Ms America and the Villainy in Vegas

by Diana Dempsey

  Shanelle leans forward. “Happy, you have got to give us a final run-through of how things stand! So who was the killer? Travis Blakely or Mickey Rose?”

  “It was Travis. Mickey Rose ordered him to kill Danny to stop the blackmailing. Travis went rogue when he killed Cassidy. He confessed he got scared that she knew he shot Danny. So he stabbed her to keep her quiet.”

  It’s so tragic. I bet Cassidy had no idea Travis was the guilty party. She seemed comfortable with him when I saw them together at the faux volcano eruption. But I’ll never know for sure.

  “We have located the probable murder weapon,” Detective Perelli jumps in to say. She’s sitting a few guests to my left, wearing a black fit-and-flare sleeveless dress with a vintage flair. “We have to complete the ballistics tests but we found the weapon in Mickey Rose’s safe.”

  “So if the tests come back like Detective Perelli expects,” I say, “she’ll be able to link Mickey Rose to the murder.”

  “Who pushed you into the cryogenic chamber, Happy?” Trixie wants to know.

  “That was Travis.” He almost did to me what he did to Cassidy, for the same reason: fear that I was getting too close to the truth.

  Boy, am I proud of myself that I did eventually get to the truth. Those brain cells of mine did manage to come through in the end. I am getting really close to believing that it’s no fluke that I was able to solve a murder on Oahu and again here in Vegas.

  Really close.

  Jason pipes up with a question for the table. “Does anybody know how Danny Richter found out in the first place that Ziana couldn’t sing?”

  Detective Perelli has that answer. “Apparently Blakely let it slip during a drinking binge with Richter.”

  That was a fateful mistake on Travis Blakely’s part and Danny ran with it. He certainly made the most of all illegal moneymaking opportunities.

  “How did you figure out about the lip-syncing, Happy?” Trixie asks.

  I relay what happened in church. “There was also something Trixie said last night at the Rialto, about how we weren’t really dancers but only played them on stage. When I thought about that and remembered seeing the female gondolier at the recording studio, it came together in my mind.”

  We move on to Chicken Kiev with sides of new potatoes and peas. I hear a tinkle of laughter to my right coming from Samantha, who’s wearing a pink and white sheath. I wonder how many of those she owns.

  Trixie leans forward to whisper. “I’m glad she was smart enough not to bring Pucci tonight.”

  Since Pucci is not equipped with wings, that would have been a bad idea.

  “Looks like Uncle Vinny is taking a shine to Samantha,” Shanelle observes.

  From the way he’s talking to her and only her, it certainly does.

  “Good for her,” my mother pronounces. “She needs somebody sane to balance out that bum son of hers.”

  Jason and I glance at each other and laugh. My mom may interview with Bennie Hana and take a job outside the home for the first time in her life but in all the important ways she’ll never change. And I’ll never want her to.

  I’m going to have to do some changing, though, I bet. For starters, get used to Pop’s girlfriend. Maybe to mom being an office jockey. And to Jason making wild suggestions like our moving out of Ohio.

  I knew when I became Ms. America it would be an eventful year. I never would have guessed how eventful.

  We do another round of champagne toasts when the wedding cake is cut. It is as frothy a confection as I have ever seen. A few more of these toasts, I think to myself, and I’ll be even more grateful that I’m strapped into my seat.

  “How in the world you gonna top this, girl?” Shanelle asks and raises her flute in my direction.

  I raise mine right back. I have no idea. But I bet something will come to me.

  Diana loves to hear from readers! E-mail her at www.dianadempsey.com and 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.

  Continue reading for an excerpt from Ms America and the Mayhem in Miami, the third installment in the series readers call “wonderful,” “funny,” and “a perfect summer beach read” …

  MS AMERICA AND THE MAYHEM IN MIAMI

  (Beauty Queen Mysteries, No. 3)

  Happy can’t say no when hunky reality-show show Mario Suave asks her to step in as a last-minute judge for the Teen Princess of the Everglades pageant in which his daughter Mariela is competing.

