Ms America and the Villainy in Vegas

by Diana Dempsey

  I call Detective Perelli to bring her up to speed.

  “Fantastic work!” she cries. “You wanna join the force?”

  Okay, she said it in jest. It still makes me feel good.

  “We’ve been trying to get our hands on Blakely since yesterday,” she goes on. “Somebody filled in for him at the Ziana show last night.”

  Maybe it was Travis and not Mickey Rose who pushed me into the cryogenic chamber and conked Frank on the head. Maybe Travis didn’t go to work after his unsuccessful attempt on my life because he needed time to plan his next effort. That possibility shuts me up.

  Detective Perelli fills the silence. “Obviously now we’ll go after Rose, too. I’ll keep you informed.”

  As the call ends Jason returns from his run. He drops a kiss on my head then steps onto the balcony to let the fresh air cool him. “You feel okay?”

  “I feel fine.” Apart from terror every time I think about it, I am suffering no ill effects from my prolonged bout in the cryogenic chamber. Even the rosiness in my skin has abated. “You know that thing I was trying to figure out last night? I finally did.”

  Jason comes back inside. “Does that mean you know who pushed you into that chamber?”

  “Sort of. I mean I’m not positive but now we have a pretty good idea.”

  “We?”

  “Me and Detective Perelli.”

  “You’re leaving it all up to her now, right? No more investigating.”

  “No more,” I repeat, but I only half mean it.

  The puzzle isn’t entirely solved. We may know who Danny was blackmailing but we don’t know why. Nor do we know who shot him or stabbed Cassidy or tried to kill me. That’s a lot of unanswered questions.

  My mother shakes her finger in my direction. “You are going to church with me, young lady. You got a lot to be thankful for.”

  “That’s true.”

  “I’m going, too,” Jason declares, and I know why. He thinks I’m still in danger. And until a killer is in custody, I am.

  Jason returns to his room to shower and I change into what I consider a church-appropriate outfit: the pearl gray dress I wore to Danny’s wake. Faster than you can lose all your money at the crap tables, we’re at church.

  Our Lady of Perpetual Souls is a Catholic church of the contemporary variety, all glass and steel and concrete. Personally I prefer old-school construction when it comes to churches but I can see that might look out of place in a desert community.

  We sail all the way up to the front row because my mother will have it no other way. Maybe she wants to make sure she gets points for attendance from the Almighty.

  Growing up in a practicing Catholic family, I know the Mass by heart. I know when to stand, kneel, sit, donate, sing, remain silent, greet one’s neighbor—I’ve got it down. So does Jason. I give serious thanks for the fact that I’m still alive but after that my mind does wander. And since I have no blackmailing sins on my conscience, I really shouldn’t be concentrating on that particular transgression. Yet I do.

  What in the heck did Danny have on Mickey Rose? And what did Travis Blakely have to do with all of this? Was he his boss’s henchman?

  We come to the end of the Mass and launch into the final hymn, “Holy God We Praise Thy Name.” As we do so I commit the sin of snideness because I cannot help thinking how much better our area would sound if the woman behind us put a sock in it. Her voice is painfully off-tune yet she’s raising it to heaven with stunning abandon. I am always conscious of not foisting my own pathetic vocal efforts on my fellow churchgoers. Why can’t other people do the same? Why do people who can’t sing—

  I clamp my mouth shut as a realization dawns.

  Oh. My. Gosh. I’ve got it. By God I think I’ve got it.

  I think about it more, and the more I think about it, the more right I think I am.

  The hymn ends. I turn and smile at the woman behind me, who smiles back.

  I owe her one.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  “You won’t get away with this,” Mickey Rose tells me.

  There’s a big Sunday brunch crowd at the lower lobby level restaurant at the Cosmos Hotel, the location I suggested for this rendezvous. That’s part of the reason Detective Perelli and I settled on it when we concocted our scheme.

  “Would you like to sit close to or far from the lion cage?” the hostess inquires.

  “I don’t give a damn,” Mickey Rose replies.

  “We don’t need to be close,” I tell her. “I’ve already seen the lions.”

