“I don’t mean to insult you, Happy.”
Whether he meant to or not, he sort of did. “Did Consuela ask you to try to get Shanelle and me replaced as judges?”
It takes him a beat too long to answer.
I go on. “You know, Consuela didn’t like Peppi Lopez as a judge, either. Did she tell you about Peppi’s supposed top five list? And how Mariela’s name was crossed off? And how she and Mariela both threw a fit about that?”
“Of course that’d upset them. Wouldn’t you be upset if something like that happened to Rachel?”
“Maybe, but that’s as far as it would go! I would never tell anybody off or be so mad that I lost control and—” I stop myself just in time.
An awkward silence settles over the kitchen. I start hoping somebody will bound in seeking coffee but no such luck. Normally I grab all opportunities to be alone with Mario but this first time I don’t want to be, I am.
Mario sets down his mug. “What are you suggesting?”
Since I’m having trouble thinking of a nice way to say that the mother of Mario’s daughter had a motive to strangle Peppi Lopez, he goes on.
“I hope you’re not thinking Consuela had something to do with that murder. If you are, Happy, you have truly gone off the deep end. You’re not even thinking straight in this so-called investigation of yours.” He pauses to give me the sort of cold, steely look I never thought I’d get from him. “Consuela’s capable of a lot but she’s certainly not capable of murder. She may shop too much, sometimes she may party a little too hard, but she would never in a million years hurt a fly, let alone a human being.”
He lets that sink in then stands up. “I’m going upstairs to take a shower.”
“Mario, before you go.” I take a deep breath. I’m almost shaking from what he’s just said to me. “If you want me to pull out as a judge, just say the word and I’ll do it. I promise I would be perfectly fair where Mariela’s concerned and I know Shanelle would be, too, but if you’d rather—”
“No, that’s all right. I’m glad that’s out in the open. I trust you to be fair.”
I watch him, wishing his eyes were saying the same thing as his mouth. “Are you sure? At least we should all move back to the hotel.”
“No, you stay here. I have to go to L.A. anyway.”
“Will you be back for the pageant?”
“Of course. Mariela wants me here so I’ll be here.”
It shouldn’t matter to me whether he’s here or not. It also shouldn’t matter what he thinks of me. But it does. Which is why it really hurts when he accuses me of going off the deep end and not thinking straight in my “so-called” investigation.
He starts to walk away then turns around. “I believe you’ll be fair to Mariela, Happy, but you’d better be fair to Consuela, too. It’s outrageous to think she had anything to do with that murder. You have zero evidence to back that up. That’s not at all fair to her. Or to me.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
That qualifies as a fight, I think as I sit alone in Mario’s kitchen sipping coffee and cursing my fate. It probably even qualifies as a bad one.
All morning—through Mass with Pop and emailing with Rachel’s principal back in Ohio and pretending to enjoy a boisterous breakfast with everybody but Mario on his sunny lanai—I play and replay our conversation in my mind. It keeps coming back to the same thing.
Mario doesn’t see Consuela the way I do—as a two-faced schemer who’s entirely out for herself and her daughter. Mario claims she wouldn’t hurt a fly but I don’t agree with him. I don’t trust her. I think she’s hot-tempered. I think she’s capable of a crime of passion. I think she might have gone ballistic if she saw a top five list with Mariela’s name crossed off. That’s not to say I’m convinced she killed Peppi but it is to say I think it’s far from crazy to check out her story.
I’m stunned to hear that Consuela knows about Mario’s FBI work. To me she seems the type who’d use privileged information to her own advantage, and keeping Mario’s side job secret is really important. If he’s outed, not only does the FBI lose an agent but Mario’s Hollywood career tanks. Who wants to hire a performer who’s investigating nefarious practices in the entertainment industry on the sly?
