same way,” Trixie says. “I wish Rh
ett were here.”

  I can’t believe this. “Your husband’s name is Rhett? As in Butler?”

  She nods. “It’s a southern thing. But my son’s name is Tag, after Rhett’s uncle. And my daughter’s named Tessa.”

  “Why didn’t Rhett come to Oahu?” Shanelle asks.

  “A so-called emergency with his mother. Don’t ask. Hey, look.” Trixie points toward the ocean. “A wedding.”

  The aftermath, more like. A photographer is shooting pictures of the bride and groom, who are standing on the sand beaming into the lens. Various family members are off to the side watching, as are an astonishing number of bridesmaids in peach-colored satin and groomsmen with peach and white striped bow ties.

  “I think the bride’s wearing Vera Wang,” Trixie says.

  The gown is gorgeous. A strapless mermaid shape with an eyelet skirt.

  “How do you know that’s Vera Wang?” Shanelle asks.

  “That’s what I do,” Trixie says. “I work in a bridal shop.”

  Off we go again, on another estrogen topic. It’s when we’re discussing how bridesmaid’s dresses have changed over the years that I happen to see a few tables away another pageant person, dining alone.

  I lean in and whisper. “Rex Rexford’s over there. And he’s crying. No—” I grab Shanelle’s arm so she doesn’t turn all the way around to look. “Don’t be so obvious. I don’t want him to see us watching.”

  Shanelle drops her napkin, then sneaks a peak as she bends down to retrieve it. She pops back up. “He loves to wear pink shirts, doesn’t he? I think it’s the wedding that’s got him going.”

  “I think so, too,” Trixie says. “I wonder if he’s remembering Sonny.” Sonny Roberts. Soft rock icon of the fifties and sixties. He whose pompadour rose even closer to heaven than Rex’s. “They were together a long time,” Trixie adds. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Rex is still in mourning.”