  I soon learn that Mickey Rose isn’t the gracious sort of man who motions his female companion to walk ahead of him to the table. He peels off after the hostess and I am forced to follow. We are seated on the mezzanine above the lion cage but so far back I can’t even see the beasts.

  The table at which we are seated is no accident, either. The LVMPD prearranged it with the restaurant. Armed undercover cops are seated at nearby tables. Jason is, too, because he refused to allow me to participate in this trap unless he was close at hand.

  Mickey Rose ignores the proffered menu but I take mine. “I’m starving,” I tell him. “I didn’t eat enough at breakfast.”

  He leans forward and lowers his voice. “Let me bring you up to speed on something, sweet cheeks. If you think the gravy train is about to leave the station, you’ve got another guess coming.”

  “I’m perfectly happy to buy my own lunch.”

  “Good luck getting a dime out of me today or any other day.”

  “Danny Richter got a lot more than a dime out of you.”

  “And look where he ended up. Let that be a lesson to you.”

  I’m hoping the wire hidden under my dress picked up that threat. I was told it would catch everything Mickey Rose says. Which is the whole point of this meeting.

  Suffice it to say, I’ve never done anything like this before. This takes amateur sleuthing to a whole new level. Detective Perelli and I are hoping I can get Mickey Rose to link himself to Danny or Cassidy’s murders so he can be charged for that crime along with Travis Blakely. Otherwise, unless physical evidence can be found, it may be that all we can nail Mickey Rose for is fraud.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

  “Something to drink?” a male server swings by to inquire.

  “How about arsenic for her and Diet Coke for me,” Mickey Rose suggests.

  “Actually, I’d prefer iced tea,” I say. The server, eyes wide, spins away. I set down my menu. “You know, I was amazed when I first learned that you gave Danny Richter a hundred thousand dollars to shut him up. That’s a lot of money. But really, it’s nothing compared to how much you stand to lose if the truth comes out.”

  “What’s this ‘truth’ you’re babbling about?” He realizes he said that too loudly and lowers his voice again. “Whatever you think you know, you got it all wrong.”

  “I think I know four things.” I tick them off on my fingers. “One: that you shot Danny Richter. Two: that you stabbed Cassidy Flanagan. Three: that you tried to kill me in the cryogenic chamber. And four: that for years now you’ve been perpetrating a fraud on the public.”

  “Listen to you. ‘Perpetrating a fraud.’ ” He makes a scoffing sound. “As if you even know what that means.”

  The server returns with our drinks. He glances at Mickey Rose with what I take to be trepidation. “Have you two decided what you’d like?”

  Mickey Rose speaks first. “I’d like this you know what to disappear from the face of the earth.”

  I pipe up next. “And I’d like the Greek salad. With a side of pita bread, please.”

  Again the server departs. I’m guessing he’ll ask the busboy to bring my meal when it’s ready.

  Mickey Rose leans close again. “For your information, you bimbo, I never once got near you until today. And I have no idea who these other people are that you keep going on about. Danny or Cassidy or whoever.”

  “So you made Travis Blakely actually commit th
e murders? Is that how it went down? LVMPD has him in custody, by the way. They picked him up a few hours ago.” I sip my iced tea. “I would guess he’s rolled over on you by now.”

  This time I get a reaction out of Mickey Rose. His expression freezes and he whitens a few shades. It takes him a few seconds to spit his next words past his lips. “Travis Blakely is a lowlife and a liar.”

  “That’s not a very nice way to talk about a loyal employee. So loyal that when you ordered him to shoot Danny Richter, he followed through.”

  Mickey Rose leans closer still. “If he followed through, it’s because he’s scared of me. And so should you be.”

  “Why? Because you’ll kill me, too?”

  He leans back in his chair. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I always knew beauty queens were stupid but until now I didn’t realize they were morons.”

  That’s the kind of comment that normally riles me up. Not today. “If I’m such a dim bulb, how did I manage to get out of the cryogenic chamber alive? Answer me that.”

  He’s silent. I wish I could lock him in the cryogenic chamber and see how he likes it.