It bothers me that Mario and I have such different takes on Consuela. I realize that’s irrational. She is the mother of his daughter. He’s going to give her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe I got lulled into thinking he must have mixed feelings about her because they never married despite sharing a daughter. But there could be any number of explanations for that. Consuela is darn flirtatious with Mario now but maybe back in the day she was the one who didn’t want to tie the knot. Maybe it’s only now that he’s so successful that she regards him as husband material.
The more I think about it, the more I’m bothered by Consuela’s excitement over Mariela’s upcoming TV audition. Doesn’t that give her even more of a motive to want Mariela to win the pageant, so her daughter’s resume will be burnished right before the casting call? Mightn’t it heighten Consuela’s anger at Peppi if she thought Peppi stood not only between Mariela and a pageant crown but between Mariela and a TV role?
Now that I’m suspicious about everything, I also wonder if Mario brought up Consuela’s allegation of bias to create even more of a sense of obligation on my part to favor Mariela in the pageant. It’s possible what Mariela said is true and Mario did think I’d do whatever he wanted: meaning vote for Mariela to be named Teen Princess of the Everglades. Maybe that is why he asked me to judge. Maybe that’s why he agreed to Shanelle serving as a judge, too: he figured I could sway her opinion. Opening his home to us is another way to heighten our feeling of obligation. And so is telling me he and Consuela are worried I’m biased against Mariela: that could swing me to the opposite extreme.
After all, Mario must want Mariela to win the pageant and nail the TV gig. He’s paved the way for both. And he would want whatever his beloved daughter wants, right? Parenthood tends to work that way …
I must be scrupulous going forward, both in how I judge Mariela in the pageant and in how I think about Consuela as a suspect in Peppi’s murder. I must not let my dislike hamper my investigation. Consuela is only one in a number of possibilities, some of which I probably haven’t even heard of yet. Mario may think I’m loony even considering the possibility that Consuela is a killer, but I’m going to be so darn thorough in my investigation that when all is said and done, no one will be able to find fault.
As I dress for the funeral lunch, I think how sad it is being on Mario’s bad side. I don’t like it.
“Wow, you’re dressed so conservative, Mom,” Rachel says when she sees me in my black trouser pants and dark blue boatneck tee. “Am I gonna be all right in this?”
She’s wearing a stretch cotton dress in dark stripes and looks adorable. “You’ll be perfect, Rach.” I’m about to call out to Pop by the pool until I realize he’s more sleeping with his newspaper than reading it.
“He’ll be fine on his own,” Rachel tells me. “He told me he wants to drive around on his hog again this afternoon.”
We pile into Trixie’s minivan. She’s dropping Rachel and me at the Don Gustavo manse before continuing on to the fabric store. “I am so happy Mario got me the budget to make outfits for the opening number,” she says.
“We’re gonna be working like slaves to get those done, girl,” Shanelle complains.
“Remember last night, though, Mariela said she and her friends would help,” Trixie says.
“Yeah, right,” Rachel puts in. “She only said that because her dad was there. It’s like that rom-com she and I were supposed to watch. Ten minutes after her dad walks out the door, she disappears.”
“Really?” I say. “That was the end of that?”
“She called some 15-year-old who drove over even though she only has a learner license and isn’t supposed to drive after dark.”
“That could get that girl into real trouble,” Trixie poin
ts out.
“Not in Mariela World!” Rachel yelps. “Where nothing bad ever happens and Mariela gets everything she wants!”
“That’s not nice, Rachel,” I say.
“Maybe not but it’s true.”
“I’m so sad you have to fly home tonight, Rachel,” Trixie says, eyeing my daughter in the rear-view mirror.
“I don’t!” Rachel cries, which prompts cheers all around. “My principal gave me the okay to stay all week. Which means I can help you guys sew. Even though it’ll be a stretch to make that my community activity for the week.”
I pipe up. “Rachel’s supposed to do something that teaches her about the area, then report on it when she gets back.”
“And it’s gonna have to be something better than sewing outfits for the Teen Princess of the Everglades pageant because all I’m learning from that is to steer clear of self-absorbed freaks like Mariela, which I already know. How are we going to get sewing machines, by the way?”
