I return to my hotel room armed with Starbucks coffee and pastries. I try not to bang around but I do. It’s enough to rouse Trixie, who sits up in bed and produces a sleepy smile, but Rachel remains a snoring mound of teenager. Which is perfect because it gives me an opportunity to sit next to her and stroke her hair. Of course it takes Trixie one second to notice I’m crying.
“What’s wrong?” she whispers, climbing out of bed.
“I met Peppi’s mother,” I report.
As the story tumbles forth, Trixie comes to sit beside me. She’s wearing the sort of high-necked, high-collared flannel nightgown my mom bought me as a girl, which only accelerates the waterworks. “You’re going to help Paloma,” she assures me.
That’s what I keep telling myself.
By the time Rachel is conscious, Trixie and I have drained our coffee, scarfed pastry, and showered. I’m sufficiently restored to tease Trixie about her nightgown.
“I only wear it when Rhett can’t see,” she says.
Rachel harrumphs. “You should be able to wear anything in front of your husband!”
“Not if you want to keep romance in your marriage,” I declare. This is one of my core beliefs.
Rachel is about to protest but I stop her with a hug and a kiss and then a few more kisses. “What’s that for?” she wants to know.
“It’s for you being you. Now go eat something while I call Mario and tell him Shanelle will be our third judge. And ask him when it would be convenient for us to move into his place.”
“I just hope Mariela isn’t there much,” Rachel says, grabbing a muffin and her phone. The latter is no surprise since she has been awake for more than three minutes.
I’ve just finished leaving Mario a voicemail when I receive a call from pageant owner Sebastian Cantwell. “Ohio!” he booms. “Good work! Another murder!”
It’s true that some people have mixed feelings about Mr. Cantwell, probably because he has a black mark or two on his record. For example, he’s been charged with tax fraud, which I understand from Mario is a felony. (Mario is also convinced he’s guilty.) And he’s been married a gazillion times, something of which I don’t generally approve. Also, on a more personal note, once he called me both a “little vixen” and a “diabolical female.” (In all fairness, it was during a heated exchange on Oahu when I was sort of blackmailing him.)
Anyway, despite what some may think of Mr. Cantwell—British tycoon, ponytailed titan, and world-renowned adventurer—to me he will always be the source of my life-changing Ms. America title and prize money and hence a fine gentleman. He is also a fan of my detective work. He wasn’t at first—see “diabolical female” above—but the publicity generated by my sleuthing has inspired more women to enter the Ms. America family of pageants, which is good for the bottom line.
Mr. Cantwell likes anything that’s good for the bottom line.
“Get cracking on your investigation if you haven’t already, Ohio,” he instructs me. “See if you can’t wrap it up faster than usual, burnish the old image, what?”
“I’ll do what I can, sir.” Great. Now I’ve got time pressure from on high. “By the way, since now Trixie Barnett and Shanelle Walker will both participate in the Teen Princess of the Everglades pageant, could it be an official Ms. America appearance for them, too?” I’m smart enough to ask this favor while I’m on his good side.
“Fine,” he declares, and then he’s gone. One never has a prolonged phone conversation with Mr. Cantwell.
“Yippee!” Trixie says when I inform her of this positive financial development. Then she starts making her bed even though we will soon check out and the housekeeper will have her way with our room. “How are you going to start today’s investigating?” she wants to know. She’s sporting black lace shorts, a raspberry-colored tee, and very on trend wedge sandals with gold spike detailing. “I know it’s selfish but I’m hoping there’s something you need to look into in South Beach.”
“As a matter of fact, there is. When I was online last night—”
“Before you went to bed? I noticed that.”
“—I saw that Peppi and Jasmine Dobbs were planning to open a boutique together on Jefferson Avenue in South Beach.”
“Perfect! Investigating while shopping!” She straightens the coverlet and frowns. “But why would a weathergirl open a boutique?”
“I don’t know. I also don’t know how Peppi and Jasmine Dobbs went from throwing drinks in each other’s faces to being co-owners of a business.”