  Above the hubbub of the restaurant I hear the tap tap tap that signals a microphone is being tested. The sound is coming from the lobby area across the lion cage, which is a level below the restaurant. Railings hold back the diners and iron bars partially overhang the cage.

  I watch Mickey Rose’s face. I have a strong feeling I’m going to enjoy what happens next. I smile sweetly. “Perfect timing.”

  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” a woman says into the mike. “I’ve got a little song for you.”

  “Shall we move closer so you can hear better?” I ask my companion. “I don’t want you to miss a note.”

  I would guess Mickey Rose to be a pretty unflappable guy but right now he seems flapped. Without a word to me, he stands up and stares across the cage at the adjoining lobby area. I would guess he’s focusing on the woman with the mike. Actually, I’ve got a mike, too, but he doesn’t know that. I rise to stand next to him so my wire can catch whatever he says. Plus I want to see his face while he watches this.

  The woman—young and blond but not terribly attractive—begins to sing. She has no music to accompany her. Her voice is fabulous: strong, clear, and emotional.

  “Wow,” I say. “Isn’t it amazing? She sounds exactly like Ziana.”

  The crowd thinks she does, too, I can tell. A murmur rises. People look at each other, confusion clear on their faces. They’re hearing a Ziana ballad but they’re not seeing Ziana sing it. For the life of them they can’t figure out why.

  I know why. And so does Mickey Rose.

  He starts shaking his head. “No. No.”

  “That’s one of Ziana’s biggest hits, am I right?” I cock my chin at the singer, who’s thrown back her head and is really letting it rip. “She sings Ziana songs only some of the time. The rest she works as a gondolier at the Rialto Hotel.”

  He ignores me and walks across the restaurant to the railing by the lion cage. I don’t know if it’s because the singer notices the movement but she looks in his direction. I swear that she and Mickey Rose stare at each other across the expanse. She doesn’t miss a note.

  Why would she? She’s a pro.

  It did take a little doing to get her to go public like this. But Detective Perelli can be very persuasive. Especially when she’s willing to cut a deal.

  I move forward to stand next to Mickey Rose. “Remember that group Milli Vanilli? It was a long time ago but I have a feeling you do. Anyway, they were really successful, too, until it came out they were only lip-syncing. It ended really badly for them. And for their producer, too. Talk about the gravy train stopping.”

  Just as I’m thinking maybe I shouldn’t have egged him on so much, he turns toward me. I see fire in his eyes. “You meddlesome bitch,” he snarls, “how the hell did you not die in that chamber?” He lurches forward and goes for my throat. I am dimly aware of the diners around us rising out of their seats, Jason among them.

  It’s funny how sometimes exactly what you need comes to you at exactly the right moment. I’ve been doing eye-high kicks all week in the Sparklettes rehearsals. I decide now is the time to do just one more.

  I yank up my body-hugging dress to free up my leg and send my right foot toward the heavens at the fastest speed I can manage. I’m not sure what body parts I hit along the way but I don’t much care so long as they belong to Mickey Rose.

  He lets go of my neck and staggers back a few feet, at a darn good clip, too. His arms flail as his butt connects with the railing. He’s got a really surprised expression as he tumbles backward and whoosh!—he is gone, gone, gone, over the railing and into the lion cage.

  I, and many of my fellow diners, race forward. Now I see that indeed the three lionesses are in there. It’s a good thing he didn’t crash land on any of them. They might not have liked that. He scrambles to his feet—good thing the cage has a soft, grassy floor, too—and I watch the lionesses amble closer to give him a sniff. He doesn’t look nearly as cocky now as he did before. I spy the trainer grabbing open the door at the opposite end of the cage—plus I know cops have been stationed all over this lobby level to take Mickey Rose in—so I imagine he’ll make it out of the cage okay.

  After that, it’s anybody’s guess.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  “Everybody strapped in?” cries the crane operator. “You all ready to eat the wedding dinner a couple hundred feet off the ground?”