  But in glittery Miami—the land of the tanned, the toned, and the treacherous—pageant preps screech to a dead halt when the unthinkable happens …

  … one of Happy’s fellow judges is found strangled by a string bikini.

  CHAPTER ONE

  I bet there’s more than one man on this earth who considers a string bikini a lethal weapon. After what I personally witnessed here in Miami, I’m in their camp.

  As I sit poolside nursing the last piña colada I’ll enjoy for some time—I’m flying home to Ohio in the morning—my mind cannot help but return to the events of the last week. They include homicide, a run-in with an extremely ill-tempered crocodile, the successful crowning of a new Teen Princess of the Everglades, a rather fraught ocean voyage aboard a luxury sportfisher, a bout or two of salsa dancing, and a truly amazing ghost story.

  That last involved Mario Suave—pageant emcee, reality-show host, and temptation of the highest order.

  But I digress.

  Events spiraled out of control my very first day in Miami. At the time I was explaining to Trixie Barnett, the reigning Ms. Congeniality and a prime BFF, how the aforementioned Mario had requested my presence at this sultry outpost to get him out of a bind.

  Trixie flipped her copper-colored bangs away from her hazel eyes. If memory serves, she was wearing a strappy black floral chiffon maxi dress—very flowy and featuring a high/low hem. “What in heaven’s name is up with these Teen Princess of the Everglades pageant people?” She threw up her hands. “Mario’s daughter is competing! They should know he might be able to help organize the pageant but he certainly can’t judge it! Or emcee it!”

  You and I both know Trixie is rarely exasperated. But the poor thing is going through a rough patch back home and is majorly stressed. That’s why I invited her to join me in Miami. This beauty queen knows there’s nothing like a change of scene to get a new lease on life.

  Anyway, we were sitting in the theater venue suffering through rehearsals for the pageant’s opening number. The finale was set for the next night and Mario’s 16-year-old daughter Mariela was one of seventy or so girls struggling to master what anyone with two brain cells to rub together would know was over-complicated choreography.

  “These poor girls started practicing yesterday afternoon and they’re still totally confused!” Trixie shrieked.

  “Can you believe the choreographer has them wearing sunglasses?”

  “It’s way too dark for those! The only light in here comes from the colored spotlights!”

  Which might be why pandemonium reigned onstage. The contestants could barely see but were being forced to perform a synchronized dance while carrying around gigantic cardboard cutouts of the Florida state animal symbols. Which by then I knew included the porpoise, manatee, loggerhead sea turtle, and cracker horse. Not to mention the American alligator, which might be what ticks off the crocodiles.

  “The music’s lousy, too!” Trixie cried. “Why couldn’t they at least pick a song with a beat?”

  A wail emanated from the stage. A contestant toting a gigantic cutout of a largemouth bass slammed into an empty-handed contender.

  “Why is that girl carrying around a humungous cardboard fish?” Trixie screeched. “Anyhoo, Mario asked if you could fill in for the judge who dropped out?”

  “Even though it was big-time short notice. She just pulled out yesterday. Crisis at work or something.”

  “Mr. Cantwell gave the A-OK?”

 
; “Sure did.” Our pageant owner might be facing felony tax-evasion charges but he is back to presiding over the Atlanta headquarters. “He even made it an official appearance.” Meaning my expenses are paid by the Ms. America organization. This is one of the many perks of being the titleholder: I am called upon to represent the pageant at events across our great nation at no cost to me. Have tiara; will travel.

  I will also admit to you, dear reader, that Miami held the additional lure of one Mario Suave, whom I knew would be on site cheering his daughter’s pageant efforts. Unfortunately his daughter’s mother Consuela is on site as well, and she is what my mother would call “a piece of work.”

  Jostling occurs a few rows behind us. I twist in my seat to spy the male judge—a sizable Samoan individual—attempting to disappear up the aisle.

  “That’s Lasalo Dufu,” I whisper to Trixie. “He used to play for the Dolphins and now owns a car dealership here in Miami. Dufu Dodge. And that’s the other judge all the way to the left over there.”