“They must have patched over their differences. What’s the boutique called?”
“Sugarbabies,” I whisper, glad to see Rachel disappear into the bathroom. “I know,” I add in response to Trixie’s shocked expression.
She tosses the pillow she was plumping and leans close. “Aren’t Sugarbabies girls who do you-know-what in exchange for gifts and money and stuff? Usually with men who are a lot older?”
“Yes!” Between this sexily named boutique and the fracas at the Heat game, it’s clear Peppi had more going on than the innocent reporting of meteorological events. “You know what else I did last night? I signed up to follow Alfonso Ramos on Twitter.”
“He’s the guy who did the weather for Peppi on TV, right?”
We discuss his legions of Twitter followers as I forage in my suitcase for the day’s ensemble. You, dear reader, will not be surprised to learn that I refuse to appear at Mario’s homestead devoid of makeup and encased in leggings and a spandex camisole.
“This guy Alfonso tweets constantly,” I report. “I’ll know what he’s up to every second. That means I could look back at his tweets at the time of Peppi’s murder.”
Trixie’s eyes widen. “Yes! A forensic analysis.”
I regard my friend with new respect. Like many beauty queens, Trixie is more knowledgeable than she is given credit for.
After a quick shower, I squeeze myself into super skinny black jeans and a sleeveless floaty chiffon blouse in midnight blue. Of course I slip on stilettos to complete the look. Then I listen to a voicemail from Mario telling us to “Come over anytime!”
My heart thwacks my rib cage a time or two. I guess it’s really happening.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Even if Mario didn’t own this house, I would think it was the most beautiful house I’d ever seen.
Most of it is two stories and all of it is blindingly white with a red tile roof. Even though it’s in a gated community, it has high stucco walls around the perimeter for additional privacy and security. I can’t even keep track of how many wonderful features it has. Gigantic lawns and a heated pool and three fountains and a basketball court and panoramic views of Biscayne Bay from the roof deck and more French doors than you can count. And I’m just getting started.
“This Coconut Grove place is nice,” Rachel opines as Trixie parks the minivan on the expansive driveway. “I just wish that snot Mariela was home with her mom instead of staying here.”
I carefully set on the ground the vase of purple dendrobium orchids we brought as a Thank You For Letting Us Stay Here gift. “We don’t have to go over that again, do we?” I pull my bright pink hard-sided swivel suitcase out of Trixie’s trunk. I’m so glad I popped for new luggage after I won Ms. America because I would be horribly embarrassed to be rolling my old battered bag into Mario’s swanky manse.
“I know I have to be nice to her.” Rachel extracts her bag, a more subdued version of mine, then picks up the vase. “But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
Trixie is whispering that maybe Mariela will be charming again like she was last night when we get our first clue that won’t be the case. The moody teenager in question emerges from the house wearing a sullen expression along with her strappy daytime dress in an adorable navy print. “My dad’s not here,” she informs us without preamble. “He had to do a shoot.”
I’m disappointed; I can’t deny it.
She points at the vase. “What’s that for?”
“It�
��s a thank you to your dad for letting us stay here,” Rachel says.
“Whatever. I’ll show you to your rooms.” She exhibits not one scintilla of enthusiasm. “Then my mom’s picking me up to go shopping.”
Somehow I have the feeling Rachel won’t be invited on that expedition.
Mariela guides us inside, revealing a sunshine-filled, air-conditioned interior that needs no spiffing or polishing to be a spread in a design magazine.
Trixie slaps me on the arm. “It’s a neutral palette,” she whispers.
Indeed it is. All the furnishings are creamy or white. And expensive-looking.
“You can pick from the three bedrooms down this hall,” Mariela tells us. “Mine’s upstairs and so’s my dad’s.”
Five bedrooms. Wow.
The first one we see—with a light blue seashell motif—has twin beds. Trixie claps her hands. “Wouldn’t this be perfect for Shanelle and me?”
“Take it, Trixie.” I help her carry her stuff inside. “Rachel, why don’t you go pick out our room?”