  Two dozen of us are strapped into seats around a rectangular dining table suspended from a 200-ton crane. Above us is a glass ceiling, as wide and long as the table. Soon all there will be below the platform to which our chairs are attached is open sky. We give the thumbs up for this twilight ride, some with more confidence than others. I’m on the more confident side because, well, you know me. Ms. America Happy Pennington is always up for adventure.

  “How about the bride and groom?” the crane guy hollers. “Sally Anne and Frank, you two good to go?”

  “Yessirree!” Frank shouts and we all cheer. He’s in his tux again, just as he was at the Forever Yours wedding chapel.

  “You bet!” Sally Anne bellows. She’s wearing her wedding gown and is beaming so bright she rivals the neon on the nearby Strip. “This is Vegas, baby!” she yowls as the dining table begins, slowly but surely, to elevate.

  I grasp Jason’s hand. “Tell me this isn’t worth staying an extra night for!”

  “No can do, baby.” He looks handsome in a tan houndstooth sport coat and light blue shirt we bought on an emergency-shopping expedition after we learned that Sally Anne and Frank would be exchanging vows before a justice of the peace.

  I’m wearing the strapless number with the swishy skirt that Trixie and Shanelle bought me to leave the hospital. I sure as heck do not miss the showgirl ensemble I had to sport for Sally Anne’s first nuptial attempt. I grin at my fellow beauty queens across the table. “Can you believe this?”

  “I cannot!” Shanelle cries.

  “What’ll they come up with next?” Trixie wants to know.

  They both look adorable. Shanelle is in a pastel number with a twisted-bust and bubble hem and Trixie is wearing her maxi dress with the peacock feathers pattern. My mom’s dolled up, too, in a purple pantsuit with ornamental gold buttons.

  She surprised me by wanting to invite Eddie Wozniak, dressed nattily in suit and tie. I hope his stupendous bowels hold up to dinner suspended above the Strip. Along with Sally Anne and Frank’s best friends, we’re also joined by Detective Perelli, her Uncle Vinny, Elaine from the Sparklettes, and Samantha St. James.

  I chatted with Samantha before we sat down at the table. She admitted she feared that Brandon might have shot Danny to get him out of her life, and more to the point, out of her bank accounts. Since he won’t agree to seek serenity through her psychic advisor, she’s hoping he’ll see a counselor. I do, too.

  Soon it appears we re
ach our final cruising altitude of 180 feet because the crane stops lifting us. That’s about the same height as the 18th-floor room I shared with my mom at the Cosmos. Here, too, as on our balcony, a light breeze ruffles my hair and the sound of the Strip is muted to a dull roar.

  Las Vegas shimmers and glows, gaudy lady that she is. I will never forget the week I spent here. I am so happy that Sally Anne got her wish. She’s married her Frankie, and while he has a few things to work on, I know he loves her with all his heart.

  We should all be so lucky. And some of us are. I remind myself of that every time a thought of Mario Suave creeps into my brain.

  Frank calls out from the head of the table. “I’m not gonna stand up,” he begins and we all roar. That’s a big no no at this wedding reception. “But I do wanna say a few words. First and foremost, I’m at the top of the world right now and it’s not just because of the crane. It’s because of this lady right here.”

  He pauses not only to grasp Sally Anne’s hand but to compose himself. I feel tears sting my own eyes.

  “A few people said to me a while back, Frankie, how can you get engaged so fast? You barely know that Sally Anne! Well, I’ll tell you what I told them. At my age, when love kicks you upside the head, you don’t turn it away. You grab it and run away with it and hold on tight.”

  Frank looks in my direction. “I needed to be reminded of that a few times this past week. But I’ll never forget it again. So let us toast”—he raises his flute and we all follow his lead—“to a long and happy life for all of us here present and to a peaceful rest for those who will never be able to join us again.”

  “Hear, hear,” a few people say, and we sip our champagne. Three tuxedoed men stand in the open rectangle of space in the middle of the table, refreshing our glasses and serving our appetizer. As she suggested she might when I brought Chinese food to Crowning Glory, Sally Anne did switch the opening course to crab-stuffed mushrooms.