Ms America and the Mayhem in Miami (Beauty Queen Mysteries No. 3)

by Dempsey, Diana

  “Maybe it’s her inheritance from Don Gustavo,” Trixie breathes. “Last I heard, he was at death’s door.”

  “If I can get Paloma alone tomorrow at the funeral lunch, maybe I can probe the inheritance issue.”

  “Why not?” Shanelle says after I explain to her who Paloma is. “It’s not like that’s a sensitive topic or anything.”

  “I will have you know, Ms. Walker, that in the course of my investigating I routinely get people to share highly confidential information with me.”

  “You’re good at that, too, Shanelle,” Trixie says. “You knew just what to say to Jasmine to get us inside her boutique.”

  “That was easy as pie.” Shanelle sips her iced tea. “Just ask yourself why a woman like Jasmine Dobbs would open a boutique. She doesn’t need to work. So she’s doing it for identity. Self-respect.”

  “Something to call her own, she said.” I ponder that. “I can really see there’d be two sides to marrying somebody famous and successful, like an NBA player.” Like Mario Suave, a little voice says in the back of my head. “On one hand, a man who could have anybody picks you, so you’d feel pretty special. But on the other hand, you spend all your time in his shadow.” In my marriage, that’s what Jason has to put up with, I realize, as I have long enjoyed some celebrity from my successful pageant career. I’m a little shocked that I haven’t fully grasped that before.

  “Every woman needs something of her own,” Shanelle opines. “You cannot base all your identity on your man or your children. That is a recipe for heartache.”

  “I agree,” Trixie says, then her face falls. “I used to get that from competing in pageants and working at the bridal shop. Now there are no more pageants to compete in and I lost my job.”

  I rub her arm. “That means you’re ready to start a new chapter in your life, Trixie. This time in Miami is perfect for thinking about what you want that to be.”

  “We’ll help you, girl,” Shanelle says. “You got a lot going for you so there are a gazillion possibilities in your case.”

  “I hope so.” She looks teary for a moment then brightens. “At least I’m really happy at home. To me Jasmine seemed not totally sure about her husband.”

  “That’s another reason she’d have that boutique,” Shanelle says. “As a backup plan for the high likelihood that her marriage does a belly flop.”

  “Those basketball wives have to worry about that big-time,” I say.

  “Which is a prime reason they hate the dancers,” Shanelle says. “I sure as heck wouldn’t want gorgeous women in skimpy clothes gyrating themselves in front of my husband every day of the week.”

  “I wouldn’t, either,” Trixie says. “I’m glad Rhett doesn’t have that at his job.”

  I pipe up. “Do you know what I think I saw in Jasmine’s office? That she made a point of hiding in her desk? A black and red jock strap.”

  Shanelle chortles. “Those are the Miami Heat colors! I bet that belongs to Donyell.”

  Trixie giggles. “Maybe they got up to a little something something in the back office the last time Donyell visited the boutique.”

  “That’s one surefire way to get him to support the business,” Shanelle says. “A few more memorable interludes along those lines and he’ll be pouring money into that enterprise.”

  We all have a good laugh as we wipe our lunch plates clean. “Let’s have dessert now and not have it for dinner,” I suggest.

  “Like hell we’re not having dessert for dinner,” Shanelle says.

  “How about sharing the coconut flan?” Trixie says, and we place the order. “Speaking of sensitive topics,” she goes on, “do you mind my asking why your parents got divorced, Happy?”

  I settle back in my chair. This still pains me, even though my parents’ divorce was finalized months ago and even though I’m a grown woman with my own life. “I guess I think of it as a retirement divorce.”

  “What does that mean?” Trixie wants to know.

  “Well, my parents had their ups and downs while Pop was working but nothing got out of hand. But once he was home all the time, oh boy.”

  Shanelle nods. “I’ve heard that can be a real rough transition. Couples can get on each other’s last nerve.”

  “My mom was always kind of a nag and when Pop couldn’t get away from it during the day, I think it got to be too much for him.”

