Ms America and the Offing on Oahu

by Dempsey, Diana

  “I can’t wait a year!” Trixie yelps. “Maybe I’ll come see you sometimes when you’re traveling for Ms. America. Like if you’re in the south or something.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” Shanelle agrees.

  A server sets a plate of food down in front of me. Grilled mahi mahi with some sort of delicious-looking salsa, exotic vegetables, cous cous with pine nuts…

  Shanelle peers down at her identical plate. “You’re not all I’m gonna miss, girl. How am I ever gonna get used to my own food again?”

  We all dig in. A few minutes later I look around the banquet hall. “You know who I don’t see here? Misty Delgado.”

  “Oh—” Shanelle jabs her fork in the air. “She’s gone. I saw her check out this morning, her and her husband. She was loaded down but he wouldn’t carry a single one of her bags. Did you hear Ventura’s supposed to get out of the hospital this afternoon?”

  “I did hear that,” I say. From Momoa, who seems relieved I don’t intend to hog the crime-solving spotlight. “But apparently he won’t be able to fly for several days at least, until all the poison’s worked its way out of his system.”

  Magnolia, decked out in a supertight hot pink sundress that matches the eye shadow she’s plastered on her lids, approaches the dais. “So you’re flying back home this afternoon, right?” she says to me.

  “Yes.”

  “Since my last check from Cantwell cleared, I decided to start working again. So you’re gonna get an email from me.”

  “Okay. Glad to hear you’re back on the job.” I think.

  “It’s about scheduling your appearances.”

  “Ooh, that’s exciting!” Trixie claps her hands. “You’re going to be in such demand, Happy. You’re a total celebrity now because of this whole murder-solving thing. A beauty queen and a sleuth to boot! She’s getting tons of requests, right, Magnolia?”

  Magnolia looks away. “Maybe.”

  “That’s a yes,” Shanelle mutters.

  “Oh, and I’m supposed to give you this.” Magnolia hands me an envelope and waddles away.

  “What is it?” my mother wants to know.

  Maybe it’s my prize money! But no. I pull a handwritten letter out of a heavily-scented envelope. “It’s from Sally Anne Gibbons.” It turns out Sally Anne has a beautiful hand and a nice way with the written word. Who would’ve thunk it?

  “What does she say?” Trixie asks.

  I return the letter to the envelope. “She had to fly out this morning but she wanted to thank me for helping to clear her name. You know, over the gown-registry snafu?”

  I asked Detective Momoa if one of his minions would write a blurb to post on the Crowning Glory web site, with the official Oahu PD seal, noting that a “third party,” who would remain nameless, was responsible for inputting incorrect data into her registry. It makes clear that no blame should be assigned to Sally Anne or to her shop, so pageant contenders should have every confidence about making their purchases there.

  “Sally Anne asks if I’ll put my picture and an endorsement on her site, too,” I say. “I’m happy to do that.” Maybe I’ll shop at Crowning Glory for pageant wear for Ms. World. Now that I’ve won Ms. America, I’ll compete, representing the U.S. of A. How exciting is that!

  The luncheon winds to a close. People empty the banquet hall, eager now to catch their flights home. I have only the tiniest goodbye moment with Mario, what with him sitting next to the vice chairman. Probably that’s best.

  While my mom is in the ladies room and Jason snaps a few last pictures, I amble to the lobby lounge, filling now with travelers who are just arriving on the island. They’re suntan-free and boasting fresh leis around their necks. I watch Keola wander in from the beach, wearing his loincloth and floral wreath. Unaware of me, he stands barefoot in the corner assessing the newcomers. I watch his eyes alight on a pair of attractive young women who appear to have traveled to Oahu on their own.

  Good luck, ladies.

  Cordelia squawks once in my direction. I look at her and swear she’s staring straight at me. Maybe she senses I’m going and is giving me a macaw goodbye.

  It’s nice to hear. But I much prefer hello.

  Diana loves to hear from readers! E-mail her at www.dianadempsey.com and be sure to sign up for her mailing list while you’re there to hear first about her new releases. Also join her on Facebook and follow her on Twitter.

