Ms America and the Villainy in Vegas
Page 24
Scrambling ensues. Trixie leans close when I return to our table. “You handled that really well, Happy. Those girls need to learn that being a beauty queen isn’t just about what’s on the outside.”
I keep my voice low. “What in the world is Consuela telling her daughter?”
“Even if she did see a list she should keep it to herself. Especially the part about her daughter’s name being crossed off.”
Mariela’s mother intimidates me, I will tell you. Not only does she have a child with Mario—about whom I harbor a fantasy or two—she’s as pretty as J Lo, amazingly fit, and comes off as kind of imperious. Like me, she got pregnant in high school. Unlike Jason and me, she and Mario never married.
You can tell I’m having trouble liking her. I order myself to take my own advice and believe the best of her.
At least until I know differently.
Outside the restaurant we stroll past the kind of pastel-colored Art Deco building Miami is famous for. “I hope Lasalo and Peppi aren’t pointing the girls based on how they do in rehearsals,” I say as we near the theater. “Or whether they were nice at the orientation lunch.”
“That wouldn’t be fair at all!”
“Maybe they don’t know that. Maybe they’re first-time judges. Maybe the organizer didn’t explain to them how pageants work.”
“You’re right! This pageant does seem, I hate to say it, kind of disorganized. Now if somebody saw a list tomorrow after the personal interviews, that would be different.”
“Sure, once the composite scores from the preliminaries are added up.” That’s how pageant finales go straight from the opening number to the semifinalists. “But nobody but the judges is supposed to see the list. Plus Mariela said her mom saw a list of the top five.”
“That’s not right!” Trixie sounds truly pained. “No judge is supposed to pick their top five until the swimsuit and evening gown competitions are conducted on stage in front of the audience!”
We enter the auditorium and reclaim our seats. The teen queens take their marks. I glance around but see no sign of Lasalo or Peppi. I plan to take them aside to make sure they’ve got the 411 on how pageant judging works.
The house lights dim, the colored spotlights come on, and the without-a-beat music once again assails my eardrums. “Ay caramba,” Trixie mutters. In short order the crescent-moon prop nosedives toward the cardboard manatee, stabbing it in its plump posterior. Then the contestant from Opa-Locka does a face plant on stage left.
“What else could go wrong?” Trixie wails.
Sadly, soon we get an answer to that question. The stage floor’s trap doors spring open and, like a hulking figure in a dark alley, the pirate ship looms into view.
A spotlight rakes the bow. I catch a flash of hot pink. I lean forward and squint, then grab Trixie’s arm. “What is on the front of that boat?”
Trixie gasps. “Oh my Lord! I think that’s Peppi!”
With another swipe of the spotlight, there’s no mistaking her. Propped on the foredeck, black cover-up seriously askew, is Peppi. She’s half upright and half draped over the prow like a cockeyed bowsprit. Her eyes are bugging out, her tongue is hanging out, and this beauty queen is getting a real bad case of déjà vu.
I jump to my feet and hurtle toward the stage. “Stop!” I screech. “Stop!”
A few teen queens are staring at me and laughing. But a few others are looking around to see what I’m pointing at. And a few have started screaming.
Another lurch or two and I am close enough to see that Peppi is no longer sporting the top of her pink and white polka dot string bikini.
At least not in the usual location. It can be found about a foot or so north, lassoed tightly around her neck, polyester and spandex morphed into a murder weapon.
I try to catch my breath, something the woman in front of me will never again be able to do.
How fleeting is life! At least for Peppi. Sun worshiping one minute and gone the next to that gigantic pool deck in the sky.
Ms America and the Mayhem in Miami is available from all major retailers of e-books.
Continue reading for an excerpt from Diana’s novel To Catch the Moon, a Top Pick of Romantic Times.
TO CATCH THE MOON
“Wow! In To Catch the Moon, Ms. Dempsey’s talent shines with vibrant characters in a fluid narrative rich in detail. Events move quickly with ever increasing tension to a satisfying conclusion … “ The Romance Readers Connection
A stylish and sexy page-turner about the pursuit of truth—and the power of temptation …
Star prosecutor Alicia Maldonado needs a high-profile case to rev up her career, and gets it when a candidate for California governor is murdered. Charismatic TV reporter Milo Pappas shows up to cover the nation’s top story—only to find himself even more intrigued by the beautiful assistant D.A. than by the courtroom drama.
Ethics demand that Alicia and Milo keep their relationship strictly professional. But that’s easier said than done when passion ignites …
REVIEWS: “As a reader, it is always a treat to find a ‘new to me’ author to add to my ‘must buy’ list and Ms. Dempsey is definitely among the top of that list!” Melissa Freeman, The Romance Readers Connection
Chapter 1
Alicia Maldonado exited the Monterey County district attorney’s office into the high-ceilinged, red-tiled entry hall of the courthouse, nearly empty on a Saturday afternoon. Her arms full of case documents, she let the DA office’s heavy glass door slam shut behind her and strode toward the stairs that would carry her to the third floor and the superior courts, where prosecutors like her spun tales of true crime to persuade juries to render just punishment. Which worked most of the time, but as Alicia knew all too well, not always.