  “The woman with the long hair who has on as much makeup as we do?”

  “She has to for work. She does the weather for one of the Spanish-language TV stations. Her name is Perpetua Lopez Famosa. Peppi for short.”

  We watch the contestants reassemble to take it from the top. In short order the pirate-ship prop rises from below the stage floor at such speed that one teen queen gets thwacked in the backside by the prow. Just as she bursts into tears, the crescent moon prop drops precipitously from overhead and contestants are forced to scatter or get conked in the noggin.

  “Somebody could really get hurt in here!” Trixie cries. “Remember the good old days when pageant people knew what they were doing? Like when Miss Texas USA did ‘These Boots are Made for Walkin’ ’ for their opening number?”

  “That was fabulous! Texas always puts on a good show.” I think back to my own pageant triumphs. “Wasn’t it fun when we did ‘Rock-a-Hula Baby’ on Oahu?”

  “Yes!” Trixie pokes me in the arm. “But that pageant’s always going to be extra special for you because that’s where you won your Ms. America crown.”

  So true. Sometimes I still can’t believe the name Happy Pennington will forever be burnished by a national pageant win. Talk about a glittering place in history.

  Trixie and I shamelessly reminisce while matters on stage careen from bad to worse. One teen queen trips over the trap door for the pirate ship, causing a fatal injury to the cardboard cracker horse. Mercifully the choreographer calls a lunch break.

  “Thank the Lord!” Trixie levers herself to her feet. “I couldn’t take much more of that. Plus I’m always in the mood to eat these days. Can you tell I gained a pound and a half?”

  Two pounds and it would be a bona fide beauty queen disaster. “You know what we’ll do?” I say. “Ramp up our workouts.” We head up the aisle, my maxi dress swirling about my legs. It’s halter-style with stripes of black and burgundy angled to create the effect of a wrap dress. “Remember how buff we got in Vegas when we were training for the Sparklettes?”

  “That was only a month ago but it feels like a lifetime. I miss Shanelle!”

  “I do, too.” Shanelle and I were roommates on Oahu when she represented Mississippi in the Ms. America pageant and she accompanied me to Vegas when we were both bridesmaids. Now she’s keeping the home fires burning in Biloxi, taking care of her husband and son when she’s not masterminding the IT department at a bank.

  Teen beauty queens stream past us. “See you this afternoon, Ms. Pennington!” “Have a good lunch, Ms. Pennington!” When they cry, “You have a good lunch too, Ms. Lopez!” I realize Peppi’s right behind me.

  She winks and leans close. “I’ve never seen teenage girls be so nice.”

  I wish my daughter took a page from their book. Of course, she doesn’t have their incentive. I introduce Trixie to Peppi, who I now see is wearing a pink and white polka dot bikini under a black cover-up. “Are you going over to the hotel for a swim?”

  “Are you kidding? Ruin my makeup by actually going in the water? No, I just want to lie out and get some sun. See you later!” She sashays off.

  Sunlight smacks Trixie and me upside the head as we exit the theater but the air is pleasantly warm rather than blazing hot. Though we’re several miles from the center of the action—outrageous, anything-goes South Beach—palm trees poke high into the bright blue sky and I swear you can smell the ocean.

  Trixie sighs with satisfaction. “November’s the perfect time to be in Miami.”

  “The weather’s great but the high season prices haven’t kicked in yet.”

  “Thank the Lord,” Trixie mutters.

  I could kick myself for mentioning money. “You’ll get your job back, Trixie. Your boss’ll realize she can’t survive without you.”

  “I can’t talk about it or I’ll start crying. Or screaming. Or crying and screaming.”

  Back home in Charlotte, Trixie worked for a bridal salon whose owner decided to replace her number one saleswoman with her can’t-hold-a-job daughter. Good luck with that, is what I’m thinking.

  “Let’s talk about something cheerful,” Trixie says. “Like when do I get to meet Rachel and your dad?”

  “Rachel tonight.” My 17-year-old has promised to join us for dinner. “As for my dad, it depends on when he blows into town on his hog.” I only hope Pop isn’t toting his lady friend on the rump end. I used the attraction of Florida fishing to pry him away from her. As far as I’m concerned those two are getting too close for comfort.

