Ms America and the Offing on Oahu

by Dempsey, Diana

  Rex remains silent. Then, “I want him to live his life.” The words choke on a sob. “If I can’t, at least he can.”

  “But is that fair? To you?”

  Rex looks at me. A tear streams down his cheek. “Tell me what’s fair. What’s fair for his daughters? They’re such little girls, such adorable little girls. They’ve lost their mother. Because of me. How can I take their father away from them, too?”

  “It’s not you taking their father away. It’s their father taking himself away. Because of things he never should have done.” I can tell I’m making Rex think. “If he did the same wrong things you did, Rex, he should not allow you to take all the blame. That’s not fair to you. You’re very concerned about how fair you’re being to him. How about how fair he’s being to you?”

  He shakes his head. “I can’t help you get him.”

  Much as I cajole, plead, and beg, Rex refuses to say another word.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  I have this thing about beating my head against a wall. I don’t like it. So eventually, I leave Rex Rexford to his own devices.

  It’s no fun admitting defeat to Momoa.

  “You did your best,” he tells me. He’s all warm and fuzzy with me now. It’s kind of amazing.

  It’s when I’m back at the Royal Hibiscus scanning the overpriced gum at the sundries shop when who do I see purchasing a six-pack of chilled Longboard Island Lager but Tony Postagino. It’s clear from his trunks, T shirt, and sunburned nose that he’s just come from a long basking session at the beach or pool. He looks way too relaxed and happy for my taste.

  I force myself not to stare at him as he completes his transaction but I let my gaze trail him as he departs the shop. He’s just exited when I watch him cock his head at another man who’s lounging against the wall across the lobby, wearing a similar trunks and tee shirt get-up. He’s blond, like Rex, and about Rex’s age, and looks like he’s spent the better part of the day outside, too. The man waits ten seconds or so, then looks around him and follows Postagino to the elevator bank. Postagino’s already gone up.

  No, this isn’t proof of anything. But it prompts me to call Momoa, who gets Rex on the jailhouse phone to talk to me. I relate what I just witnessed. And I add, “Look, I know you said you want Tony to live his life. But is this really what you meant?”

  He says nothing for a long while. Then, “Maybe you’ve got a point.”

  “You know I do. Now tell me. Was he involved in Tiffany’s murder?”

  He hesitates for a few seconds but then it all comes spilling out. “Yes and no. He came up with the plan. And he got the cyanide. But I’m the one who actually did it. And he had nothing to do with that breakfast drink of yours. That was all me. And I’m so sorry. I can never apologize enough for that.”

  “That’s okay.” I can’t believe I’m saying that. “I survived and Dirk survived and I’ll have a heck of a story to tell my grandchildren.”

  He sniffles but says nothing. I may be crazy but I get the sense that on some level he feels better.

  “Rex,” I go on, “make up for what you did to me by helping me out now. Please. I have an idea but I need your help.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  “Okay,” Shanelle says. “You got to run this whole thing past me one more time.”

  “I need to hear it again, too,” Trixie says.

  My mother is silent. But you could see the confusion in her eyes from Molokai.

  We’re in the room Shanelle and I share. Trixie is splayed on the floor by my bed, my mom is in the desk chair, Shanelle is perched on her bed, and I’m standing in front of the French doors that open to the balcony. The room still smells of papaya shrimp and chicken satay because we just finished the room-service lunch I popped for. I insisted that no one order a tiki tiki drink, not to save money but because we all need clear heads. People with nothing on their minds but fun are nine floors below frolicking in the pool. It’s a little irritating that we can hear them so clearly, but oh well. When we finish our assignment, and only when we finish it, may we join them.

  “What we’re going to do,” I say, “is write an email to Tony Postagino as if it were coming from Rex Rexford.”

  “And we have to write it in code,” Shanelle says.

  “Yes. Rex explained the code to me this morning.” I pace as if I were on the stage of a lecture hall. “Obviously, since he and Postagino were planning a murder, they couldn’t communicate with one another in straightforward language because that would leave a trail of evidence. So they devised a code.”