“We’re renting them,” Trixie says.
“I found a place that’s got them good and cheap,” Shanelle adds.
There you go. Problem solved. Thanks to beauty queens on the case.
Paloma’s homestead is in an even ritzier enclave than Mario’s, we discover as our journey takes us to a formidable guard gate manned by a no-nonsense inquisitor. My name must have made it onto the guest list because in short order tall iron gates retract to allow us entry. Trixie drives the minivan at a reverent pace along a narrow road bordered on one side by a coastal waterway that leads to Biscayne Bay. On the other side we glimpse massive estates behind towering hedges.
“This is amazing,” Trixie breathes as we make it past another security checkpoint onto Don Gustavo’s property.
“This place is like a resort,” Rachel says, craning her neck forward. “Boy, would Grandma like to see this.”
I bet she would even judge it worthy of a featured appearance on Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. There are several buildings, all of which look like Mario’s house, only bigger. They’re white and Spanish-style, I guess, but in this case the roof tile isn’t red but a beautiful turquoise. The vibe is high-end tropical, with spectacularly lush flora and regal palm trees swaying in the breeze.
“This place must have a thousand feet of waterfront,” Shanelle says.
“It shouldn’t surprise us,” I say, “given how much of a superstar Don Gustavo is.” Now that I’m seeing Peppi’s ancestral home, it’s easy to imagine her collecting enemies. So many people would be jealous of her family’s immense wealth.
I suppose it’s good I don’t have that problem.
I arrange that Trixie and Shanelle return in a few hours to pick us up, then Rachel and I join the throng of black-garbed mourners threading into the main house. There are lots of artsy-looking people in the crowd. Music types, probably.
“I feel weird being here,” Rachel murmurs. “I barely met Ms. Lopez.”
“Her mother asked us to come,” I reassure her. “And remember, we might actually be able to help this family.”
“You better investigate real hard, mom,” Rachel tells me. “I hope your brain cells start cranking big-time.”
You can guess I’m not exactly relaxed as we roam the first floor with the other guests, all of us in a somber mood as we try not to gape at the soaring beamed ceilings, art that looks like it should be in a museum, and luxurious furnishings. Huge photos of Peppi from childhood to recent years are set on easels in every room. Servers dart hither and yon doling out beverages and canapés. A trio of guitarists thrums classical melodies. I hear a few people murmur about Don Gustavo, wondering whether he’ll put in an appearance. Given how severe his Alzheimer’s is reported to be, I doubt it.
I don’t recognize a soul until I see Paloma move slowly through the crowd. She’s dressed in black with her dark blond hair restrained in a bun. Her makeup is as intense as it was when she danced her silent flamenco, though her eyes are red and her skin mottled.
My heart wrenches as I watch her. I can’t even imagine how horrific this day must be for her.
I’m positioning myself to approach her when all of a sudden she staggers backward a few steps. With one hand she clutches at her throat while with the other she points a quavering finger at a new arrival standing in the foyer.
“You!” she shrieks. “How dare you show your face in this house!”
All heads swivel toward a well-groomed middle-aged Latin man outfitted in a gorgeously tailored suit. I do a double take because he looks an awful lot like a younger version of Don Gustavo.
“Hector Lopez Nieto!” Paloma screams. “You son who doesn’t deserve his father’s name! Get out! Get out!”
“Who’s he?” Rachel whispers.
“He must be Don Gustavo’s son.” Given his age, he’s probably the musician’s son from a previous marriage.
We all watch mesmerized as Paloma approaches the man, her finger still raised accusingly in his direction. He steps back as if he’s worried she’ll attack him, and I have to say that given how het up she appears to be I wouldn’t be surprised if she did.
“You vulture!” Paloma shouts. “You son who can’t wait for his father to die! You’re so ready to feed off his carcass, especially now that his Perpetua is gone!”