Both girls disappear to points unknown but soon I realize that similar to yesterday’s lunch, even though I’m not seeing Mariela, I’m hearing her.
“I told you guys my dad would make sure the pageant didn’t get cancelled,” she tells Rachel. “So your mom’s got another friend who’s gonna be the third judge? That means for sure two of the judges will vote for me to win.”
“How do you figure?” Rachel asks, in what I must admit is a snarky tone.
“Your mom will do whatever my dad wants,” Mariela declares blithely, “and so will her friend.”
My mouth gapes at that audacious pronouncement. Across the room Trixie has the same reaction. Now I understand why Mariela doesn’t feel compelled to be nice to me: she’s certain my vote is in the bag.
For a horrible moment I wonder if Mario did pick me to judge because he assumed I’d favor his daughter. But I just can’t believe that of him. I put my finger to my lips so Trixie will stay silent and we can continue our evil eavesdropping.
“Besides,” Mariela goes on, “anybody would be better than Ms. Lopez.”
“What have you got against Ms. Lopez?” Rachel demands.
“She had a top five list!” Mariela hisses. “With my name crossed off!”
Trixie and I exchange a glance. So it was Peppi’s list. As I pretty much knew when Lasalo texted me he didn’t have one.
“You’re making that up,” Rachel says.
“I am not! My mom saw it at the pool right before lunch. It was in Ms. Lopez’s notebook. In plain sight,” Mariela adds, although I’d wager there was snooping involved.
“I don’t get how you can be so cold about somebody who just got murdered,” Rachel says.
“You watch any cop show and you’ve seen that sort of thing a million times.”
I raise my brows at Trixie. Wow.
“But on cop shows it’s not real,” Rachel points out.
“If I’m gonna be on a cop show someday,” Mariela declares, “which I am, then I have to make it a point not to freak out about death and stuff.”
“You should freak out about it!” Rachel cries. “Because unlike stuff on TV, this is real! Of course you don’t know the first thing about reality.”
“I don’t know anything about reality? You don’t know anything! You’re such a dweeb you don’t even know how to put makeup on!”
“That’s because I don’t wear makeup!” my daughter spits. “I have more serious things on my mind! Like how I’m going overseas to teach underprivileged kids to read!”
I’m thinking I should intercede when Mariela’s voice rises to a shriek. “As if anybody sane would want to do that! The only place I wanna go is L.A.! So I can be a celebrity!”
“Can you imagine for one second thinking about somebody besides yourself?” Rachel screeches when I hear furious pounding on the front door. I catch a glimpse of Mariela tearing down the hall. I go into the foyer to see her fling open the front door. And soon I behold before me the gorgeous and statuesque mother of Mario’s child.
Consuela Machado is dressed all in white—she’s wearing a trousers suit in a luxurious crepe that puts my piddling outfit to shame—but her expression is dark. Her long wavy hair is salon perfect and her makeup application even I have to admire. I’d like it more, though, if her expression weren’t enraged.
She stomps in my direction and points her finger at me. “What is this screaming I am hearing even from outside the house? I cannot believe you’re letting your daughter speak to my Mariela like that! What’s wrong with you?”
“She was insulting me!” Mariela yells, pointing at Rachel. “In Dad’s house!”
Rachel follows that assertion with a noisy snort and a cry of “I was not!”
I raise my voice. “Both of you girls put a sock in it!” Then to Consuela, “Everything is fine here.”
“How can it be fine?” Her red fingernail waggles in my face. “Didn’t you hear what your daughter said to my Mariela?”
“You didn’t hear what she said to me!” Rachel cries.
“I didn’t say anything to you!” Mariela yelps.
“Both of you girls were in the wrong,” I say. “I don’t want to hear another peep out of either one of you.”
“Mariela would never be rude,” Consuela asserts. She goes to stand next to her daughter in a show of solidarity. “I raised her to have manners, unlike some mothers.”
Mariela’s face assumes a smug expression. Rachel looks as stormy as a thunderhead. Trixie is stunned into silence. And I wish I weren’t too well raised to tell Consuela Machado a thing or two.
