To Catch the Moon

by Dempsey, Diana

  “We went over it so many—”

  “I know.” He was already in the control booth, the lights of the high-tech electronic equipment blinking red and white in the chilly, darkened room. He pulled the show archive off the shelf, then popped the tape in a deck and scanned for the segment on Larry “Eight Ball” Bigelow.

  The man he hunted above all others. The man who’d changed his life. The man who’d ended Donna’s.

  Sheila was beside him. “There.”

  Reid slowed the tape, paused it as a photo of his nemesis filled the small screen. It wasn’t a great shot but it was the only one they had. There was Bigelow, his skinny body in a white muscle shirt and worn jeans, bending over a pool table with a cue in hand. Though it was hard to see here, Reid knew Bigelow had a tatt on his right bicep, a black 8 ball featuring the capital letter B instead of the numeral 8. He seemed intent on measuring a shot, so much so that his mouth hung open, revealing a missing tooth or two. Straggly blond hair half hid his unshaven face. And though his eyes weren’t visible, Reid had his own mental picture of their ice-cold blue depths. He knew the devil lurked within them. The devil himself.

  For years we’ve tracked him. Reid’s recorded voice boomed in the silent booth. We’ve gotten close a few times, thanks to the tips you’ve given us. Those of you who are longtime viewers know this one’s personal for me.

  There were a few details about Donna’s murder. Bigelow’s vital stats appeared on the screen: age, height, weight. A red line crisscrossed a map of the country, showing his known travels to Reno, Cheyenne, Duluth, and back again. The map cut to Reid in a nighttime standup, wearing his signature jeans and leather jacket, in front of a graffiti-spattered wall. His blond hair was cropped short; the bump on his nose from that brawl in college more than any makeup artist could shade away. He looked like the cop he used to be. Only the uniform was different, and the LAPD badge was long gone.

  No one is safe with this punk on the streets. Reid was embarrassed by the intensity of his voice. To his own ear, it bordered on desperation. He’s a killer. I want him to pay. Help me bring him to justice ...

  Sheila stopped the tape. Reid closed his eyes, listening to the word justice bounce off the control-room walls like a ball he could never quite catch. “You worded it just fine,” she said.

  He couldn’t speak. He’d never used that kind of phrasing before, on the air: This one’s personal … I want … Help me …

  “I know,” she said, as if he’d actually spoken. “But our viewers will understand. And they’ll help if they can.”

  He didn’t look at her as he ejected the tape and returned it to the archive shelf. “You think we’ll ever get him?”

  It took her a while to answer. Finally, “Yes, I do.”

  “We don’t always, you know.” He turned to face her. He didn’t say, We didn’t get yours.

  Like Reid, like many of the staff, Sheila was a crime victim. Maybe it was no surprise that so many victims were drawn to working on the show. Sometimes it felt like more of a calling than a job. Sure, they could make TV like the best in the business. They understood the bells and whistles and quick cuts and handheld-style video that gave cop-type shows their raw edge. But they knew something else, too, something you didn’t learn in TV and film school.

  Sheila’s expression remained stoic. She never mentioned the rape anymore. It’d been years since she made Reid give up the search, stop airing the scumbag’s profile.

  Reid couldn’t understand that but he knew that every victim made his or her own choice about how to get on with the rest of their life. That’s what it was, too. There was Before it happened, and After. Before you intersected with evil, when you didn’t think it could happen to you, and after, when you knew it could.

  Together they abandoned the booth, shut down the studio for the night, and rode the elevator to the subterranean parking garage. Reid accompanied Sheila to her car as a courtesy. The building was secure as a fortress. Given the hate their work generated in the scum-of-the-earth population, it had to be.

  Sheila settled herself in her white Jetta and rolled down the window. She seemed to hesitate, then, “Do you want to come over to my place for a nightcap? It might help you relax.”

  He couldn’t let himself go down that road again. It would be no more fair to Sheila now than it had been then. “Not tonight.” He kept his tone light.

  She nodded. He got the idea his refusal came as no surprise. “Tomorrow do you want to meet here or at the airport?” she asked.