“Wow!” Rachel clutches my arm. “I can’t believe what goes on in this town!”
Never a dull moment, from what I can tell. I’d say there’s some major tension in this blended family. Which only escalates as Paloma mounts the few steps to the foyer and gets right in the face of the man named Hector. “I know what you did,” she hisses, loud enough for all of us to hear.
Hector comes to life. “Be careful what you say.”
“Why?” Paloma screeches. “Doesn’t the vulture want to hear what I have to say?”
“You have the nerve to call me a vulture? If anybody in this family should be called that, it’s you! Marrying a man who’s twice your age, and for what? We all know for what!” He waves his arm to take in the gorgeous living room. “So you can sink your fangs into all this! What my father spent a lifetime building!”
“What your father wanted to leave to his Perpetua!” Paloma wails. “But you weren’t going to let that happen, were you? No, not in a million years! Not you, you vulture!” She slaps his face. “You murderer!”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The accusation and the slap resound in the noiseless living room. I hear gasps all around me. For all I know I let one loose myself.
Hector’s eyes bug out like he’s about to explode. His face turns so red I think he might throw an apoplectic fit. But he doesn’t say a word. Instead he turns on his heel and spins out the door, slamming it shut behind him so hard the walls shake.
“Go! Go!” Paloma screams. “And don’t darken my door again!”
She stalks out of the room and pretty much takes the rest of the air with her. We guests—who by now are feeling rather awkward—look at one another wondering who’s going to break the silence first. A few people throw their drinks down their throats and a few more request another round. The guitarists strum a tentative chord or two and before long the quiet is replaced by the low buzz of conversation.
“Wow!” Rachel whispers. “Nothing like that happened at Uncle Ted’s funeral!”
“Nothing like that ever happens.” I lead us to a couple of abandoned chairs in a corner, then pull out my cell phone and google Don Gustavo’s name so I can once again peruse his official biography. “So that was Hector something or other—”
“Hector Lopez Nieto,” Rachel clarifies. “That’s what Ms. Lopez’s mother called him.”
“He’s one of Don Gustavo’s two children from his first marriage,” I read. “There’s also a daughter named Chiquita.”
“Like the banana?” Rachel wants to know.
I ignore that. “Don Gustavo’s real name is Gustavo Lopez Estrada.” I shake my head. “I find these names so confusing.”
“You just don�
�t understand Spanish naming conventions,” Rachel tells me.
I believe I detect a note of superiority. “And you do?”
“We learned about them in Spanish class. Most people have two surnames, first their father’s and then their mother’s. So for this Hector guy, his father’s surname was Lopez and his mother’s was Nieto.”
“Okay. So Nieto is not part of Paloma’s name”—which I’m now staring at—“which makes sense since Hector is not her son by birth. And that explains Peppi Lopez Famosa. She gets Lopez from Don Gustavo and Famosa from Paloma.” I frown. “But why does Mariela go by Mariela Machado Suave and not Mariela Suave Machado?”
“Because in modern times people sometimes put the mother’s name first. And probably because Mariela’s dad is a celebrity so she wants to use that more as her last name rather than as her middle name. Knowing her.”
I agree with that assessment, snarky though it may be. “And Don Gustavo? Why do people call him that?”
“That’s an honorable thing to call a man. Plus it’s shorter.”
I rub her arm. “It’s nice, having a really smart daughter.”
“I’m just culturally aware,” Rachel informs me. “So what are we going to do now? Is this lunch over?”
It’s hard to answer that question. I find it almost impossible to imagine Paloma returning to mingle among her guests after delivering that incendiary tirade against her stepson. Darn. I was so hoping I’d get a chance to talk with her in private. And now I really want to probe her murder allegation against Hector. “Since we’re not going to be picked up for more than an hour anyway, let’s just hang out and see what happens.”
Ms America and the Mayhem in Miami (Beauty Queen Mysteries No. 3) Page 10