  “I bet she was extra stressed by him being underfoot 24/7 and so she nagged even more,” Shanelle says.

  “And talk about someone who got all her identity from her husband and her child! That’s my mom to a tee.”

  “That’s a generational thing,” Shanelle says. “I don’t think young women make that mistake anymore.”

  “She must’ve been really at loose ends when she and your father weren’t together anymore,” Trixie says.

  “I’ll say. And now that I’ve gotten over the shock of her having a job, I do think it’s good for her to have a new outlet.”

  We have a chuckle over whether Bennie Hana and his used-car business can survive the day in, day out presence of one Hazel Przybyszewski.

  “When did your dad start riding motorcycles?” Trixie asks.

  “That’s another thing! Once he retired.”

  Shanelle giggles. “I cannot see your mama on the back of a hog.”

  “She never once got on it. That girlfriend of his is a different story, though. I don’t know how much time she spends not on the back of a hog.” Rachel found out that all Maggie’s boyfriends had Harleys. I don’t like the sound of that. It makes me worry that Pop is just one in a long line of Harley owners and Maggie doesn’t understand how special he is. “Pop was far from blame-free in their marriage falling apart, believe you me. He wasn’t good at doing anything my mom wanted to do. He can dig his feet in and get real stubborn.”

  “Maybe if they’d both compromised a little bit, it would’ve all worked out,” Trixie says.

  “I think you’re right.” Now I’m the one who’s weepy. Trixie must sense it because she rubs my arm. “And I know they still love each other,” I add. “Somehow that makes it even worse.”

  Our flan arrives. I’m glad for the interruption. This conversation has made marriage seem very fragile, as if there are a million things that can go wrong if you don’t pay enough attention. I’m paying attention and things are still kind of going wrong. I note that it’s been hours and Jason still hasn’t returned my call. It’s possible he’s really busy but it’s also possible he’s so mad he’s putting off talking to me until he calms down.

  “So where does your investigation stand?” Shanelle wants to know once we’ve dispatched dessert.

  “This afternoon I’m going to call Detective Dez and see if he’ll tell me anything. Then I’ll analyze Alfonso Ramos’s tweets”—Trixie interrupts to explain to Shanelle who he is—“then see what more I can find out about Peppi online. And of course I’m hoping I’ll get a lot out of Peppi’s mother at the funeral lunch tomorrow.”

  “It’s darn near impossible to imagine the murder had anything to do with the pageant,” Shanelle says, “since it’d only been going on for a day when Peppi got offed.”

  “I agree with you except for the Consuela possibility,” I say.

  Both Trixie and Shanelle laugh. “You just don’t like her because of Mario!” Trixie cries, then her expression changes. “Of course I don’t like her, either, and that has nothing to do with Mario.”

  “I realize Consuela is a long shot but I still want to check out her alibi.” We pay our check and rise to our stilettos. “I’ll tell you this,” I say as we stroll once again on Jefferson Avenue. “I have a different picture of Peppi than I did yesterday. Now it seems pretty clear that in the last few years she morphed from kind of a wild child into a responsible young woman.”

  “Jasmine did say something about her straightening out,” Trixie says.

  “But Jasmine also said a few things went down with Peppi she couldn’t overlook,” Shanelle adds
. “So maybe it’s true Peppi didn’t put her money into the boutique like she said she would.”

  “That’s not the sort of person I’d want to be in business with,” Trixie says.

  I shake my head. Me, neither.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “I’m glad you’re not my personal trainer, Happy,” Trixie huffs from the Cross Trainer on the other side of the workout room in Mario’s house.

  “Girl’s just working off her frustration,” Shanelle opines breathlessly from the rowing machine next to my treadmill. “That’s why she’s making us go for 45 minutes.”

  “I’m making us do that much cardio”—I pant—“because Trixie has a pound and a half to lose. And because we had such a big lunch”—pant—“and I bet we’ll have just as big a dinner.”

