I assure her I am. It’s a whole new thing, this being in sync with my teenager. After making sure Pop has a second helmet and that he won’t let Rachel drive the hog no matter how much she begs, they split off.
I look at Trixie. Trixie looks at me. “You thinking what I’m thinking?” I ask.
She takes off at a dead run. “Beat you to the stairs!”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Of course I didn’t lie down on Mario’s bed!” I reach forward to the minivan’s front seat to give Shanelle a playful slap on the arm. It’s not the first semi-teasing accusation she’s made as Trixie and I described our surreptitious tour of the second floor of Mario’s home.
Shanelle looks her usual adorable self, outfitted in emerald-colored skinny jeans and an animal-print chiffon blouse with voluminous sleeves and smocked cuffs. Her hair is styled in a natural afro, held off her face by a trendy, twist-front headband. “You thought about it, girl.”
“I plead the fifth.”
“We did look in his closet,” Trixie says. “He didn’t have as many clothes as I thought he would.”
“That’s because this is his second home.” I find that astonishing given how amazing it is. “He doesn’t live in Miami most of the time.”
“His job is in L.A., right?” Shanelle says.
“Yup.” That’s where Mario hosts America’s Scariest Ghost Stories. For this beauty queen, it’s Must Watch TV.
“His bedroom has a fireplace, too,” Trixie puts in. “And a balcony.”
“Designed for romantic interludes.” Shanelle pivots around to give me one of her trademark penetrating looks. “You best plan one of those soon with your husband, girl.”
“Oh my Lord, look at that!” Trixie cries.
On the street corner just ahead stands a shirtless young man with six-pack abs entertaining the crowd by cradling a writhing python in his arms.
“We be in South Beach!” Shanelle shouts.
I point further ahead. “Look at those women!” A trio of long-haired lovelies is strolling the streets wearing nothing but tiny bikinis and high heels. It’s the sort of thing I do only in pageant competition.
“We’d fit in better if I had a fancier car,” Trixie moans.
“Or at least a convertible minivan,” Shanelle says.
“Did you see those three huge cruise ships?” I say. Maybe they account for the horde of people. I haven’t seen crowds like this since Vegas. It’s a similar glitzy party scene, though here the vibe is tropical and Latin, there are scads of roller-bladers, and the ocean breeze puts up a good fight against the hot sun. And instead of gargantuan hotels lining the main boulevard, small Art Deco buildings the color of Necco wafers are tucked in among the palm trees.
“You best dress to impress here,” Shanelle says.
“If you wear anything at all,” I add. “I wish I had the spray tan concession.”
An undercurrent of sexual tension thrums through South Beach just like it does in Vegas. You get the idea lots of people are hiding a secret or two when they board their return flight home.
“Madonna has a house here,” Trixie says. “And Cher. And Sly Stallone.”
“Beyonce and Jay-Z come here all the time,” Shanelle says. “And doesn’t J Lo live here?”
“Don’t mention that name,” I mutter. “She makes me think of Consuela.”
“You really think that woman did Peppi in?” Shanelle asks. “Over a top five list? I mean I know pageant competition is fierce but still.”
“For sure I’m going to follow up. She wasn’t at lunch with everybody else when Peppi was killed. So where was she?” I want to hear Consuela’s alibi. It better be good.
Trixie parks the minivan and we join the pulsing mob on Jefferson Avenue, a pedestrian-only street lined with restaurants, art galleries, nightclubs, and boutiques like Sugarbabies, which is in a prime location. It boasts a chic all-white interior—which is apparently all the rage in these parts—and a spiffy new awning. But the clothes racks are half empty and the door is closed.
“Fear not.” I peer through the front window past naked mannequins. “The official opening day is Wednesday but I bet Jasmine Dobbs is here.” As evidence of exactly that, the glam track lighting is on.
“I’d be here if I were opening for business in four days,” Trixie says.
I knock on the glass-paneled front door. In short order the non-Peppi half of the Heat game catfight emerges from the rear of the boutique and weaves her way past half-open wardrobe boxes toward the entry.