  “It’s too bad your mom’s not here,” Trixie says.

  “You will never believe what’s going on with her. I’ll tell you about it at lunch. I’m buying.” I raise my hands to forestall objections. “How about we try the Cuban place down the block?”

  “When in Rome!” Trixie chirps.

  The place is bursting with teen queens and their moms but given my vaunted status as a judge Trixie and I score a table. We order two entrées to share: Camarones en Salsa Criolla and Pierna de Puerco Asada. Basically, shrimp in tomato sauce with onions and bell peppers, and roast pork marinated in garlic and spices. We wash it down with copious quantities of Coke Zero.

  “Will Jason come to Miami like he went to Vegas?” Trixie asks.

  “We won’t be here long enough. Plus he doesn’t want to take off school.”

  My Ms. America prize money paved the way for my husband to take a leave from his mechanic’s job to attend pit school. Now he’s so into it that it’s hard to believe I had to badger him into enrolling. It may have taken 34 years but Jason is morphing into an ambitious man. I really miss him while he’s in North Carolina but I’m not complaining about the change in attitude.

  Trixie and I are doing a bang-up job of inhaling our delectable repast when a girl’s voice rises a few decibels above the piped-in Latin music. “Are you telling me you don’t believe she saw it?” Then a few seconds later: “She wouldn’t lie about something like that!” Somebody shushes the girl but we hear her again. “I swear, if those end up being the top five? I’m going postal.”

  “Who is that girl who’s talking so loud?” Trixie wants to know. She gazes over my head. “Isn’t that Mario’s daughter?”

  I spin in my seat. “That is Mariela.”

  “Wow. She is gorgeous.”

  It is so true. I must be careful not to favor her but on the basis of looks alone it’s hard to imagine another girl beating Mariela Machado Suave for the Teen Princess of the Everglades crown. Imagine a teenaged version of Penelope Cruz multiplied by Sofia Vergara and you get the picture.

  Of course, we all know that other factors weigh heavily in pageant competition. Grace, intelligence, poise under pressure …

  None of which I’m seeing displayed at the moment. I watch Mariela half rise from her chair and throw down her napkin. “I don’t care what you say! My mom totally saw the list of the top five! And my name was crossed off!”

  She must feel my eyes because all o
f a sudden Mariela’s looking right at me. Her jaw slams shut faster than a shark’s after nabbing a seal pup. She drops back into her chair as her fellow teen queens assume horrified expressions. “She heard you!” one of them yelps.

  She sure as heck did. As I rise and approach Mariela’s table, all voices hush. “Is there a problem, girls?”

  “Nothing’s wrong, Ms. Pennington,” one girl replies.

  “Mariela? What were you just telling your friends?”

  She juts her chin. With that gesture she could be Rachel’s twin, though the two are about as alike as Lady Gaga and Mother Teresa. “I think this pageant’s rigged,” Mariela asserts then details her claim about her mother seeing a top five list. “My mom told Ms. Lopez off about it, too,” Mariela concludes. I note that while lots of moms are in the restaurant, Consuela Machado is not among their number.

  I keep my tone measured. “I don’t know what your mom saw, Mariela, but I assure you the pageant isn’t rigged. We haven’t even started the preliminary competition. You know we’ve got swimsuit and evening gown tonight and personal interview tomorrow morning. No semifinalists will be picked until that’s all done.”

  Mariela is wise enough to remain silent but I can tell she’s having none of it. This is a Pageant Teaching Moment if ever I saw one.

  “Girls, remember how important it is to maintain a positive attitude. That doesn’t just mean believing you can win.” I make eye contact with every teen queen at the table. “It also means believing the best of everyone around you.”

  Mariela looks away but I see her roll her eyes. As the girl next to her stifles a giggle, I conclude that Mariela could care less about dissing a pageant judge. Either she’s super confident or a little foolish.

  I glance at my watch. “Pay your checks, ladies. You’re due on stage in seven minutes.”