  If you enjoyed Happy Pennington’s adventures on Oahu, you’ll love what she gets up to in Sin City! Continue reading for an excerpt from Ms America and the Villainy in Vegas, the second installment in the mystery series readers call “wonderful,” “funny,” and “a perfect summer beach read.”

  MS AMERICA AND THE VILLAINY IN VEGAS

  (Beauty Queen Mysteries, No. 2)

  Beauty queen and budding sleuth Happy Pennington returns, this time to gaudy, garish Las Vegas …

  When Happy pulls bridesmaid duty for pageant-wear purveyor Sally Anne Gibbons, the last thing she expects to find at the altar is a corpse. But at these over-the-top nuptials that’s what she gets: a dead best man and a groom who just might be the killer.

  Sometimes it seems everybody in Sin City has a secret, from the cocktail waitress trying to land a reality-show gig to the silver-haired cougar with a penchant for blackjack dealers. Maybe hunky pageant emcee Mario Suave is hiding something, too: like the hots for everybody’s favorite beauty queen ...

  CHAPTER ONE

  Never in my life have I seen a bridesmaid dressed as a showgirl. Until I turn and look at myself in the mirror.

  “Sally Anne Gibbons.” I tug my rhinestone-encrusted push-up bra a tad higher. “I cannot believe you’re making us wear this to your wedding.”

  “This is Vegas, baby.” Sally Anne lifts her double chin and glowers at me. “Roll with it.”

  My fellow bridesmaid Shanelle is attempting to pry her thong out of the nether regions into which it has largely disappeared. “I haven’t flashed this much skin since I gave birth. Are you sure you don’t want, I don’t know, a classier look?”

  “It’s a little late for that now, don’t you think? I’m getting hitched in fifteen minutes.” Sally Anne’s inch-long red fingernails flip a coppery curl behind her ear. “Besides, if I wanted classy, would I be getting married on the Strip?”

  Shanelle and I glance at one another. Perhaps a more rhetorical question has never been posed.

  “What’s your problem, anyhow?” Sally Anne smooths her sequin-studded sateen. “You two prance around onstage wearing nothing more than a few inches of Lycra.”

  True. That’s what beauty queens do. “But that’s in the name of pageant competition,” I remind her.

  “This is in the name of wedded bliss,” Sally Anne shoots back. “Which I am due for, big time.”

  As for myself, I’ve enjoyed wedded bliss for seventeen years now, half my life. Safe to say I married young. But I can understand what Sally Anne’s driving at.

  “I’m 54 years old!” By now she’s shouting. “I’m a bride for the very first time!” She throws her arms wide. “I want a big fat shindig that nobody will ever forget!”

  Shanelle straps on a spangled choker and hands me its evil twin. “Well, if you have to wait that long, I guess you can do whatever the hell you please.”

  “You got that right, sister. Now let’s get this show on the road. I don’t want to give Frank time to think twice.” Sally Anne points across the bridal dressing lounge at two rather frothy items calling our names. “Put on your headdresses and let’s skedaddle.”

  Flowers in the hair? Lovely. A small veil? A nice touch. But Shanelle and I are called upon to sport two feet of ostrich plumes atop a spangled crown.

  Shanelle sidles closer. “How many ostriches gave their lives for these things?”

  “Whole flocks of them.” I settle it on my head. “It doesn’t sit nearly as well as my tiara.”

  Yes, I am the proud owner of a tiara. From when I, Happy Pennington, representing
the Great State of Ohio, won the title of Ms. America in the nation’s foremost beauty pageant for married women. I’ve just begun my reign and so far it’s everything I ever dreamed it would be. I didn’t win in quite the usual way but we don’t have time to get into that now.

  Shanelle Walker, otherwise known as Ms. Mississippi, roomed with me on Oahu during the pageant. Now she’s one of my best friends.

  Sally Anne, not so much. Because she’s the founder of Crowning Glory Pageant Shoppe here in Las Vegas, the largest full-service pageant-wear purveyor west of the Mississippi, I’ve known her for years. And once you help somebody dodge a murder rap—another aspect of the long story to which I referred earlier—I guess they feel closer to you than they did before.