  Trixie shakes her head. She appears awestruck. “I never would have thought Rex had such a big brain. So big that he could write in code.”

  “Well, it’s not a very complicated code,” I say, “which is good for us.”

  “Didn’t the cops find it suspicious that they were in touch at all?” Shanelle asks. “I mean, I had a pageant consultant in the past and Lamar barely knew his name.”

  “But it is plausible,” I say, “that a contestant’s husband and a consultant would know one another, and strategize together. Some husbands get very involved in their wives’ pageant careers.”

  “Like Colleen Novotny’s husband,” Trixie offers.

  “That one from Vermont?” Shanelle asks. “You’re right. Her husband’s always butting into her business.”

  “Anyway,” I say, “Rex and Postagino were careful to establish a pattern of email traffic between them long before Tiffany came to Oahu. They traded emails about all sorts of Ms. America-related business. And they created an email account for Tiffany so that it would look like she was involved in the communication, too.”

  “Because it would seem extremely weird if she weren’t,” Trixie points out.

  “Exactly,” I say. “They cc’ed her and they wrote responses as if they were her. But she never even knew that account existed.”

  “Slimeballs,” Shanelle says, as if that were the worst thing they did.

  “Perverts,” my mother adds.

  “Moving right along. They had a system for signaling whether an email was a normal communication or in code.”

  “That’s where the commas and dashes come in,” my mother says.

  “Precisely.” I am glad my mom is taking this seriously. She groused at first, but once she saw Shanelle and Trixie were enthusiastic, she got into it. Anything that has to do with beauty queens—she’s in. “For a normal communication, in the greeting line they’d type the person’s name and follow it with a comma. Tony, comma. Rex, comma. But if it were in code—”

  “They’d follow the name with a dash!” Trixie yelps.

  “Yes. And to understand the coded message, they would read only the first letter of each word.” I hold up a sheet of the nightstand memo paper. “Here’s an example I came up with so everybody would understand. On the surface it reads: Try helping each contestant out. Perhaps she’ll … blah blah blah. But what,” I ask my three charges, “is the coded message?”

  I watch them all squint at the words and move their lips.

  Shanelle gets it first. “The cops!” she shouts.

  “Correct, Ms. Walker. So our mission—”

  “If we choose to accept it—” Trixie interrupts, and giggles.

  “—is to craft a coded message to Tony Postagino in the hope that he will respond in such a way that he incriminates himself. If that happens, Momoa will have a basis for arresting him.”

  “Because at this point in time, Momoa’s got nothin’,” Shanelle says.

  “Exactly right. He lacks sufficient evidence to bring him in.”

  “It doesn’t count,” Trixie says, “that Rex told you Tiffany’s husband was as involved as he was?”

  “That wouldn’t hold up in a court of law. It’s hearsay.”

  Trixie’s eyes widen. “You sound like a lawyer, Happy.”

  I have no ambition in that direction. But this investigating thing, at least when it works, and when you’re not about to get killed, is fun.


  “And tell us again,” Shanelle says, “what Momoa’s agreed to do?”

  “He has agreed that his guys from the police department will send the email to Postagino so that it looks like it came from Rex’s email account.”

  “That’s called spoofing,” Shanelle says.

  “He also agreed that, for the time being, Oahu PD will not make public two pieces of information. That Rex Rexford was arrested for Tiffany Amber’s murder—”

  “Or for the attempt on you,” Trixie says, then she winces. “Sorry, Mrs. P. I know you hate when anybody brings that up.”

  My mother does assume a sickly expression when that matter is raised, it’s true. “And,” I continue, “they will not release any information about why Sebastian Cantwell is being held.”

  “Because,” Trixie says, “everybody thinks it’s because he’s the murderer.”

  “Which is crucial to our plan. Because we want Tony Postagino, in particular, to think he and Rex are off the hook.”

  “We know better, though,” Shanelle says. “In particular, you know better, when it comes to Sebastian Cantwell. Am I right, Ms. Pennington?”

