Ms America and the Offing on Oahu

by Dempsey, Diana

  “She wants to help people.” I relay the rest of the sad tale.

  My mother frowns as she listens. “Could it be some new boyfriend making her think like this?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You’re sure she’s not—” My mother arches her brows.

  “God, no!” I say it automatically, and with force. Then I have to wonder how I can be so sure Rachel isn’t pregnant. I can’t, really, even though there’s been no evidence of a serious boyfriend. True, there was the loser she took to the junior prom …

  I must have screwed up my face remembering him. My mother pipes up. “You’re thinking of that Ryan kid. I never liked him.”

  My mother and I agree on that. “I don’t think it’s Ryan, or anybody else. I think she wants adventure, something new. I don’t know. All I know is that I want her to stay in school.”

  I feel my mother’s eyes on me. This territory has got to feel so familiar to her. After the way my mom pushed me into pageant after pageant, I swore I’d never push Rachel into anything. Now here I am, breaking my own vow. And why? For the same reason my mother did what she did: for Rachel. For her own good, or at least my idea of what her own good is. How ironic.

  Eventually my mother looks away. “I don’t like it. What kind of boys will she meet in Guadalajara?”

  “Guatemala.”

  “Same difference.” She waves her hand dismissively.

  I’m feeling like the bumpkin Misty Delgado accused me of being, because the truth is that’s how I feel, too. I don’t want my daughter traipsing off to some foreign country I don’t know the first thing about, where she could catch some awful disease or get murdered in the dark and have her body thrown in a ravine or, as my mother clearly fears, fall in love with an exotic native who keeps her away from Ohio for the rest of her natural life.

  For me it’s just so simple. I want her to stay in school, here in America.

  I feel tears rising. I hang my head but they keep barreling forth just the same. A second later my mom’s hand is on my spandexed leg.

  “It’s all right, Happy.” Her voice sounds totally strong. She does tend to come through in the clutch. I choke out a sob. “She’ll come around. And if she doesn’t, you’ll just have to cope. If you have to, you will.”

  Just like my mom did when I turned up pregnant at 17 and bullied her into giving me permission to marry someone she’s never stopped resenting.

  Increased sobbing ensues. I grab my mother’s hand and hold on tight. I guess my winning the Ms. America crown isn’t the only miracle to occur here on lovely Oahu.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “Okay, so we have everything but the eye serum?” Trixie is standing beside my bed, holding a list. I’m lying on the bed, showered, wearing the hotel fuzzy robe. My mother is at the foot of the bed. “Washcloth,” Trixie says.

  My mother responds. “Check.”

  “Two cotton balls?”

  “Check.”

  “Cold milk and a small bowl?”

  “Yes on the milk. And for a bowl we’ve got a wineglass from the minibar. I hope they don’t charge you for using it, Happy.”

  “They won’t, mom,” I say.

  “You can complain if they do,” Trixie says. “I just hope Shanelle is back by the time we need her. Mrs. P, please put the spoon in the freezer and wet the washcloth. With cold water.”

  My mother scurries to complete her assigned tasks.

  “I hope this doesn’t take long,” I say.

  “It will take as long as it takes,” Trixie informs me. “And it’s absolutely necessary, in my opinion, so don’t fight it.” A second later she’s dabbing my eyes with the washcloth. “This will work,” she tells me.

  “It better.” Because in the middle of my crying fit, which produced eye puffiness of epic proportions, Magnolia called to inform me that the shoot was in precisely one hour. I think I detected satisfaction in her tone; knowing her as I do, I’m sure she quite enjoyed giving me short notice. Because when these sixty minutes are up, I am required to be in my evening gown, camera-ready, new Ms. America sash deployed, a perfect replica of myself on pageant night.

  Circumstances clearly called for a Beauty 911. Trixie and Shanelle leaped into service and I soon realized that my pageant-loving mother was in seventh heaven, surrounded by a trio of real-life beauty queens facing an appearance emergency of the highest order.

  “Mrs. P,” Trixie says, “please place the cotton balls in the milk and bring me the spoon from the freezer.” Seconds later Trixie lays the spoon over my right eye.