  “At the airport.” The flight left at 9 AM. It’d be another short night.

  “The funeral is at noon. You have the background file I gave you?”

  He nodded. He had it; he just hadn’t read it. He couldn’t focus on the segment about the writer murders until the Bigelow profile aired. He was too hyped about whether a good tip might come in.

  It was naïve, he knew, the triumph of hope over experience. It’d aired how many times without a tip leading to a capture? Six. That made this seven.

  Lucky seven.

  He let his hope rise as he walked to his own car.

  *

  Before dawn broke over the Potrero Hills neighborhood of San Francisco, FBI Special Agent in Charge Lionel Simpson got a phone call. He reached a brawny arm toward his bedside table, kept his voice low so as not to wake his wife. “Simpson.”

  “It’s Higuchi.” Simpson’s assistant in the local field office. “Sorry to call at this hour but I thought you’d want to know.”

  “Whatcha got?”

  “The prints ID’ed from the blowgun that shot the dart in the Maggie Boswell case.”

  Simpson sat up a little straighter. “And?”

  “We got a few matches. One in particular.”

  Beside Simpson, his wife hiked the patchwork quilt higher on her shoulders and snuggled deeper into her pillow. He lowered his voice. “Whose?”

  “One set belongs to Annette Rowell.”

  Chasing Venus is available from all major retailers of e-books.

  Continue reading for an excerpt from Ms America and the Offing on Oahu, introducing beauty queen and budding sleuth Happy Pennington and the cozy mystery series that readers call “wonderful,” “funny,” and “a perfect summer beach read” …

  MS AMERICA AND THE OFFING ON OAHU

  (Beauty Queen Mysteries, No. 1)

  Being a beauty queen can be murder …

  Ms Ohio Happy Pennington finds out it’s not all sequins and silicone when she competes on Oahu for the Ms America crown—the first national title of her life.

  When her fiercest competitor tumbles dead out of the isolation booth during the televised pageant finale, Honolulu PD gets to thinking Happy might have killed her.

  What’s the only thing a beauty queen worth her sash can do? Nab the real killer—even if that means tangling with snarky rival contestants, a local who claims to be Hawaiian royalty, a brooding helicopter pilot, and a pageant emcee who’s hot enough to die for …

  CHAPTER ONE

  I know it’s hard to imagine a woman getting offed by a tube of lipstick, but I’m here to tell you, it can be done.

  I wouldn’t have believed it until the night I saw it myself. It was the same night I won the coveted crown of Ms. America, or should I say, was given the crown, since the woman who was poised to emerge triumphant got iced instead.

  Seriously bad luck for her, I won’t quibble about that, but it just goes to show that what’s unfortunate for one beauty queen can really open up doors for another ...

  Don’t let me get ahead of myself. Allow me to set the scene.

  Oahu. Early September. A balmy evening. (Aren’t they all in Honolulu?) The Royal Hibiscus Hotel, an oasis of splendor on an island whose entire land mass is pretty oasis-like as far as this Midwesterner is concerned.

  The pageant finale, complete with live audience and television crews beaming the proceedings to millions of homes across the nation. Fifty-one contestants primped, pinned and po
ured into evening gowns with more sequins per square inch than a Dancing With the Stars contender. All of us wearing massive quantities of glittering jewelry, most of it faux, and sashes displaying the names of our home states. Our hair is held in place by so much hairspray that the CFCs we spewed into the atmosphere getting ready probably caused a measurable retrenchment of the ozone layer over the middle Pacific. On a stage as wide as my suburban block back home, we’re arrayed on tiers like brides on the wedding cakes we stuffed into our husbands’ mouths in years past, since this particular pageant is geared toward married women, who, as we all know, rule.

  In another fifteen minutes, though, one of us will rule more than the rest. We’re down to the short strokes now, past the parade of states and the swimsuit, talent, and evening gown competitions. We’re not far from that exhilarating moment when the host announces the winner.

  But before he does, it’ll get truly tough. Because a handful of us will be named to the Top Five and they will have to open their mouths to do more than just smile. They’ll actually have to speak.