  “We will if I have anything to say about it,” Shanelle says. “Not to mention cocktails.”

  “And dessert, too,” Trixie adds. “We said we’d have dessert at dinner, too.”

  Though highly enjoyable, the feeding and watering program on which I have embarked here in Miami won’t do much good for my hips and thighs. And unlike Trixie and Shanelle, I’m still officially a beauty queen. More than one sad tale can be told of queens who balloon during their reigns, usually ending in the tearful return of tiaras. Not to mention that I have an international competition in my future. My first ever, and I won’t do a good job representing the U.S. of A. if the judges mistake me for a butterball.

  Plus Shanelle is right about my other reason for the prolonged cardio. I am feeling thwarted at the moment. And why? The reason is simple: how little progress I’ve made in my so-called investigation.

  None of today’s news stories about Peppi’s murder told me anything I don’t already know. I could pry only a few tidbits out of Detective Dez, who was most interested in when I would have cocktails with him. One piece of info is that no usable fingerprints were found at the pirate ship crime scene. The other is that the items that were found could be either clues or discarded props from prior theatrical productions. A button. An eye patch. A cuff link. A shoe buckle.

  Then I was disappointed to discover that Alfonso Ramos’s tweets don’t reveal a darn thing about the weatherman’s whereabouts during the noon-hour time frame in which Peppi was killed. At least they gave me an idea how I might approach him.

  “I have had more than enough of this dang rower for today,” Shanelle declares, and soon thereafter Trixie abandons the elliptical. I finish my program. This queen wants to achieve something today and if she can’t get it from crime-solving, she’ll get it from calorie-busting.

  We’re wiping down the equipment when my cell phone busts out my new ring tone, “1-2-3” by Gloria Estefan and the Miami Sound Machine. I wonder how I thought of that?

  “It’s your mom calling!” Trixie cries as she looks at the caller ID. Genuine excitement is in her voice. “Mind if I answer?”

  Trixie and my mom—who from first acquaintance have been mysteriously simpatico—enjoy a protracted chat about my mom’s job and Trixie’s lack of job and Peppi’s murder and the pageant and everything we’ve been up to here in Miami before Trixie relinquishes my phone.

  “You spend a week living the high life in Florida with that Mario,” my mother says to me, “and you won’t want to come home to that husband of yours.”

  “I’m sure I’ll be very happy to come home,” I retort, though I’m not at all sure.

  “I bet. I wanna see that house of Mario’s so hang up and Skype me so I can take a look.”

  I am flabbergasted by this suggestion. “Since when do you Skype?”

  “Since last week. Rachel taught me. I will have you know, young lady, you should no longer assume I don’t understand all the new gadgets that are out there.”

  Being a Working Woman does seem to be thrusting Hazel Przybyszewski into the 21st century. The wild thing is that she’s not resisting.

  When we reconnect via Skype, I am startled to see that my mom’s hair appears to be dyed a different shade of red than she’s worn for the last decade, she’s sporting lipstick and eye makeup, and she’s decked out in a purple paisley pullover I could swear I saw on the front of the last Chico’s catalogue. “Are you going out tonight?” I hear myself ask, because it seems pretty clear she’s too dolled up for her usual Saturday night date with her television and a bag of caramels.

  “Maybe.” Her gaze skitters away. “Start the tour.”

  I am agitated as I commence the Skype tour of Mario’s home. What is my mother up to? I never thought I’d be the one in my family to want everything to stay the way it’s always been but I guess I am. What does that make me? A queen with her stilettos mired in the past.

  My mom approves of almost all the property but reports herself highly displeased by the basketball court. “Who the heck needs one of those? That’s a waste of space. He should have a shuffleboard court out there.”

  “Mom, nobody under the age of sixty plays shuffleboard.”

  “Says who? Jimmy Fallon plays table shuffleboard with the guests on his show.”

  My mind is boggling. “Why are you staying up late enough to watch him?”

  “That’s for me to know and you to find out. Now show me the pool.”