  “That feels good,” I say.

  “Sshh. Mrs. P, tell me when it’s one minute.” At that mark, the spoon goes on the other eye.

  Shanelle bursts into the room. “I got it. Thank the heavens there’s an Ulta in Waikiki.”

  “Cotton balls,” Trixie calls. Those replace the spoon.

  Milk runs down the sides of my face. “This part is messy,” I say.

  “No comments from the peanut gallery,” Trixie shoots back. “Please tell me when it’s a minute, Mrs. P.”

  “Time,” my mother says.

  “Washcloth,” Trixie says. She goes back to dabbing. Then she, Shanelle, and my mom hover over my face, their eyes narrowed and assessing.

  “She looks better than she did before,” my mother asserts.

  Shanelle weighs in. “That’s not a tough standard to beat.”

  “Ha ha.” I try to rise from the bed but Shanelle pushes me back down. She has a small amber bottle in her hand.

  “Final step,” she intones, and drops a few beads of a mysterious liquid under each of my eyes.

  “What’s that?”

  “Eye serum. With certified organic aloe leaf and natural antioxidants.” Very lightly she pats the stuff in. “It also diminishes fine lines.”

  “I don’t have any fine lines!”

  Silence greets that dubious assertion. Then Shanelle straightens. “All right, I’m not too shy to ask. What got you started on this crying jag anyway?”

  “Don’t ask her that!” Trixie wails. “We just got her calmed down.”

  “No, I’m all right.” I rise from the bed. “I’m not such a wuss that I’m going to go off again.” I take a deep breath. “It’s Rachel. She told me this morning that she might not want to go to college next year.” The rest of the sorry tale spills out as I head into the bathroom and dump the contents of my makeup bag onto the counter. I start slathering on foundation as all three women follow me in. “I think what bothers me the most is that it seems like we’re always at odds. We never agree on anything anymore.”

  “That’s because she’s a teenager!” Trixie perches on the side of the tub. “Don’t let that worry you. As she gets older, you and she will agree on more and more. You’ll get closer and closer, just like my mom and I did. Isn’t that right, Mrs. P?”

  My mother is standing by the towel rack. She and I exchange a glance in the mirror. I see sadness in her eyes. Poor thing doesn’t know how to respond. I pipe up. “Mom and I had a good heart to heart this morning, didn’t we, Mom? Much better than we had when I was seventeen.”

  She looks relieved. “You can say that again.”

  Shanelle leans against the sink. “Well, one thing I know. Ain’t no child of mine taking up residence in some Third World country. Devon wants to do good, he can do it right here in the good old U.S. of A. We got plenty of need right here.”

  “I hear you, sister,” Trixie says, nodding gravely.

  “Amen,” my mother says.

  I feel like hollering Hallelujah! I restrain myself and move onto the shading phase of the makeup operation.

  “Anyhoo,” Trixie says, “I think when Tessa hits sixteen, I may ground her and commence home schooling.”

  A few minutes later, I’ve advanced to the three tones of eye shadow. “Home-schooling may not be a bad idea,” I mutter. “How am I on time, by the way?”

  “You have seventeen minutes,” Shanelle informs me.<
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  And after I finish my makeup, I still have to get dressed and deal with my hair. “Mom, will you make sure my gown isn’t wrinkled?”

  I don’t have to ask twice.

  “She’s a dear,” Trixie whispers to me.

  I feel more tenderness for my mom today than I have in a long time. “Uh oh.” I feel the tears rising.

  “No!” Shanelle grabs my arm. “Get a hold of yourself!”

  I pull it together.

  “If you’re a few minutes late,” Trixie says, “the world won’t stop spinning.”

  Truer words have never been spoken. And in about nineteen minutes’ time, with everyone’s help, I’ve finished my makeup, fixed my hair, dressed, draped the Ms. America sash over my body, and bobby-pinned on the tiara. I’m checking the overall effect in the full-length mirror that hangs on the armoire’s inside door when I realize for the umpteenth time that it’s completely idiotic to think beauty queens are empty-headed nincompoops. In my experience they’re competent and poised in any situation, even under pressure. As the new Ms. America, it might be my mission in life to dispel those inane stereotypes.