  The interviews have been known to trip up the best of us.

  Host Mario Suave, who is more beautiful than anyone else on stage and knows it, parts his luscious Latin lips. “For the last two weeks, as these stunning ladies have graced this gorgeous island, we here at the Ms. America pageant have been searching for that one special woman who embodies the best qualities of the American wife. Beauty, charm, kindness, poise, and determination!”

  Mario pauses to let the crowd holler and clap. He basks in the glow, then waves his buff, tuxedoed arm to indicate us lesser luminaries, trapped on our tiers. “And these ladies behind me have risen to the challenge. Do you know why?” He leans forward and cups his hand to his ear, as if expecting a brilliant answer to burst from the crowd.

  “I’ll tell you why!” he shouts a second later. He straightens and points his finger at the audience. “Because the last four letters in American spell I CAN!”

  The crowd goes wild. Clearly there is no observation too corny for a beauty pageant. This I’ve known all the years I’ve competed, which is basically my entire life.

  To my left I hear a barely contained wince. I glance at Ms. Arizona, the brunette and statuesque Misty Delgado, who that very afternoon became the infamous Misty Delgado of YouTube fame. Or should I say, notoriety.

  “Cut the crap, Mario,” she mutters. To her credit, her smile hasn’t wavered. She is hissing through teeth a Disney heroine would envy. “Name the top five. These effing stilettos are killing me.”

  Mario seems to pick up the cue. “With no further ado, I will now name the outstanding married ladies who will be our top five finalists. One of them—” Pause for effect. “—will take home the crown of Ms. America.”

  With that portentous segue, a drum roll begins. Mario flourishes a white index card. The crowd holds its breath. We queens do, too. “Ms. Wyoming, Sherry Phillips!”

  Redheaded, very pretty, a threat from head to toe. She sashays down to stage level. I relax briefly, then tense again for the second card.

  “Ms. Rhode Island, Liz Beth Wong!”

  Darn! Extremely perky Asian girl. And again, not me.

  “Ms. North Carolina, Trixie Barnett!”

  Her I have to be happy for. She’s a real gem. But shoot! Only two more names.

  “Ms. California, Tiffany Amber!”

  Argh! I nearly stomp my foot. Awful creature. Her type rhymes with witch. Tall, blonde, flawless, fake. Absolutely drop-dead gorgeous.

  Oops. Forget I said that.

  “Ms. Ohio, Happy Pennington!”

  I don’t recognize it at first. Then Misty pinches my thigh, with more vigor than is strictly necessary.

  I squeal. Me! I can’t believe it. One of the top five! The last one to make it in! My hands fly to my face in that I can’t believe it! gesture that’s as natural to successful pageant contenders as taping our boobs for extra lift and separation.

  I get a hold of myself and begin the treacherous descent from my tier, clutching the arms of my fellow contestants for support so I won’t topple to certain, ignominious defeat. I encounter barely veiled glares as I progress but by that point am too delirious with rhinestone ambition to much care.

  By the way, don’t ask about the origin of my first name. Not now, anyway. My mother came up with it, and believe me, there’s a story there.

  I keep a smile plastered to my face, never forgetting the cardinal rule of pageantry: Sparkle! Sparkle! Sparkle! I wink playfully at Mario, who flashes his dimples in return, then cross the stage to assume the position, my eyes trained on the judges in the first row. Of course, what with the glare of the stage lights, I can’t actually see them, but still I nod in their direction with what I hope passes as confidence. No one measuring my heart rate would be fooled.

  Ms. North Carolina trips over to grab my hand in what after two weeks of acquaintance I know to be a genuine display of happiness for me. Earlier that evening she won Ms. Congeniality and I guarantee you that vote wasn’t rigged. Some beauty queens might be vipers in spandex and silicone but this one is truly nice. I squeeze her hand back, she giggles in shared glee, then returns to her mark a few feet away.

  I take a deep breath and try not to think what winning this thing would mean to me. Of course I’ve claimed a few crowns—after all, I had to win Ohio to get here—but I’ve limped away defeated far more often than I’ve taken that thrilling victory walk down the runway. And I’ve never come close to winning a national competition before.