“Dang!” Shanelle says. “If the clothes she sells are half as good as the clothes she wears, I’ll fly in from Biloxi to shop here.”
Indeed Jasmine is done up in a pretty snazzy manner for a woman slaving away in a back room. She’s wearing a silky one-shoulder color-block dress in pink and maroon with a high slit up the leg that reveals black and white striped lining. As in the YouTube video she’s sporting big earrings, but on this occasion they’re drop style, with one diamond stud in the lobe and another dangling three inches below from a platinum rope. Her hair is slicked back in a ponytail and her makeup is photo-shoot perfect.
She unlocks the door and sets her hand on her curvaceous hip. “Girls, the way you’re put together you just might be the perfect clientele for Sugarbabies. You cannot wait until this boutique opens, can you?”
I hold out my hand. “Jasmine Dobbs? I’m Happy Pennington, the reigning Ms. America. And these are my friends Trixie Barnett, our Ms. Congeniality, and Shanelle Walker—”
“The outgoing Ms. Mississippi,” Shanelle finishes. “You best open before Wednesday, Miss Thing, because I know I can’t wait that long.”
Jasmine cackles. “So you three are real beauty queens, huh? How’d you hear about me?”
“From Peppi Lopez,” I say.
Jasmine’s grin disappears. “That is one shady situation I do not care to discuss further. I lost half the morning talking to the cops about her.”
Though I’m glad to hear that, as it gives me a wee bit more confidence in Detective Dez, I note that Jasmine does not appear convulsed with grief at her business partner’s demise. I explain how I knew the deceased before I ask if we could come in to chat a bit.
She narrows her eyes. “You’re tripping if you think I have anything more to say in that sorry regard. And how is what happened to her your business?” Now her tone is a trifle contentious. Her cell rings and we enjoy a few beats of “What Doesn’t Kill You” by Kelly Clarkson before Jasmine turns away to take the call.
“Don’t you keep calling my ass!” she hisses into the phone. “You’ll get it when you get it.” Pause, then, “I don’t know what I’m gonna do. Don’t ask me. And don’t show your face around here,” she warns before disconnecting the call.
Whoa. Something mighty unfriendly is going on there.
Jasmine pivots back around to face us. “Look, I got a lot goin’ on—”
“It’s just that Peppi made a big impression on me and I’m sure she did on you, too.” I’m winging it here. “She spoke very highly of you,” I lie, when in fact Peppi didn’t say boo about either Jasmine or the boutique.
“You don’t say?” Jasmine gives me a skeptical arch of the brow.
Shanelle pipes up. “She said she respected how you conduct business.”
Jasmine harrumphs. “Wish my husband shared that point-of-view.”
“Girl, since when do men understand professional women?” Shanelle demands. Her kind of boldness often helps in these tricky investigative situations. “Hell, when I get promoted at work, half the time my man Lamar thinks it’s luck that did it, not how hard I been workin’ my ass!”
I pinch Trixie’s arm to keep her from protesting. I can tell she believes that story about as much as I do.
“That is exactly like Donyell!” Jasmine cries.
“So what you gonna do?” Shanelle wants to know. “Draw strength from the women around you. That’s what I say.”
“I agree. We got to ha
ve each other’s back.” Jasmine steps aside. “All right, then, come on in. I got some bubbly on ice.”
Shanelle throws me a look of triumph as she follows Jasmine inside. Trixie whispers in my ear. “Wow! Investigating while drinking champagne!”
I soon find out it’s not the cheap stuff, either. Nor are we drinking it out of paper cups, as no doubt Consuela would have preferred we do.
The rear office is small and cramped. I haven’t seen this many boxes since Jason and I moved from his mother’s house into our own place with toddler Rachel in tow. The desk barely has a square inch of surface free—what with folders and catalogs and invoices and what all. Needless to say, it’s standing room only.
I’m next to the desk gearing up to enjoy my liquid refreshment when Jasmine muscles me aside to sweep something into a drawer. I don’t get the best look at it but I could swear it’s a black and red jock strap.