  “I am not at liberty to say,” I respond primly.

  “She’s on the inside now,” Trixie declares.

  Of course, Trixie and Shanelle and my mom think that my source for Sebastian Cantwell information is Detective Momoa. Only I know it’s Mario Suave. Because, I think with some gratification, only I know his secret.

  “Okay, ladies.” I begin handing out sheets of memo paper. “These are the four coded messages.”

  My mother frowns at hers. “ ‘I’m worried the cops are onto us,’ this says.”

  “ ‘We had a bad plan,’ ” says Trixie.

  I made sure to give myself a long one. I read it aloud. “ ‘I should have known we’d never get away with killing Tiffany.’ ”

  “Yours is too long for me, girl,” Shanelle says, then reads hers aloud. “ ‘Now I’m sick to death we’ll both get caught.’ ”

  “Yours is bad enough,” Trixie informs Shanelle.

  Shanelle lets fly an exaggerated sigh, then flops onto her stomach on the bed. “Girls, prepare yourselves. We gonna be here allllllllll night.”

  Actually, we’re sprung by the cocktail hour. I proudly call our coded message in to Momoa.

  Now we sit and wait.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Hours later, Shanelle and I are both asleep when the phone in our room rings.

  She sputters awake. I bolt upright in bed. “I’ll get it,” I tell her. The red numbers on the digital clock read 2:06. “Hello?” I say.

  “Ms. Pennington.”

  “Detective Momoa.” I told Momoa to call anytime so I’ve been expecting this call. Or should I say, hoping for it. If it is what I think it is.

  “About an hour ago we received an email response from Tony Postagino,” he tells me.

  I know what he means. ‘Rex Rexford’ received an email response. I cross my fingers in the air. “Did he bite?”

  “In coded language Postagino wrote: ‘Don’t worry. Haven’t you heard? Cantwell’s been arrested. We’re in the clear now.’ ”

  I don’t think I’ve ever heard sweeter words in my life. “Will that do it, Detective? Is that enough to get Postagino arrested for his wife’s murder?”

  “He’s in custody now. Investigators in California will be helping us out from that end.”

  I give Shanelle a thumbs-up and she raises her arm in a silent cheer.

  “So what does all this mean, Detective?” My voice is teasing. “Now that you’ve brought in the real fish, am I off the hook?”

  “That is correct, Ms. Pennington,” Momoa says.

  Other people might say he sounds exactly like normal. But I can tell he’s smiling.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  I am such a ham. I do so love being the center of attention.

  When I hear my name called, and it’s my moment to enter the Royal Hibiscus banquet hall where my fellow Ms. America contenders and their husbands and children are sitting at long tables, I get such a kick out of the raucous applause that rises to the beamed ceiling above. I wave gleefully, my grin stretching my mouth so wide I think my lips might split from the effort.

  “Thank you!” I cry. “Thank you so much!”

  Flashbulbs blind my eyes, not to mention the lights on the TV cameras just inches in front of my face. Cameramen are falling all over each other trying to get their shots but not get in my way—heaven forbid!—as I stride to the front of the hall. In short order I’ll be taking the place of honor at the front and center of the table elevated on the dais.

  Beneath my Ms. America sash I’m wearing a sleeveless black and white dress, very fitted and chic, black Gucci pumps with bamboo detail on the sky-high heels, and a stunning turquoise necklace. Shanelle, Trixie, and my mom helped me pick everything out this morning. For once I let loose and spent a fortune. Now all three are enjoying the benefits of nepotism and are seated at the table of honor, too, along with Jason and Mario Suave and my runner-up Sherry Philips and the outgoing Ms. America and the vice chairman of the Board of Directors of the pageant, who just flew in.

  I arrive at the front and take hold of the microphone the vice chairman passes to me. He’s already addressed the crowd, explaining what’s up with Sebastian Cantwell and that he’ll be running the organization until Mr. Cantwell can resume his duties, yada yada. From the corridor outside, I heard him put the best possible spin on the pageant owner’s alleged felonies. None of us knows how bad this really is for Cantwell. All we know is that he’s about to be released on some giant amount of bail.