Then, from right outside, I hear the unmistakable guttural roar of a motorcycle engine. It putters to a stop.
“Grandpa!” Rachel cries and makes for the front door.
Oh, no. Pop’s legendary bad timing, once again on display.
Consuela throws her hands in the air. “Who can this be?”
“Can you believe it?” Mariela says to her mother. “It’s gonna be a circus around here.” She pushes past me. “Or should I say a freak show,” she mutters.
A beaming Rachel reappears with my dad, who cleans up nicely but who now has the dust of the road on him. I’m happy to see Girlfriend Maggie is not in his shadow. He’s wearing jeans, his padded motorcycle jacket, and seriously scuffed boots. His skin is red and his wispy white hair is going off in every direction. He doesn’t smell that great, either. He looks as out of place as a grizzly bear at a ballet.
He approaches with a tentative step. I know he’s never been in a house like this before and it cows him. Something about his expression takes me back to when I was a girl and won some pageant or other and as a result got to meet Cleveland’s mayor. My parents were invited to come along with me. My mom was bold as ever while we were chatting with His Mayor-ship but Pop pretty much froze. I don’t know if he strung more than three words together. Even back then I was embarrassed for him.
“Didn’t know if I had the right place,” he murmurs now.
“I don’t think you do,” Consuela says.
I hug him. “Of course you’re in the right place, Pop. Did you have any trouble finding it?”
“I guess not. Had the address written down.”
“I’m sure you’ve never been in this neighborhood before,” Consuela says.
I grit my teeth. “You need help bringing your things in?”
“Nope. I don’t have much.”
“Big surprise,” Consuela says.
I take my father by the arm. “How about I get you something to drink?”
“Don’t use glass,” Consuela says. “There should be paper cups in the kitchen.”
If I were not a guest in this home, I would deck her. I spin around. “How about you and Mariela go off on your shopping expedition? We’ll take it from here.”
Her eyes fly open. I know it’s presumptuous of me to act like the mistress of the house but I’ll do worse if Consuela lets fly one mo
re ungracious remark in my father’s direction. She must sense I’m near a boiling point because she resettles the strap of her designer handbag on her shoulder and brushes past me. “I’ll be back later,” she calls over her shoulder.
“It’ll be lovely to see you!” I keep my tone sweet, proving I can act after all.
My father gives me a worried look. “She live here, too?”
“No, thank God. My friend Mario lives here, and his daughter Mariela when he’s in town.”
Trixie comes forward. “I’m so happy to meet you, Mr. P! I’m Trixie Barnett.” She grabs Pop in a hug and immediately puts him at ease. Now that Mario’s house is minus Consuela and Mariela, I feel my blood pressure return to a sustainable level.
We settle Pop in a lovely room with a black and white theme. Rachel and I are in the largest bedroom on this floor, which features subtle purple details and a canopy bed.
“What happened to you being nice to Mariela?” I ask my daughter.
“Yeah, that.” She sighs. “I’ll try harder.”
I hug her. Mariela isn’t making it easy for me, either.
We get something cold to drink and don’t even consider trying to find paper cups. The kitchen is as much a marvel as everything else, with white marble countertops and a natural-wood beamed ceiling and huge windows overlooking the garden.
“I wouldn’t mind washing dishes in here!” Trixie chirps.
I’m having a few domestic diva fantasies of my own. Which is particularly dangerous in my case.
“Shanelle’s landed!” Trixie cries, reading a text. “Let’s pick her up and go to South Beach.”
Rachel frowns at me. “Aren’t you supposed to be investigating? Grandpa said he’d take me to my interview but I want you to take me if you’re not investigating.”
Pop slaps the countertop. “Not that again!”
It’s my daughter who springs to my defense. “She has to, Grandpa. Take me to lunch at Chipotle and I’ll explain why. You are investigating, right, Mom?”
Ms America and the Mayhem in Miami (Beauty Queen Mysteries No. 3) Page 5