I’m thinking that’s a bizarre item to have in this boutique as Jasmine pulls crystal flutes from an open box and expertly uncorks the promised bottle. “I’m getting ready for my opening party Tuesday night. You all invited,” she adds.
This is another perk of being a beauty queen. We are routinely regarded as desirable add-ons to guest lists.
“I anticipate a few notables will appear,” Jasmine goes on.
“I anticipate we’ll be there.” Shanelle winks at me as she accepts her flute.
“So you’re not delaying the opening party because of what happened to Peppi?” Trixie asks.
“Hell, no!” Jasmine says. “It is past time to get this show on the road.”
I state what by now is pretty obvious. “I take it you and Peppi weren’t close.”
“Let’s just say things transpired that I cannot overlook.” And with that tantalizing remark Jasmine hoists her flute in the air. “But I learned long ago it is best to leave the past in the past. So to Peppi.”
“To Peppi,” we all repeat before swigging our champagne. I’ve never done that in somebody’s memory before but it is a tradition I can see embracing. “So what exactly transpired between you two?” I do my best to sound casual.
Her gaze skitters away. “I don’t care to discuss it.”
Dang, as Shanelle would say. I try another tack. “How did you meet Peppi?”
A grimace she doesn’t bother to mask twists Jasmine’s face. “She was a dancer for the team.”
“A dancer? Like a cheerleader?” Trixie asks.
“You could call it that. Some other things you could call it, too,” she mutters.
“What you saying, girl?” Shanelle wants to know.
“I’m just saying I try not to hate on anybody but the behavior of some of the dancers is not what I would call admirable.”
“No!” Trixie cries. “You mean they go after the players? Even the married ones?”
Jasmine lays a hand on Trixie’s arm. “Honey, that band of gold don’t mean a thing to some of those girls.”
Which might explain the occasional courtside catfight between a wife and a dancer. “Was Peppi that kind of dancer?” I ask.
“Sad to say, yes she was.” Jasmine sips her champagne. “Of course not with Donyell. He got the bachelor out of his system before we got together.”
An uneasy silence follows this pronouncement.
“But since then you and Peppi resolved your differences,” I say. “You must have, because you went into business together.”
“She changed! Least I thought so. She straightened out after she got that job doing the weather on TV. Over time I came to see she and I wanted the same things.”
“Like what?” Trixie asks.
“Something to call her own. Something nobody can take away.”
“You could’ve opened this boutique without Peppi, right?” Shanelle says. “Donyell supports it?”
“Sure I could have!” Her tone is a tad defensive. “But why not pair up? Peppi and I both bring something. She’s got the day-to-day celebrity of being on the news. And I have the cachet of being in the league.”
I’m thinking Donyell is more in the league than Jasmine is but I keep that to myself. “Who do you think had it in for Peppi?” I’ll keep mum that Jasmine’s own name is on my short list.
“Hard to say.” She doesn’t meet my eyes as she serves herself the last of the bubbly. “Offhand I don’t know anybody who wasn’t cool with her.”
“Any boyfriends she was having trouble with?”
“On that front she had nothing going on, least not that I knew of.” She pivots in her seat. “Now who the hell is that?”
I hear it, too. Footsteps approaching. A thirty-something man in chinos and a coral-colored campshirt appears in the doorway of the rear room. He seems taken aback by our midday consumption of champagne but now that I’ve downed my share I can’t imagine why.
Jasmine puts her hand on her hip. “Did I fail to make myself clear?”
I’m wondering if this is the person Jasmine told off on the phone.
“We need to talk,” he says. “Now.”
“Fine.” Jasmine slams her flute down on the desk. “Ladies, how about we continue this conversation tomorrow at my place? I’m having a few of the girls over for hors d’oeuvres around 5. Come on by,” and she hands Shanelle her card.
I feel better about being summarily dismissed by the prospect of the next day’s rendezvous. “What’s her address?” I ask Shanelle once we’re again on the street.
Shanelle eyes the card. “A penthouse on Collins Avenue in Miami Beach.”
“That’s what people call Millionaires Row,” I say. “It’s over there on the water.”
Trixie’s eyes are wide. “I guess we shouldn’t be surprised she lives someplace like that. Did you see the price tags in that boutique?”