  The applause lessens in intensity. That’s my cue. “Mr. Vice Chairman, Mario Suave,” I nod in their direction, “my fellow contestants, ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much. I am tremendously honored.”

  The applause crescendos again. I bow my head, wait a beat, and go on. “I don’t need to tell any of you that the Ms. America pageant has suffered terrible shocks over the last week. But I am confident that with the organization’s steady and committed leadership, the pageant will emerge stronger than ever from these challenging times.”

  I pause. More clapping. I glance at the vice chairman, who’s portly, red-faced, and beaming. I figure the more he likes me, the faster I get my prize money.

  “We will never forget our fellow contender, Ms. Tiffany Amber of Riverside, California.” Applause again, more tepid this time. “We offer our thoughts and our prayers to her two young daughters, her parents, and her sister.”

  You’ll note I omitted a notable family member from that roster.

  “I am very proud of the role I was able to play in assisting the Oahu police in their investigation.” Boy, am I being humble. “I hope the criminal case finds a swift resolution and justice is served.”

  Hearty applause that time, and Mario lets rip a hear, hear!

  “I look forward with great anticipation to my year of service, and to seeing many of you as I travel this great country of ours promoting Ms. America and all the wonderful causes it supports. And, don’t forget, be sure to set your DVRs to 8 PM on Tuesday, September 23rd, to catch the first episode of the new season of America’s Scariest Ghost Stories, hosted by our own Mario Suave!”

  Mario rises, waves at the crowd, blows me a kiss, and sits back down. Jason, who’s next to him, gives him a weak smile. I think he could have done without the blown kiss.

  “I know we all have planes to catch this afternoon, so let’s enjoy this terrific lunch prepared by the fabulous staff here at the Royal Hibiscus, which has been our home away from home these last several weeks. Safe travels, everyone, and see you all soon!”

  Now I clap, too, in acknowledgment of the servers moving swiftly among us bearing plates of food. I turn off the mike, hand it to the vice chairman, chat with him a bit, give Jason a kiss, sit down, and am about to catch my breath when my mother leans into me.

  “Do you know what that husband of
yours is up to?”

  “Mom, keep your voice down.”

  “Moving to another state to go to NASCAR school. Yes!” She slaps the table. Her silverware rattles.

  From down the table, I see Jason and Mario both glancing our way. “Sshhh.”

  “He can’t wait to spend your prize money!” she hisses.

  “For your information, mom,” I whisper, “I encouraged him to go to pit school. In fact, I practically pushed him into it.”

  She harrumphs. “Well, let him go, that’s all I have to say.”

  Trixie pats my mother’s arm, doing her best to quiet the woman down.

  I smile at Jason, who’s clearly trying to figure out the cause of the ruckus at my end of the table. He and I had a good chat this morning, before the shopping expedition, and things are more normal between us. It’s ironic that I pushed him into pit school, all in the name of “betterment,” because it’s coming home to me now just how much I’m going to miss him.

  Shanelle pipes up. “You did good, girl. And I don’t just mean in the crime-solving department. You been the best roommate a beauty queen could ever have. I don’t know how I’m going to sleep tonight without you there.”

  “Oh God, no.” The tears are coming. Not a good time. I start waving my hand rapidly in front of my face.

  “Oh Lord, me, too,” Shanelle says.

  Trixie sees us and her eyes fill. “I’m going to miss you both so much!”

  “Stop!” I say. “Just stop.” We all manage to control ourselves, with some effort. The waterworks threaten to resume, though, when I again open my mouth. “I hope you both know that I could never have done my investigating without you.”

  “I was happy to help,” Shanelle says.

  “I didn’t do much,” Trixie demurs.

  “Yes, you did. You both did. And we’re just going to have to make a vow to see each other at least once a year, regardless how much plane tickets cost.”