  By the way, she asked me to stand up for her just last week, which is why Shanelle and I are only now getting wind of what we’re required to wear. Sally Anne knew our sizes from Crowning Glory’s database, not that those are so hard to guess for our ilk. Shanelle and I may illustrate that we beauty queens come in a variety of colors—me a pale-skinned brunette and Shanelle more a darkish toffee—but take any two of us and you’ll find that we’re pretty much all the same size: skinny and tall.

  “One more thing,” Sally Anne says behind me. I turn to see her holding out two, shall we say, unique bouquets.

  “Are those … spray painted, Sally Anne?”

  “You bet they are. I got the brainstorm to spray gold metallic paint on white roses. You’ve never seen anything like ‘em, I bet.”

  It is safe to say that I have not.

  Shanelle and I do one last check in the mirror as Sally Anne sashays out of the room. We are also sporting white gloves that extend above the elbow and are ornamented by rhinestone bracelets. “Is nothing real here?” Shanelle mutters.

  “Let’s hope this romance is real,” I whisper back. “I get the impression Sally Anne didn’t know Frank very long before he popped the question.” And given what she told us, she probably said yes before Frank got all four words of the proposal out of his mouth.

  Shanelle straightens her choker. “Too bad you didn’t bulldoze Sally Anne into letting Trixie be a bridesmaid, too.”

  “I should have.” Trixie Barnett is our other best friend from the pageant. She’s from North Carolina and is the reigning Ms. Congeniality. “I miss her.”

  “I do, too.” Shanelle heaves a sigh. “We can’t keep putting it off, girl. We best get out there.”

  “I suppose so.” I feel unbelievably naked. As the foremost representative of the Ms. America pageant, I am called upon to maintain a dignified appearance at all times. That’s no easy trick in this getup but how can I not hew to the bride’s wishes? The last time I was a bridesmaid I had to wear yards of iridescent blue satin fashioned into huge poufs. At the time I thought it was hideous but now I miss all that fabric. “Do you think maybe Sally Anne forgot to hire a photographer?”

  Apparently she hears me from the hallway. “Fat chance. In fact, the whole shebang is gonna be streamed live over the Web. There are hidden cameras all over the chapel.”

  “Fabulous.” I hope none of the cameras zero in on my thong. I wish Sally Anne had popped for the fantail she reported having considered. I force myself to step outside the dressing room into a sort of holding area behind the chapel. We’re not in a church, mind you. We’re in the Cosmos Hotel, one of the big hotels on the Vegas Strip. And when I say big, do I mean big. Of course, everything in Vegas is humungous. They don’t do anything on a modest scale here.

  Shanelle is peering into the chapel through a door left partly open. I sidle next to her, righting my plumage as I walk. Apparently these ostrich feathers do not care to point heavenward even on approach to a chapel. “How many guests are there?”

  “Seventy or so. Hey, I see your mom. It was nice of you to bring her to Vegas. How’s she doing?”

  “Only mediocre.”

  “Still bummed about the divorce?”

  “It’s not really that surprising. They were married almost fifty years. I asked Pop to come on this trip since he couldn’t go to Oahu but he didn’t want to.” I don’t say why. It bothers me, though since the divorce he has every right. “Jason would’ve come but he couldn’t get off pit school this weekend,” I add.

  She chuckles. “Your husband, the NASCAR stud. When he finishes his training, he’s gonna get hired on some pit crew, girl. I just feel it. You best prepare yourself.”

  “I know. I’m trying.” I had to push Jason into pit school, even though he’s wanted to go forever, but now that he’s there he’s really getting into it. I’m kind of taken aback by how much.

  “And Rachel’s a senior now, right? How goes the whole applying-to-college thing?”

  “She’s studying for the SATs. Which is why she’s not here this weekend.” I don’t mention that Rachel has proposed a course of action other than college next year. I cannot dwell on that possibility or I’ll get too upset. Just so you know, I was Rachel’s age when I got pregnant. I don’t let myself think about that much, either, but when I do I understand my mom a whole lot better. “What’s the latest with Lamar and Devon?”

  We’re just getting started on Shanelle’s husband and son when Sally Anne appears behind us. “Follow me,” she instructs.

  We wend our way to the wide corridor outside the chapel’s entrance. It’s teeming with the usual Vegas horde, people on their way to or from the gigantic lobby-level casino, a midday show, a restaurant, or the Olympic-size pool beyond a glass panel. And before us, behind wide double doors, is the Forever Yours chapel, which according to its signage offers nuptial services of the quickie or planned variety.