“I didn’t see a single item less than a thousand bucks,” Shanelle says.
“I wonder who the girls are we’re having drinks with tomorrow,” Trixie says.
“Probably the other wives.” I don’t care so long as I can ply Jasmine with cocktails and pry more information out of her. “No, stay here,” I say and maneuver to keep Trixie and Shanelle in a huddle facing away from the boutique.
“What are we doing?” Trixie whispers a minute or so later.
I peek around. “We’re waiting for him.” Campshirt Man exits the boutique and heads up the avenue. I turn tail to follow. “Let’s go.”
CHAPTER NINE
“Can we have lunch after this?” Trixie asks me. “Because I’m starving.”
“Right after this, I promise.” I’m ravenous, too, especially now that we’re passing oodles of restaurants with fabulous aromas wafting from the plates of the al fresco diners. I break into a semi-run. I won’t give up my stilettos but they do make it challenging to keep up with a man in low-heeled footgear.
Fortunately Campshirt Man soon hangs a left into a tiny storefront. It turns out to be a commercial leasing agency. He sits down at a computer and starts pounding keys. It doesn’t look to me like his chat with Jasmine improved his mood.
I pull back to strategize. “So Jasmine’s fighting with her landlord.”
“That could mean only one thing,” Shanelle says. “Girl’s behind on her rent.”
“We never got behind at my shop,” Trixie says. “That’s bad management.”
“How does somebody with as much money as a basketball wife get behind?” Then I answer my own question. “Actually there are all kinds of ways. She could have the money but be slow to pay for whatever reason. Like a cash flow problem.”
“Or she could have a doesn’t-have-the-money problem,” Trixie says. “Because isn’t it her husband Donyell who really has the money?”
“And from what she says he’s not totally on board with this boutique thing. So maybe he’s not coughing up the necessary dough.”
“Then there’s the Peppi factor,” Shanelle says. “They were partners, right?”
“I would think Peppi had money because her father is D
on Gustavo.” After all, he was mega successful in the music business. “One thing is for sure. The landlord’s obviously fed up so this must’ve been going on for a while.” I take a deep breath. “All right. I’m going in.”
Campshirt Man glances up from his computer as I enter the leasing agency. “You make the same mistake I did and do business with Jasmine Dobbs?” he asks.
“You, too?” I reply.
“She giving you the same runaround she’s giving me about her partner not keeping up her end of the bargain?”
“How many times have I heard that story?”
“She may be willing to wait for her partner’s gravy train to roll in but how can she expect me to do that, too?”
“Doesn’t she know that’s no way to run a business?”
“You know what would happen to me if I tried to run this place like that?”
“You’d get fired?” I guess.
“You bet I’d get fired!” He takes a deep breath and so do I. I walk out thinking that conversation should qualify as my workout of the day.
“That was fast,” Shanelle says.
“But information rich.” I cock my chin up the street. “Let’s get lunch and I’ll bring you up to speed.”
We settle at an outdoor table at a Brazilian restaurant and order everything grilled—chicken, steak, and sea bass—with plantains and charbroiled veggies on the side. I relate what Campshirt Man told me.
“That story might not have a speck of truth to it,” Shanelle says. “Personally I would not put it past Ms. Dobbs to use Peppi as a scapegoat for her own financial woes.”
“Especially now that Peppi’s not here to defend herself,” Trixie points out.
“A business arrangement gone bad could be a motive for murder.” I sip my soda water with lime, a good antidote to the bubbly still streaming through my system. “Though if Peppi’s dead she’ll never put up her share of the money.”
“Maybe Jasmine didn’t think it through,” Trixie says. “Didn’t you say yesterday you think Peppi’s murder was a crime of passion?”
Our lunch arrives and we dig in. Somehow everything being grilled makes me feel like it’s lower calorie. “I wonder what the landlord meant by the so-called gravy train that’s supposed to roll in for Peppi,” I say during a rare lull when my mouth isn’t full.
Ms America and the Mayhem in Miami (Beauty Queen Mysteries No. 3) Page 6