  I already know where I want the prize money to go. Straight from the Ms. America coffers to my daughter’s college fund. With a little something left over for my husband. Then we could all advance our lives from this.

  Oh boy, how excited Jason must be for me right now. And my mom …

  For a moment I’m forced to squeeze my eyes shut. I can’t imagine what this would mean to her. All those rinky-dink pageants she put me through … Of course, to her they were swank events that could catapult her daughter to a socioeconomic level she herself could never achieve. Not so different from what I want for Rachel, is it? Ironic, let me assure you. And let’s not forget, if I did manage to grab a national crown, it might make up a little, just a little, for Pop leaving.

  I know they’re out there in the audience right now, Mom and Jason, sitting next to each other in forced comradeship. No doubt Pop is home watching on the tube and cheering me on. Rachel? Not so much. I’m sure she’s on-line bemoaning how her mom is embarrassing her.

  Mario’s voice cuts through my thoughts. And none too soon, for I realize that we top five are about to make our way to the isolation booth. It’s been wheeled onstage by two of the buffer male dancers, who are holding onto the thing so it doesn’t slip around as we step inside. Great: another way to fall over.

  En route Mario waylays Ms. Wyoming, who’ll be first to do the final interview. The rest of us slither inside the booth. Buff Dancer #1 closes the door. Profound silence descends.

  “Wow.” That in a tone of awe from Liz Beth. She’s one of a half-dozen Asian girls in the competition. “This thing is, like, really sound-proof.”

  “Did you, like, just fall off the turnip truck? Or in your case should I say the bok choy truck?”

  My head snaps right in Ms. California’s direction.

  “Of course it’s sound-proof,” Ms. California Tiffany Amber goes on, wiping invisible lint from her glittery silver gown. “Otherwise why would they stick us in here? You’d better smarten up for your interview question, Rhode Island, or you’re toast.”

  Liz Beth wilts. The walls of the isolation booth seem to close in a few more inches. I swear it’s a hundred fifty degrees in there. I lick my lips, my mouth like sandpaper. I smell nervousness all around me and believe me, it’s not pretty.

  All of a sudden Trixie from North Carolina laughs. “Well, y’all, I’m just glad they don’t do headphones anymore.” She’s a girl-next-door type and invariably cheery. “Remember
that? Making the girls listen to that cheesy elevator music so they didn’t hear the question instead of putting them in one of these isolation contraptions?”

  “It was hell on hair,” Tiffany says as she smooths her perfect blond coif. “But that would hardly matter for you.”

  Trixie’s eyes widen as her hand flies to her chin-length copper-red hair. “Is there … is there something …”

  The booth door opens. Buff Dancer #2 motions out Liz Beth, who by now looks as freaked out as a nun at a peep show. Tiffany chortles as she leaves.

  A second later I clear my throat. “Don’t listen to Tiffany, Trixie.” I reach out to rub her arm. “Your hair looks terrific.”

  “As if,” Tiffany opines. “Anyway, Congeniality never wins.”

  “Stop being a bitch, Tiffany.” My voice is getting stronger by the second. “Trixie, there’s always a first time. And I think the judges are really high on you.”

  “Really?”

  The door opens again and this time Trixie’s in the firing line. I give her a thumb’s up right before she steps out.

  “Smart, Ohio.” Tiffany shakes her head, disgust twisting her perfectly symmetrical features. “Make the competition feel fabulous.”

  “Maybe we don’t all need to cut everybody else down to feel good about ourselves.”

  “Right. Tell that to yourself when you lose.”

  I’m concocting a pithy riposte when Tiffany shuts me up by lifting her gown to reveal a lipstick and compact taped to her right thigh.

  She rips off the tape. “Never thought of this, did you?” She sneers. “I do it every time. For a last-minute touchup to guarantee I’m even more exquisite for my close-up.”

  “Too bad it won’t be close enough to reveal your rotten soul,” I mutter. Then the door opens and this time I find Buff Dancer #1 signaling me.

  “Don’t trip on those clodhoppers of yours,” she singsongs as I take his arm.