  Done up as I am, I turn a few heads as I make my way to the Royal Hibiscus auditorium where the finale was held three nights ago. I arrive and discover that as is typical for these things, it’s hurry up and wait. 45 minutes pass by the time the still and video photographers and their lighting teams have matters arranged to their satisfaction.

  The shoot itself is uneventful. Having competed in pageants from age six, and done a little local modeling, too, I’m comfortable in front of a lens. The photographers eventually declare they have what they need, but it’s not a wrap until Sebastian Cantwell signs off his approval.

  And he’s nowhere to be found.

  “You’ll have to hang out for a while,” one of the photographers tells me. I drop into a chair in the front row.

  It doesn’t take long to realize that somebody is clomping around backstage. The footfalls are not exactly fast-moving. I have a suspicion who might be making them. And if I’m right, I might be able to make productive use of this down time.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Indeed I am right. It’s Magnolia Flatt.

  “Hey, Magnolia,” I say.

  She grunts. She’s sweeping, and doesn’t look happy about it. She’s sporting plaid shorts that are two sizes too small and six inches too short. Her makeup has been applied with her usual bricklayer’s finesse. Her eyeliner looks about as thick as the stripes painted on the expressways back home.

  “How are you doing?” I ask her.

  “How does it look like I’m doing?”

  “Doesn’t the hotel have people to do that?”

  “Tell that to Cantwell.”

  “Ah.” Now she’s making a half-assed attempt to sweep the dirt into a dustpan. “Is he kind of mad at you right now?”

  “What gave you that idea, Einstein?”

  Not only is her ineptness painful to watch, I decide I have an opportunity here. I grab the dustpan. “Let me help you.”

  She eyes me and snickers. “In that get-up? I don’t think so. Cantwell will only blame me if you get dirty.”

  “I won’t get dirty. Plus we’re done with the shoot anyway and this gown has to get dry cleaned when I get home.” I bend down and hold the dustpan. “Come on.”

  We work in silence since I can’t think of an opening gambit. Eventually I plunge right in. “You know, I spoke with Misty about the whole videotaping thing.”

  “So?”

  “So there’s one thing I still don’t understand.”

  “That’s your problem, queenie, not mine.”

  “Listen, Magnolia.” I grab the broom and force her to look at me. “Do you or do you not want to keep your job with the Ms. America organization?”

  She hems and haws a few times but finally answers. “Yeah, I want to keep it.”

  “Okay, then. Maybe I can help you. I’m the new title-holder and so I have some yank with Mr. Cantwell.” If that’s true, it’s not because I’m the title-holder. It’s because I know he surreptitiously entertained murder victim Tiffany Amber in his penthouse suite. “I could intercede with him on your behalf. But I’m not going to if you keep being snarky and unhelpful.”

  She rolls her eyes. “All right. Whaddaya wanna know?”

  “I want to know what Misty meant when she said you didn’t get her the videotape she needed. What videotape was that?”

  “You really wanna know?” She puts her hand on her hip. “All right, I’ll tell you. Videotape of Tiffany Amber and that torch guy Keola. Doing you know what. Or as close to them doing you know what as I could get.”

  “Why would you agree to get that for her?”

  “Because she said that if I didn’t, she’d go to Cantwell.”

  “And tell him that you were trying to get damning video of one of the contestants to put up on YouTube.”

  “And for sure he’d can my ass.”

  “For sure he would.” He still may, is what I’m thinking. “So Misty must have been pretty ticked off that you couldn’t get the video of Tiffany and Keola.”

  “Oh, I got it,” Magnolia says. “Only problem is, Tiffany saw me.”

  “You’re kidding! What did she do?”

  “She scared the bejesus out of me. I thought she was gonna rip me a new one.”

  Boy, I wish I’d been a lizard on the lanai wall for that confrontation. It gives me the willies to imagine how livid uber competitive Tiffany Amber must have been on seeing her chance of winning the pageant about to evaporate. “You can’t be surprised she went ballistic.”