Three in the afternoon and outside the courthouse it was chilly and overcast, a December wind whipping down the streets carrying with it the unmistakable whiff of manure that indicated farm work was close at hand. To the east rose the Gabilan Mountains, the Santa Lucias to the west, two formidable ranges that stood sentry over California’s Salinas Valley, trapping heat in summer and cold in winter and farm smells year-round. Sometimes the valley was a beautiful place, Alicia knew, especially in spring when the rich soil gave birth to endless fields of blue-white lupins and wildly cheerful orange and gold California poppies. But Salinas itself, the county’s little capital seat, wasn’t exactly a picture postcard. It was too dull, too dusty and flat, too much a throwback to the 1940s. And as a street-corner Salvation Army Santa tolled his bell trying in vain to improve his take, it was too poor to do much about it.
Inside the courthouse, Alicia mounted the last flight of stairs and hit the third-floor landing, where a Charlie Brown Christmas tree strung with multicolored lights held rather pathetic pride of place. She met the eyes of Lionel Watkins, a burly black janitor who was as much a courthouse fixture as she was and had been for so long he was nearing retirement He paused in his mopping to shake his head when he saw her. “You at it again? And on a Saturday?”
“Will you let me in?”
“Honey, don’t I always? Even against my better judgment.” He leaned his mop handle against a lime-green wall, a discount color found only in county buildings and VA hospitals, and without further instruction made for Superior Court Three, Alicia’s good-luck courtroom. “You always win,” he said. “I don’t get why you bother to practice.”
“I win because I practice.”
“You win because you’s good.” They arrived at the courtroom door. On the opposite wall hung a hand-lettered sign: ONLY FOUR MORE SHOPLIFTING DAYS UNTIL CHRISTMAS. Apparently the sign had been hung on Tuesday, since numbers eight through five were crossed out. Lionel selected a key from a massive ring and poked it at the lock. “At least Judge Perkins is long gone on his Christmas vacation.” He swung the door open and gave her a quizzical look. “So when you gonna run for judge again? Third time’s the charm, they say.”
Annoyance flashed through her, cold and fast
. “I have no idea,” she snapped, and pushed past him into the darkened courtroom. He raised the overhead lights, chasing the shadows from the jury box, which even empty seemed strangely watchful. Alicia turned back around and forced her voice to soften. “Thanks, Lionel. What’ll I do when you get your pension?”
He chuckled. “Find some other soft touch.” Then he was gone, the tall oak door clicking softly shut behind him.
Alicia dumped the file for case number 02-F987 on the prosecution table, then loosed her dark wavy hair from its plastic butterfly clip and gathered it up again atop her head, a neatening ritual she went through a dozen times a day, whenever she stopped one task and began another. She shed the black jacket she wore over her jeans and white turtle-neck. The jacket was getting that telltale shiny veneer that came from too many dry cleanings. That was a worry. Clothes were expensive and her budget beyond shot.
She chuckled without humor. She could barely afford to maintain a decent wardrobe. How was she supposed to pay for a campaign? Especially now, when nobody would put up a dime for a woman considered damaged goods?
Oh, she’d had her golden-girl period, when some of the top people in her party thought she was the next great Latina hope. She knew how they spoke of her: well-spoken, beautiful, star prosecutor, pulled herself up by her bootstraps, determined to win political office and do a good turn for the forgotten many who, like her, came from the wrong side of the tracks. It was PC to the max and a great story, or at least it had been until she lost. Twice. Then the bloom was off the rose. And off her.
She threw back her head and gazed at the huge wall-mounted medallion of The Great State of California. It baffled her no end how she’d managed to go from promising to stalled in the blink of an eye. Now she was a thirty-five-year-old shopworn specimen with a dead-end career and no man in sight, at least none she wanted. That was sure a prescription for a merry Christmas and a happy New Year.
Enough already! Get over yourself and practice the damn opening statement. “You’re right,” she muttered. Before long it would be Monday, nine in the morning, and she’d have to go to work persuading the jury to convict. She dug into her pile of papers for the yellow legal pad on which she’d scrawled her notes. But it wasn’t there.
Damn, she must’ve left it on her desk. She’d have to go back and get it. She made tracks out of the courtroom and back down to the DA’s office, where she punched in the numbers on the code-pad door to buzz herself in.
She was partway down the narrow cubicle-lined corridor to her office when she realized that the main phone line kept ringing. It would ring, get picked up by voice mail, and ring again. Over and over. Somebody wanted to reach somebody, badly.
She marched back to the receptionist’s desk and picked up the line. “Monterey County District Attorney.”
“It’s Bucky Sheridan.” One of Carmel PD’s veteran beat cops but not the brightest bulb. “Who’s this?”
“Alicia. What’s up?”
“I gotta talk to Penrose.”
She had to laugh. As if DA Kip Penrose were ever in the office on a Saturday. He was barely there on weekdays. “Bucky, you’re not going to find Penrose here. Try him on his cell.”
“I have. All I get is his voice mail.”
“Well, he’s probably got it turned off.” That was standard procedure, too. “Anyway, what’s so desperate? What do you need?”
Silence. Then, “We got a situation here, Alicia.”
She frowned. It was at that moment she realized Bucky didn’t sound like his usual potbellied, aw-shucks self. “What do you mean, a situation?’
“I’m at Daniel Gaines’ house. On Scenic, in Carmel.”
“The Daniel Gaines?” Something niggled uncomfortably in her gut. “The Daniel Gaines who just announced he’s running for governor?”
“He’s not running for anything anymore.” By now Bucky was panting. “He’s dead.”
To Catch the Moon is available from all major retailers of e-books.
Now available from Diana Dempsey
Falling Star
To Catch the Moon
Too Close to the Sun
Chasing Venus
Ms America and the Offing on Oahu
Ms America and the Villainy in Vegas
Ms America and the Mayhem in Miami
Ms America and the Whoopsie in Winona