  That’s not all that’s in front of us.

  Shanelle sets her hands on her hips. “Whoa! Is that a Rolls Royce or is that a Rolls Royce?”

  I’ve never seen one like it. Convertible. Mirrored exterior. Hot pink leather interior. Uniformed chauffeur behind the wheel.

  “Of course it’s a Rolls.” Sally Anne hoists herself atop the rear bench seat. “This is Vegas, baby!” she chortles.

  “Why does she keep saying that?” I mutter to Shanelle. I attempt to follow Sally Anne into the Rolls but she leans forward and slaps my fishnet-stockinged leg.

  “Are you crazy?” she demands. “You think I’m gonna make my entrance with you two in the car? Nobody’ll give me so much as a glance! You walk behind.”

  “No way!” Shanelle says. “The bridesmaids always go first up the aisle.”

  “Not this time, sister. I want all eyes on me.”

  I gesture to Shanelle to retreat. It is Sally Anne’s Big Day, after all.

  We get into position behind the Rolls. A middle-aged woman in a pastel suit emerges from the chapel to huddle with Sally Anne. I’m guessing she’s the wedding planner.

  A few minutes later she gives Shanelle and me the high sign. Apparently all systems are go. The chapel’s double doors swing slowly open.

  By this point I wouldn’t expect anything traditional out of this wedding, but to my amazement I hear the opening strains of Wagner’s “Bridal Chorus” pipe from the music system. On a more unconventional note, pink smoke billows from a fog machine, providing rather a contrast with the dignity of the processional music. Of course, neither the Rolls nor the showgirl costumes are exactly elegant touches.

  The Rolls moves forward. Shanelle and I follow clutching our sprayed rose bouquets. On both sides of the aisle guests stand and crane their necks in our direction. Ahead at the altar I spy the tuxedoed groom and best man.

  Frank Richter, Sally Anne’s intended, can best be described as burly. He’s not the tallest of individuals, nor has he been gifted with a full head of hair. Most of what remains has faded from brown to gray. But I am happy to see that his eyes positively glow as they fix on his bride.

  Frank’s best man is his nephew Danny. He’s good-looking in a bad-boy way. He sports stubble along his chiseled jaw line and clearly puts in the hours in the gym. He has kind of a cocky attitu
de, too, I can tell, even though he’s just standing there.

  “Are my eyes playing tricks,” Shanelle whispers, “or does the best man have a black eye?”

  “He does. That’s weird.”

  Even stranger, though, is that by this point I am having trouble seeing what’s ahead of me. The rose-colored smoke is doing a bang-up job of filling the chapel.

  Beside me Shanelle coughs. “Dang, I hope my asthma doesn’t act up.”

  “What’s going on with this smoke?” a man bellows from the east forty.

  Soon all I can see is the rear of the Rolls and Sally Anne’s hulking outline up top. I note that Shanelle is no longer the only person coughing. As we creep up the aisle, I hear hacking from every quarter. An older woman stumbles past me making for the exit, her hand over her mouth. It’s not my mom, though I can hardly imagine she’s sitting still through this. Then I hear a few popping sounds.

  “Now the damn Rolls is backfiring,” I manage to spit out. I’m close to wheezing. Poor Sally Anne. She may have a hard edge but I want her to be happy. I don’t think that’ll be the case if her wedding guests get asphyxiated. I clutch Shanelle’s arm. “Is it just me or are you feeling dizzy, too?”

  “I’m way past dizzy,” Shanelle gasps. “I can barely get air in my lungs. I can’t take much more of this.”

  “Then get out, Shanelle. If you can’t breathe, get out.”

  She needs no more encouragement to bolt. And she has lots of company. This chapel is emptying faster than a beach after a shark sighting.

  I’m trying to decide whether I, as an official personage in this event, should take action to prevent Sally Anne’s wedding guests from suffocating when the bride herself rears up from the Rolls.

  “Stop the music!” she yowls. “And stop the goddamn fog machine!”

  Good! —I think. Sally Anne’s taking charge. I’m surprised Frank isn’t.