  “Let’s just say she had no trouble prying out of me that Misty put me up to it.”

  Knowing that her chief rival was behind the plot would’ve made Tiffany even more enraged. “Did she smack you or something?” I for one would put my money behind Tiffany in a cat fight.

  “She grabbed the camera out of my hand and ripped out the memory card.”

  I wonder what happened to the memory card. Maybe the cops found it in Tiffany’s hotel room. Maybe that, and not the smell of citronella, led them to Keola the morning after the finale.

  “Then that Keola guy laughed,” Magnolia says, “and said Tiffany should do the exact same thing Misty did. Get me to videotape Misty and that chopper pilot guy and put that up on YouTube.”

  Turnabout is fair play. And of course Keola knew about Dirk and Misty. I note that the more I learn about Keola, the more conniving he appears.

  “Keola even knew where I could catch the two of them,” Magnolia says.

  “Really? Where?”

  “The chopper guy’s sister owns a bed and breakfast. This funky joint about half an hour away. That one afternoon when you all had off, I went there with the camcorder. And I caught them.”

  “But I gather that unlike Tiffany, Misty didn’t see you.”

  Magnolia smirks. “Let’s just say she was otherwise engaged.”

  “I can guess why you agreed to videotape Misty and Dirk. Because otherwise Tiffany would go to Cantwell. Boy, you got it coming and going.”

  Magnolia rephrases in her own unique way. “Both those bitches blackmailed my ass.”

  But only one survived to tell the story.

  I eye Magnolia, who’s scuffing the floor with her shoe. She is one resentful character. “Why do you hate beauty queens so much?” I ask her.

  She looks up. “You’re all so fake. There’s this whole pretense about how all-American and apple pie you are but half of you are skanky as hell.”

  “Hardly.”

  She shrugs. “I just think the world should know that it’s a big giant fraud.”

  “I still don’t get it. If you find the pageant world so disgusting, why do you want to keep the job?”

  “What else am I gonna do?”

  Magnolia Flatt is so negative. But even someone with a better attitude would be damn eager to get back at both Misty and Tiffany. Given all this, Magnolia has to be c
onsidered a suspect. She did have backstage access as well.

  And does this ever explain Misty’s outrage toward Tiffany! Misty’s blackmailing scheme backfired big time, since it was Misty and not Tiffany who ended up on YouTube exposed as the philandering wife unworthy of the Ms. America crown.

  Magnolia goes back to her desultory sweeping and I wander away. Is there someone else I should be considering as a possible suspect? Dirk Ventura comes to mind. If he cared for Misty, he might want to take Tiffany out. After all, Tiffany did wrong Misty, though much of it was Misty’s own doing. But then again, maybe Ventura was in it only for the sex. That jibes better with the only other thing I know about him, that he lays bets with other guys about who he can seduce.

  I’m about to go back to my front-row seat in the empty auditorium when I hear footsteps behind me in the backstage area. These are way too purposeful to be made by Magnolia. Then I hear voices. It’s Cantwell and somebody else. I sidle up against the wall and listen.

  “—before and I’ll say it again. You’re barmy if you think whoever killed that woman is part of the pageant! I tell you, man, look outside this organization.”

  Cantwell said the same thing to me the morning after the finale. It’s his enduring refrain. Whoever he’s talking to, a man apparently, mumbles something I can’t make out. Is it Momoa?

  Cantwell again. “And for God’s sake, put some welly into the damn investigation! Keeping all these women here so you can trundle along at your snail’s pace is costing me a bloody fortune. This goes on one day longer, I’ll have my barristers draw up a suit.”

  If it’s not Momoa he’s talking to, it’s somebody else from Oahu PD. And as it occurred to me last night, Cantwell does not like having to pay to keep us all here on the island, rich as he is.

  The footsteps get closer. I realize I’d better reveal myself or it’ll be clear I’m eavesdropping. I stride toward center stage as if to head down to the auditorium floor when Cantwell calls my name. I spin around. “Yes, sir?” I see then that it is Momoa with Cantwell.

  Cantwell frowns at me. “The detective has something to discuss with you.”