  I dutifully carry my laptop in that direction. My mother praises the pool’s untraditional L shape and attractive stone tiling. “I like the cabanas with the white fabric,” she tells me. “Some with thatched roofs were featured on Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous but to me they said poor taste.”

  “Hasn’t that show been off the air for twenty years?”

  “It is still relevant to this day. And for your information, nobody hosts a show like Robin Leach. Not even that Mario. So how many square feet are in that house of his?”

  I settle on a chaise lounge and try to think. “I don’t know.”

  “Guess.”

  I shake my head. Next she’s going to ask how much it cost. Which is a question I can answer since Trixie and I did a wee bit of research online. “Maybe seven or eight thousand square feet?”

  “Close,” says a male voice behind me. “Eight thousand four hundred.”

  Oh. No.

  Not only is my face red and my hair dragged back into a sloppy ponytail when I am forced to turn to greet Mario but I am still wearing my sweat-soaked capris and extreme control running bra, essential if I want to avoid serious boobular discomfort while on the treadmill. Meanwhile Mario is nattily turned out in straight-leg chinos, a light blue dress shirt, and a slim-fitted navy blazer complete with silk pocket square. He has the added advantage of not having been caught in an embarrassing conversation.

  Since I’m speechless from humiliation Mario winks at me then waves to my computer screen. “Hello, Happy’s mom! How’s everything back in Ohio?”

  “Just fine,” she reports. “You’re not the only one having good weather.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. I’m also glad you’re willing to hold down the fort while Happy’s here in Miami.” He turns to me. “I’ll go change and leave you two alone.”

  “He’s certainly dolled up for a Saturday afternoon,” my mother observes once he’s gone.

  “He had to work today. He had a shoot.”

  “Some men have been known to put in a day’s work on the weekends.”

  “Mom, Jason usually works on Saturday. And he almost never gets a day off now that he’s in pit school.”

  “Jason who?”

  I’m thinking it’s time for this chat to wrap up. “Well, I hope you have a good time tonight.”

  I pause for her to fill me in, which she fails to do. Instead she gives a meaningful arch of her right eyebrow. “You, too. Make it count.”

  My mother remains consistent in one respect: her anti-Jason views. It’s not until I hop in the shower that I realize she didn’t pose a single question about my father, even though she knows he’s here in Miami with Rachel and me. Given their divorce I suppose that’s to be expected but still it makes me sad.<
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  I’m done with my hair and nearly done with my makeup when my cell rings. It’s Jason. I take a deep breath before I answer. “Hey, honey.”

  “Hey, yourself.”

  He didn’t call me babe. Not a good sign. I plunge right in. “Listen. I know you’re mad at me.”

  “Why would I be mad? Because you’re investigating another murder when you promised in Vegas you’d never do that again?”

  “I didn’t promise that. That’s what you said, not what I said.”

  “What’s it gonna take to get through to you?” he wants to know. “You nearly got killed in Vegas. Do I need to remind you how close you came? And now you’ve got Rachel brainwashed that all this investigating of yours is A-OK. How’d you manage that so fast?”

  “That’s not fair. You know as well as I do that our daughter makes up her own mind about things. She met the woman who got killed and she wants to see the killer brought to justice. So she—”

  “Since when is it your job to go around bringing killers to justice? Used to be you were happy being Rachel’s mom and my wife and competing in pageants. Then you win one big pageant and solve a murder or two and boom!—none of that is good enough for you anymore. All I can figure is that the notoriety has gone to your head.”

  By now I’m close to bawling so my voice comes out pretty wobbly. “Jason, the point is that I did solve a murder or two. I’m good at this. I wish you’d try to understand why it means so much to me.”

  “I have. I can’t.”

  I don’t know what to say to that. Finally I come up with something. “I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree.”

  Silence. Then, “Since I have no idea what’s going on in your head anymore, I guess that’s all we can do.”

  “Jason—”

  “You know what? We better call it a night. It’s late and I’m zonked and I don’t want to say something I’m gonna regret.”